THE digital mysteries of an Apple MacBook Pro, wifi and the interweb mean that I have been able to beam today's contribution directly into the Irish News mainframe from a secret seaside location somewhere in Dunfanaghy.
Before I go any further, it is essential that I point out that neither that sentence nor anything that follows can fully convey the heavy degree to which this set of circumstances and indeed this column rely more upon the patience of my wife and son - twin marvels of ceaseless endurance - than on 21st century technology or the array of supercomputers buried in the Valyrian steel vaults deep beneath Donegall Street.
As in so many other years we are here on our summer break, staying in the best part of Donegal, the county's north-west, in what the Belfast Telegraph would probably call a "holiday hideaway".
Ignoring for a moment my contractual obligations to place my desk at the Irish News in first place at all times, Dunfanaghy and its hinterland may even be my favourite place on earth.
That suggests I'm not that bothered about whether I'm drenched in sunshine or simply drenched; anyone who professes to love Donegal is likely not a natural sunseeker, and that includes me.
We did try a 'sun' holiday once, to the Maldives, and I wouldn't be in a rush to repeat the experience.
Anyway, I'm in the camp that believes there's no such thing as the wrong weather, just the wrong sort of coat...
I've been fortunate enough to travel reasonably widely but there is something about this part of Ireland that holds an irresistible lure.
The epic landscape, framed by the Atlantic Ocean, miles of beaches and rugged mountains, is painted with tranquillity and seems to reach its apogee around here, from the brooding Horn Head hunkered over Sheephaven Bay to the secret nook and cranny beaches clustered around Binngorm Point at Ards Forest Park and the Capuchin Friary.
Dunfanaghy has its epicurean charms, too. The Mill Restaurant is superlative, and it is difficult to think of a better restaurant in Ireland, let alone an establishment more at ease and in tune with its environment.
Another favourite is the Rusty Oven, which used to be called the Red Oven. Whatever you call it, it's tucked behind Patsy Dan's pub and makes the best pizza this side of Spaccanapoli in Naples.
It's practically made outside, which is where it's also best enjoyed, straight from the wood-fired oven where it gestates just long enough to take on the taste of heaven.
There's a healthy number of cafes, too (thanks for the wifi, Starfish...).
In a dramatic break with tradition last year we didn't spend our main summer holiday in Donegal.
Instead, we went to Copenhagen and - somewhat perversely given the fact that Lego comes from Denmark - Legoland in Windsor, outside London. I'll not bore you with the details but the logistics were ferocious.
We enjoyed Copenhagen, which could teach Belfast a thing or two about planning and keeping its streets and parks clean, but with a five-year-old fanatic on board, Legoland was a massive hit.
I loved it too. I'm not ashamed to say that one of the great pleasures of being a dad is that I now have a legitimate excuse to play with Lego again - with my son, of course...
I would defy anyone presented with a pile of Lego not to dive in and start to build a car. Or a house. Or a spaceship. Or a scale model of Parliament Buildings, though it tends to fall apart rather easily.
When so much of children's play can be digital, there is something reassuringly analogue about watching him get that Lego mini figure just right, or put the finishing touches to his latest spy base or rocket launch pad.
As adults we are also drowning in a digital, always-on, connected world and it can be hard to swim against the tide and switch off.
I find the sound of the Lego bricks washing around the box - really more of a plastic tea chest in our case - oddly calming. It almost sounds like waves lapping on the shore. Well, almost.
I'm not the only grown-up who has enjoyed getting reacquainted with Lego. Someone called David Beckham has spoken of how he relaxes by playing Lego with his children. There's even a phrase for people like us - 'adult fans of Lego', or Afols.
Lego has been quick to catch on to this trend, and has taken to producing sets which are either too complex or too expensive - or both - for children and their pocket money.
Which is why here in Dunfanaghy we've already built a model of a Ferrari F40 - all 1,158 pieces of it - and are about to get into another box bulging with 2,753 Lego elements. They will hopefully be rearranged into a mighty Mercedes-Benz truck.
All of which means that the only thing Donegal needs to be perfect is its own Legoland - then we wouldn't have to bring our own with us.
