I've been doing that a lot recently.
And even though my lovely culchie heroine Bridie Browne never made it past 20,000 words (she's still marooned in a grotty hotel near Luton airport - the kind of place where you find public hairs stuck in the plug-hole) I haven't ruled out her having her own story, one day.
Here's a photo of me, bundled up against the cold in a gem of place called Powerscourt House. The gardens are magnificent. The distant hills dreamy.
This is a land of poetry and song.
A place to fall in love with.
And now I'm just off to sing The Wild Colonial Boy!