They swapped a Naas mortgage for a secondhand campervan and have been working from coast car parks since April

They left a neat semi‑detached life in Naas for a scuffed van with curtains that don’t quite meet.
By April, the engine cough had become a ritual, and beach car parks their workflow.

They say the first morning on the road tasted like a school holiday.
Salt on coffee, gulls on the roof, and Slack pings like wind‑chimes on a laptop.

“We wanted tide tables, not TV guides,” says Aoife, a product designer with a soft Kildare lilt and a hard stop for 10 a.m. stand‑ups.
Cian, a data analyst, waves a mobile hotspot like a talisman.

Why they left a steady address

The pandemic made remote work feel less like a perk and more like a passport.
Rent crept up, the mortgage offer felt like a leash, and Sunday nerves became a weekly guest.

They pencilled a budget, crossed out three holidays, and hunted for a van that felt more sturdy than romantic, more fixable than flashy.
A 2007 Fiat Ducato, long in the tooth and short on sensors, winked back from a classifieds page.

“We didn’t chase a Pinterest dream,” Aoife says, “we chased a daily rhythm.”
That rhythm involved spanners, tea, and YouTube saviours who make broken water pumps sound poetic.

Working from the water’s edge

Weekdays begin at dawn, with tide checks and coffee so strong it can file paperwork.
They park by piers from Courtown to Clifden, scouting for a mast with bars.

Cian measures latency like a sommelier, sniffing the air for a four‑bar bouquet.
Aoife slides into Figma with wet hair, a towel doing HR, a hoodie doing PR.

Their colleagues know the backdrop will be either mist or laundry, both briefly mute at 59 minutes past.
“Sorry, a cormorant just landed on the mirror,” she once said, and the sprint review laughed in emojis.

The van and the numbers

They paid less for the vehicle than a Naas deposit’s whisper.
Insulation and electrics ate weekends like a hungry dog, but kept nights quiet.

Inside is a small galley, a fold‑down desk, and a battery bank that feels like a secret superpower.
Solar handles bright days; a diesel heater forgives rain.

Monthly outgoings are narrower than a lane in Dingle: fuel, data, and the occasional garage bill.
Groceries come from village shops, and splurges from seaside bakeries that ambush resolve.

Friction, and why it didn’t win

Rain rewrites plans, and crosswinds make typing a sport.
Some car parks carry signs that sound more stern than civic, and they listen, then move.

Not every harbour loves a long‑stayer with fairy lights, so they keep stays short and bins shorter.
“Leave it tidier than you found it,” Cian says, pocketing a stray bottlecap.

There are real lows: a burst hose, a power hiccup five minutes before a demo.
There are real highs: porpoises drawing brackets around their Monday, otters setting the agenda.

Daily kit that keeps them moving

• A roof panel for sun, a diesel heater for rain
• Two pay‑as‑you‑go data plans, plus a directional antenna
• A torque wrench, gaffer tape, and too many fuses
• Refillable water jerrycans, and coffee so serious it deserves a pilcrow
• A folding bike for towns, and a patience quota for queues

Places that held them

They learned the curve of the Beara, the sound a Donegal gale makes on a metal skin.
On Achill, they found a midweek silence that turns meetings into monks.

In Clare, a surf shop let them borrow a socket and sold them a story.
In Wexford, they traded a spare butane can for two mackerel and a local forecast.

“We thought we were escaping a place,” Aoife admits, “but we were really escaping a pace.”
A slower one found them among samphire, slips, and the gold hour that turns bumpers into bronze.

Boundaries, new and necessary

Work still needs fences, even when the view is an open door.
Noon swims only follow shipped tickets, and Fridays resist sneaky meetings.

They learned to write out a plan on a paper map with a bold arrow: signal here, sleep there.
They learned to log off with deliberate care, because the internet rarely does.

What the future might look like

They don’t picture a forever odyssey, or a rush back to predictable postcodes.
Maybe a small plot with room for a van and a compost dream.

For now, the wheels keep their calendar, and the coastline keeps their compass.
“Home,” Cian says, “is a map with creases, a kettle with miles.”

They won’t evangelise the whole country into vans, but they’ll defend the right to try something odd.
To pick a different mortgage: one paid in diesel, salt, and a string of sunrises that balance the books.