‘Brilliant. You didn’t bring a photographer. I just jumped into the sea!”
With that sunny exclamation, Ruth Fitzmaurice opens her door in Wicklow, her still-wet hair scraped back from her face, clad in a short blue cotton summer dress.
As she leads the way into her light-filled kitchen, there’s a lingering tang of salt in the air, carried on the wind from the nearby beach where Fitzmaurice, 41, likes to swim....
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