I AM STANDING on the sand at Burrow Beach in Sutton on the north side of Dublin. Up until now, I didn’t know there was such a place. Ireland’s Eye looks magnificent from this angle. Somebody is burning burgers in the distance, the plumes wafting a clear signal across the expanse of sand: “It is summer, people. You better get down here before it isn’t any more.”

Above the sound of seagulls and Lady Ga Ga stylings from a nearby ghetto blaster, you can hear everyone thinking “this might be it, this might actually be the summer, the whole shooting match in just one day”. This creates an urgent sense of making hay while that yellow ball shines like an apparition at Knock.

Making the most of it means different things to different people, of course.

It’s these varying approaches to sun that make a perfect beach on a strangely sunny day in Ireland paradise for professional people-watchers. Or anthropologists, as we fashion ourselves to make up for our lack of academic qualifications – not even a degree in the reproductive habits of fruit bats between us. It’s advisable, by the way, to read this column in a David Attenborough kind of voice. Whispering, basically, as though the survival of all the wildlife on Burrow Beach – I’m talking homo sunburniens – might depend on it.

At first, all appears as it should be. The middle-aged couple lying on the scratchy grass in a dune on their bellies are rubbing baby oil on to each other’s shoulders. They carry plastic bags from a well-known department store, the edges worn and frayed, the outline of precious lunchbox cargo just discernible within. Their shoulders are turning a peculiar shade of pink. Not quite flamingo, more Dublin Bay prawn. They lie companionably, moving only to stick their hands in a tube of sour cream and onion crisps.

A wasp crawls up the woman’s leg. She swats it away and sighs. Bliss.

In the distance, a woman stands in a 1950s-style one-piece swimsuit gazing out to sea, ankle deep in brine. The dimples in her thighs are visible from 100 yards. A child clings to her calves, she twists her body to embrace him, not moving her gaze from the sparkling blue sea. Happiness.

All eyes swivel in the direction of a gang of female day trippers, average age 14, stalking across the narrow tributary of water. They should have their own theme tune, in their cut-off jeans, playsuits and tans they didn’t get on Burrow Beach. They are a collective advertisement for multifarious hair products and youth; a generation brought up on two foreign holidays a year, who know how to make the transition from Bondi to Burrow Beach with just a piece of chiffon and a pair of hair straighteners. The rest of us gaze in awe while trying not to look as though we notice them. Foreign, we think, but one of them is actually talking Irish. Something about limonaid.

A woman pushing a buggy comes into view. Pushing might be pushing it. Inching it along as though she is attempting to move a skip is closer to the truth. She thought it was an all-terrain pram but she thought very wrong. She fancies herself as the unseen all-seeing eye. Actually, she is just another inappropriately dressed woman in the crowd. She wears polka-dot leggings, a winter skirt, a black tracksuit top with long sleeves and a necklace more suited to a cocktail party. Only the women wearing burkas – there are a few of them stretched out or playing with their children – are more covered up.

She looks around and wonders how come she missed that day in school where everyone else learned how to dress in Ireland in the sun. Other people here missed it too, but at least they are brave enough to expose their arms and legs, and are managing to act as though showing some skin in the sunshine is normal.

It’s all very well when you go abroad, she thinks. You can get away with all manner of colourful kaftans and strappy things and stuff that you would never wear at home. Because chances are, you are not going to bump into anyone you know.

She tries to relax and enjoy it. The oddness of uninterrupted sunshine. The view of the sea. But this is an impromptu visit and she has none of the accessories she can see all around her – not even a towel. These are professionals. If a Spaniard came they might think it was all wrong and excessive, but here on Burrow Beach it seems all right. Sun umbrellas. Ice boxes. Tables and chairs. A chess set. She doesn’t know how these people got it all down here but it’s like an al fresco Ikea on some parts of the beach.

She sits down on a dune and rests her head on the grass. It’s an odd angle. After some time a baby cries and she tries to get up but she can’t. Pins? Definitely needles.

It’s okay, though, because a hand is outstretched and someone is trying not to laugh at the grass imprints on her cheek. Oh, great. She has just bumped into someone she knows.

THIS WEEKEND: Róisín will be feeling the fear and doing it anyway with a spot of public story telling at the brand new Point Village market in Dublin beside the O2. Come and offer moral support. Or just laugh at her unseasonal clothes.