We are back. Hurrah for us. Since you saw me last, I have been to France and to Kerry. A full debrief follows. Hang on to your hats.

Saturday, July 28

We arrived in good time for the ferry – the trauma of 2010 still, even now, fresh in our minds. Having faithfully attended the on board entertainment for several years at this point, Daniel was chosen to be the magician’s assistant. The excitement. “What’s your name young man?” asked the magician. Before poor Daniel could reply, Michael piped up from the audience, “He’s Daniel.” Who’d be a twin?

Sunday, July 29

Aside from some mild concern when we couldn’t find our car on the car deck, the day was uneventful. We had a long drive to our holiday destination which allowed us to note, yet again, the “deserted village” phenomenon in small towns across Brittany. Have you ever noticed that, if you go to a small French town at lunch time, there is no one at all on the streets? It’s quite bizarre.

Monday, July 30

Oh the thrill of sunshine after a long rainy summer in Ireland. We went to the beach along a coastal path.

We swam happily only slightly put out by the French people who pointed to the pollution evident on the shoreline.

Note unnatural red colour, bottom right.

In the afternoon we took a walk through the forest to the little port of Brigneau where we saw a trawler unloading fish and bought some crab claws. The appropriate holidayness of it all.

Tuesday, July 31

It was market day in the local town and we went in to have a look. Inevitably, we lost Michael but we found him again, so all was well.

In the afternoon we went to Quimperlé which is a pretty little town.

The visit was not a success. The children were uninterested and cranky. We were cranky. It was hot. The highlight was probably seeing herself try some Perrier.

We did find a small park where the boys played football with some French children. When it was time to go, Daniel, ever the chameleon, called out to his brother, “Michel, tu viens?” He doesn’t like to stand out, if at all possible.

This was also the day I learnt from local newspaper Ouest France that 70% of holidaymakers to Brittany don’t pay for their accommodation as they stay with friends and relations. I felt mild bitterness.

Wednesday, August 1

We went to Concarneau which, for some reason, we had never visited before. The guidebook describes it as having more tourists per square metre than any other site in Brittany. This would appear to be correct. Our timing was poor. We arrived just in time to partake of an over priced lunch and then had to hotfoot it back to the children’s pony camp. This was a huge success for two out of three of the candidates but Daniel was kicked by a horse (no serious injury sustained) and hadn’t liked any of the offerings for the afternoon snack. When we collected him, his lamentations were equally divided over these two points. Mr. Waffle and I had been to Quimperlé for tea and new shoes so were able to sustain complaints with reasonable fortitude.

More tomorrow, if you’re feeling strong.

Saturday, July 21

Mr. Waffle was restored to us. We went out for lunch to celebrate. The sun shone with some determination and when herself and myself went for a swim in the late afternoon, it was warm. Unprecedented in these waters in my experience.

Then my sister came and collected me. While my noble husband minded the children, I went up to Cork for dinner and then the cinema.

Sunday, July 22

And best of all, I slept in my parents’ house and didn’t get up until 11 on Sunday morning. I genuinely cannot remember the last time I slept so late in the morning. It was fantastic. Oh happiness. I am a champion sleeper, if only given a chance. Sigh.

In the afternoon, reunited with my family, we went to “The Queenstown Experience.” We had been before when the children were smaller and they hadn’t liked it much but it was pouring rain, they were older and they had spent the year learning about the Titanic in school. Unfortunately, this made no difference and the boys, in particular, remained resolutely underwhelmed. Alas.

Monday, July 23

This was our last full day in Garryvoe and was to bring two important sets of visitors, our friends who live in the Netherlands and their four children and childminder and the washing machine repair man. Inevitably, they all arrived simultaneously.

The washing machine man said that there was nothing wrong with the washing machine other than that the water pressure was low (confirmed with neighbour that pressure always low in summer). All that was required was to plug it out and it would reset itself which it duly did. Oh bitterness, thy name is hotpoint.

It was lovely to see our friends though. The children all got on being of similar ages. Despite dreadful weather we all quite enjoyed a trip to the beach except for the Hiberno-Dutch children’s Colombian au pair. She sat glumly on a rock wrapped in her coat and looking in horror at the children in their togs. Under the direction of the Dutch part of the Hiberno-Dutch group they were building a canal at the edge of the water while digging for clay an activity which made them all satisfyingly wet and dirty. I asked the Hiberno part of the Hiberno-Dutch couple what she thought of the changes in Ireland since the economy collapsed and she commented: “We’re much nicer when we’re poor, aren’t we?”

Tuesday, July 24

We set off for Dublin stopping in Cork for lunch but, at least no washing, so it wasn’t all bad. We beguiled the three hour journey in a variety of ways. “Guess the character” where one person thinks of a character and the others have to guess who it is. Daniel kept us guessing for a long time. He had “road-runner”, it’s not that we didn’t guess that, it’s just that he wanted us to guess which episode and nobody managed that, as he pointed out.

Michael resorted to the DS. “Why isn’t it in English?” he wailed. “I changed it to Dutch, after yesterday,” said Daniel, “you know, I speak Dutch now.”

It was a long drive.

And next I’ll do France but not until the middle of the month. Yeah, I know, you’re on the edge of your seat out there.

Thursday, July 19

We went on our annual pilgrimage to Leahy’s Fun Farm. It didn’t let us down. As ever, the tractors at the entrance were a huge, though to my mind, mildly mystifying, attraction:

There were encounters with animals which Michael didn’t bother with on the basis that he had a packet of crisps which he would rather eat:

It’s not cheap and it’s not slick but if you have children, I cannot recommend this place highly enough.

Friday, July 20

We went swimming first thing in the morning and despite how lovely it looked, it was freezing. There was a reason the beach was deserted.

The boys were keen to participate in Bible Camp which worked out very well as my mother and brother came down to visit. We all went out for lunch, then the boys peeled off to play soccer and learn verses of the bible in the care of large numbers of young adults who will certainly go to heaven for their virtue in running this thing during their holidays. My mother and I went for a stroll and my brother and herself contemplated the water.

Despite having been frozen earlier in the morning and not having her togs with her, she ventured in:

My mother and I volunteered to go back to the house to get towels. But we were slow and just as we were leaving the house, she came dripping up in her soaking clothes and said bitterly, “Where were you? I was just about to call Childline.”

Still, all in all, a huge success and another fine day making this undoubtedly, the best week of the Irish summer so far.

Still more to come. Nearly there now though. Tune in tomorrow when Mr. Waffle returns from the big smoke.

Monday, July 16

This was to be a sort of 1950s holiday with Mr. Waffle back in Dublin working and me at a seaside resort with the children, so, on Monday, we dropped Mr. Waffle off to get the train back to Dublin. Before he left, he put on a first wash and the washing machine refused to work. Ominous. Fortunately, M and R had chosen to extend the warranty on their machine (a decision which I applaud) and Mafew promised that someone would come on Monday. “No, not today,” he clarified. Alas.

On the plus side, there was Bible Camp. We have been to this before – it’s evangelisation through fun and the boys love it. Herself was always a bit dubious and this year put her foot down and refused to join in the communal fun. There was an accordion and this may have been the last straw for her.

In the afternoon, we were in Cork (with our washing, obviously) and the weather was absolutely beautiful. My brother, who can be saintly when the mood takes him, played rugby with the boys in my parents’ back garden while I had a nice cup of tea with my mother and herself continued operation read for Ireland.

(Note washing)

Back in Garryvoe we ran into the neighbours. The father of the family shares a name with my brother-in-law but looks quite different from him. Undeterred by this, Daniel commented, “I am looking forward to seeing my cousin later.” Children’s minds work in mysterious ways.

Tuesday, July 17

We went to the beach first thing in the morning. It was cold but great fun. I think my bones actually shrank a little as I waded into the water.

We then took ourselves to Bible camp. Herself stayed resolutely in the car reading her book for the hour’s activities but I sat on a bench in alternately freezing wind and drizzle and watched the boys playing while reading the paper. I was thus able to prove that it is possible to get burnt in cloudy weather. Oh the pain.

My sister and a friend came to visit us that evening briefly distracting Michael from his anguish that he had pulled a heavy kitchen chair over on his foot. When they left, about 10.30, I went to bed. Michael was still awake whimpering that his foot was sore. At 11.30 he started bawling. His foot was sore. Could he conceivably have broken it? He cried loudly and pathetically until 1.30 am when I was getting desperate. Of course, I hadn’t so much as a bottle of calpol on me. I found myself wondering would I get them all out of bed and drive to A&E in Cork or, at least, to an all night pharmacy in Middleton. He fell asleep, I scooted to my own bed. At 2.30, Daniel came in and woke me up. “Michael’s having a tough time,” he said, hopped into my bed and was instantly asleep. Poor Michael was indeed crying again, “The pain! My foot!”. In desperation I rang my father (house phone off the hook, so had to ring my sister’s mobile first and get her to wake my father). I asked could I give Michael one of my own adult paracetemol tablets. How much did he weigh, how much paracetemol was in the tablet? I chopped it up following instructions and Michael was so miserable he swallowed it. About 10 minutes later he was asleep and I was able to text Mr. Waffle my woes for his consumption in the morning.

All night Michael slept the sleep of the just. When I asked how he was in the morning (fearing the worst) he bounded out of bed, saying, “I’m fine.” My father texted me, “How’s Oedipus this morning?” If like me, you thought the only significant thing about Oedipus was that he killed his father and married his mother (notable certainly) then see here.

Wednesday, July 18

After the horrors of the previous night, I was a shadow of my former self. I took the children for the customary tour of Blackrock Observatory which they pronounced satisfactory. Daniel played the theremin:

On the way back to Garryvoe, Daniel said sadly, “I miss home.” “Why sweetheart,” I asked. “There’s no wifi in Garryvoe.” A whole new world people.

More tomorrow.

Sunday, July 15

We arrived in Cork to lashing rain. I forced my family and my brother and sister down to the park to see the World Street Performing championships. It was damp. I was wearing sandals and only successfully got the mud out of my feet by mid-week. The children whined. It was an inauspicious beginning. I was, however, proved right because, although the street performers did not hold the children’s attention there were ancillary excitements.
Like this:

And a zip line over the pond:

Say what you like about the rain, it makes for short queues. Also, the sun shone, very briefly. After our mud stop in Cork we said goodbye to the grandparents and drove to Garryvoe in East Cork. My saintly friends M and R have a house there and we have stayed there many times. It’s a lovely house, very close to the beach and a relatively easy drive into Cork city. Even though the weather was not terrific, the children were very pleased to see the beach.

It was only when we got to Garryvoe that we discovered that the purchase of an e-reader for her had made little difference to the Princess’s packing habits:

As you read this, if all goes according to plan, I will be on the ferry to France with my loving family.

A full debrief will follow after our return in mid-August. In the interim, I plan to schedule posts on our holiday in Garryvoe last week. With photos. Go on, you can’t wait. More tomorrow.

In other news today is the 11th anniversary of the day the wonderful Mr. Waffle and I got married. We will be celebrating with our family in the self-catering cafeteria on board the ferry before retiring to separate cabins with a child and a half each in tow. When I said, hopefully, to the children that the 28th was Mummy and Daddy’s wedding anniversary and that they should be nice to us, Michael replied, “Do I have to?” I sometimes think that family life isn’t for romantics.

So, then my trip. I haven’t been on a plane in about two years. Imagine. There was a time when I used to fly weekly for work and think nothing of jetting off for a weekend but now I almost never travel for work and haven’t flown for holidays since we’ve moved home from Brussels. I haven’t missed it.

I took myself off to the airport in very good time for my midday flight and it all passed off uneventfully. The plane was, as predicted entirely full of Leinster rugby fans. Travel by train and tube to my city centre hotel was lengthy but straightforward. But yet, on arrival, I was absolutely exhausted. And I had not even travelled with a child. Partly, I think I was so tired because everything was just a bit different from when I had done it last and the novelty made it tiring and partly because it IS tiring and you don’t notice it so much when you have to do it regularly.

Our hotel was free thanks to my sister’s travel points (hurrah for her) and we were upgraded (hurrah again). Once recovered from my journey, I went to the National Portrait Gallery which was having an evening thing. Then on Sunday, we both went to the National Gallery. My friend Michael says that going around the National Gallery is like constantly running into old friends – my goodness, are you here too? And I have to say, both the Portrait Gallery and particularly the National Gallery have the absolutely superb collections. I had never been to the Portrait Gallery before. As Irish history and English history is very closely entwined before 1922, the Gallery is full of people who had a very significant effect on Irish history also. But Ireland gets scant reference – at least it features in the description of Cromwell who plays a very large role in every Irish history book.

We met my sister’s friend and my sister-in-law the author (have you bought her book yet? Have only been paid cup of tea for this endorsement) and her boyfriend who is from London. We met then in Fortnum and Mason and he had never been there before. “Well,” we said to the Londoner, “what do you think?” He looked around him at the ridiculously expensive stock and said in slightly disapproving tones, “Pretty much as I imagined.”

After some thought, we decided that we would go to see “The Mousetrap”. This was a mistake, I fear. Longevity is the only thing that is keeping it on the stage. I was, however, smug as I guessed who the murderer was before the interval.

As far as I could see, London’s attention was equally divided between the Queen’s jubilee (who knew?) and the forthcoming Olympics (yes, we all knew that). And it was much fuller than I remember from previous visits. The homogenisation of shops in Ireland and the UK meant that there wasn’t much point in going shopping as all the shops were the same (insert your own text here about globalisation, demise of independent retailers etc.)

The best thing about the weekend was having a chance to talk to my sister which is surprisingly difficult most of the time. She’s busy. I’m busy. I hope to make a weekend away with her an annual event, if my loving family can face it. My domestic credit is currently close to zero as while I was away, Mr. Waffle nobly spent the weekend ferrying children to various events (including an early morning GAA match in Meath which nearly sent him to an early grave) and keeping them from murdering each other. All this takes its toll. He’s almost recovered now but, somehow, I see this weekend being a busy one for me.