Cork

Travel Round Up

21 October, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Hodge, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

I mean not super exotic travel but travel nonetheless.

Mr. Waffle was in Bruges, at a college class reunion thing; a broadly good time was had by all. Except the cat. She is fed by Mr. Waffle, inter alia, before bed. At 10.30, she takes up her position on the corner of the rug and begins looking at him imploringly. In his absence, she stared at the couch, clearly hoping he was going to materialise and having zero faith that I would feed her.

Herself, before returning to England, went to Cork where she was feted and petted by her adoring uncle and aunt.

An otherwise uneventful trip was made exciting by the travel arrangements. She needed a 19-23 id card for the student ticket for the train. It only arrived on the morning she was leaving but, sadly, after she had actually left. I had driven her to the station in the driving rain and heavy traffic and there was no way we would have time to turn back. I was resigned to buying a full fare ticket at the station but then her father – like a superhero in waterproofs – cycled to the station and gave her the ID. Honestly, quite a bit more thrilling than it sounds.

Also, in public transport news, my children keep losing their travel cards and while Mr. Waffle was in Bruges another one was lost. Looking at the account there are about 16 cards called things like Michael2018(2). Poor Mr. Waffle, the administrative duties of a father are many. Anyway thrillingly, following this latest loss, Mr. Waffle found that he was sitting on a gold mine. There was about €100 sitting on the various long lost cards waiting for him to recover (after considerable effort – order of administrative labour, first class).

Then, like the extremely saintly mother I am, sherpa-like I drove the Princess’s stuff back to England while she flew to attend a conference, the logistics were almost unbearably complex.

Before driving to England to my intense chagrin, a tree crept up beside me and broke the side mirror on the car. It worked ok but slightly suboptimal for my long drive. And 500 of your earth euros to repair it. I’ve decided not to fix the scrape I gave it going in the gate in Cork, there’s only so much I can afford.

The offending tree with its victim:

My trip to England was grand. I ensconced herself in her, frankly, palatial student accommodation and then turned around to get the ferry home. I spent two nights with my friends in Shrewsbury. It is such a lovely town. Look at it.

I am unclear whether the best shopping in England is to be had in Shrewsbury or my friend really knows what is likely to attract a fellow middle aged woman. They have a lovely indoor market there and I spent like there was no tomorrow.

On the way back to the ferry, I stopped in Conwy in Wales. So lovely, so utterly unknown by me until the ferry to Wales became such a big part of my life.

I am back to work on Halloween (not ominous at all). Expect less gallivanting thereafter.

To Dust You Shall Return

16 October, 2023
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Family, Ireland

We went down to Cork on Saturday to bury my aunt’s ashes. It was a much deferred event and in the end this weekend didn’t really suit because a) Mr. Waffle and I had a party on Friday night; b) Daniel was staying out at a friend’s house to do a Friday 13th horror marathon and had to be picked up from there on the way to Cork and was up until 5 am being jump scared; c) my sister was enjoying a rolling crisis at work and ongoing illness and d) she and her partner were moving out of their house the following Monday to make room for the builders who are moving in until Christmas.

At the party on Friday, an old friend of mine from Cork asked me how Aunty Pat was and I had to say, not great, we’re interring her ashes tomorrow. I felt a bit sorry for him but there you are.

Anyway, we got to Cork, we got to the graveyard and we did it. It was a short ceremony and it’s pretty surprising to see how small the box of ashes is. The gravedigger knew Aunty Pat and had done some gardening work for her in the past, so that was actually quite nice.

We went for lunch afterwards which was not entirely successful because it was vegetarian which not everyone loved, Daniel was exhausted, my sister was sick and it was so loud that it was difficult to hear anything. Alas. Before we went to the graveyard, my sister had sustained us with a snack including a Cornish pasty from Marks and Spencer’s. “Look Mum,” said Daniel excitedly, “an English empanada.” Good point.

At lunch we were trying to tell Aunty Pat stories over the din. My brother said – which was news to me – that she loved rugby and when he was a kid, he used to go into her house to watch matches. Mr. Waffle and I went round to her house – where my brother is now living – that evening to watch Ireland play the All Blacks and, honestly, with one thing and another, it would have been nice if the Irish team had won. But no, it was that kind of weekend.

I feel a bit sad but I guess it’s good that she’s interred there with her uncles and aunts, brother and grandparents (her parents are elsewhere). And, as they say, she had a good innnings. In fact, she was pretty much perfect and driving about until her late 80s. She was 94 when she died and living at home. Things could have been a lot worse.

Bedside Manner

17 July, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

My 94 year old aunt is in hospital. They don’t know what’s wrong with her which is not great, I suppose but she seems comfortable enough.

I schlepped down to Cork to visit her. She was moderately pleased to see me (not as pleased as she had been to see my sister who came the day before with the Guardian) but quite tired. I sat by her bed for a good while as she dozed. I had an opportunity to overhear another visitor speaking to a pretty deaf friend who was also a patient on the ward. The visitor was a member of the 1966 hurling team which won the all-Ireland and broke Cork’s 12 year drought. He seemed in pretty good nick notwithstanding his age. He was reminiscing with his friend about the All-Stars in his day – an award for great players. He said, “Remember it was sponsored by Carroll’s cigarettes then”. O tempora, o mores.

Anyway my poor aunt is still in hospital but she seems to be alright despite the absence of any real diagnosis.

Further Adventures in Gardening

4 July, 2023
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Dublin, Ireland, Michael, Princess, Siblings

When my father came home from work to see that my mother had spent some time wrestling with the hedge he would say regretfully, “Ah, the hedge hating peasantry”. A wonder she didn’t hit him. I have inherited her hedge clippers and did some damage to the hedge myself today. I also cut the wire on the extension lead. Sigh. It tripped the relevant trip switch and obviously the extension lead no longer works but otherwise, mercifully, no harm done. I can’t help wondering whether more modern models might be a bit safer.

The extension lead was not my only victim. My agapanthus has only put up two flowers this year (still buds at this point). One of them was knocked off by a careless family member some weeks ago, the culprit has still not been identified. While I was wielding my clippers of death today, Michael was cutting the grass. When I paused in my labours he said laconically, “You’ve cut your flower.” No agapanthus this year then.

Lest you think Daniel was idle while Michael was mowing, fear not, he was on “pick up the clippings” duty. Herself cut me to the quick (cutting appears to be the theme of today’s piece) by saying recently that one task just conceals another so the reward for completing one task is getting another. This is, sadly, true. So, I sent the boys upstairs to sort out the schoolbooks they no longer want. No sign of this task actually being completed so I can keep it in reserve for emergencies, I guess.

An old friend of mine – a great gardener – once said that every garden has at least one thug. My garden has several but I was resigned to this until I saw something growing like crazy. I became convinced it was Japanese knotweed. I was filled with gloom and despair until Mr. Waffle made me do a google image search and it turns out to be Alpine Enchanter’s Nightshade. Welcome, welcome to your new home remarkably hardy and charmingly named Alpine Enchanter’s Nightshade. No haters please.

Plum season has begun. Shortly we will be in intensive jam production phase.

Until I was 12 or so my family lived in a very big house that came with my father’s job (I have covered elsewhere the trauma of moving from this to a semi-detached Edwardian number). The garden was big. We had a big lawn with a dozen apple trees and a large vegetable garden. There was a gardener who came very regularly but maybe not every day. His name was Michael Lyons and he was genuinely one of the kindest people I have ever met. He worked really hard, I remember him bending down to weed – from the waist, like a tent – and never having a bad word to say to us children as we ran in and out through the potato plants. In retrospect that cannot have been good for them but I remember them being large and providing excellent cover in hide and seek. He came in at lunch time and Cissie (who lived in and minded us and cleaned and tidied and whom we loved – when we moved out, my sister who was small used to say, “I’m going back to my own Cissie” when the rest of us annoyed her, i.e. frequently) made him two perfectly round poached eggs which I was transfixed by. He was unmarried and, naturally, he had a little Jack Russell dog. He was always very quiet and gentle. We used to visit him at home around Christmas and he always seemed pleased to see us – a niggle, was he really? My mother loved sweet peas and he grew masses of them on a fence for her. This year, for the first time, I have grown my own batch of sweet peas. I thought they would remind me of my mother. And they do, of course, but every time I pass them and smell their beautiful summery scent, I think of Michael Lyons.

Birthday Excitement

3 July, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Siblings

My sister’s partner had a big birthday and she arranged a mild event for him at the weekend which passed off very well until the moment I realised that I was the oldest person at the lunch table. I mean everyone else was still having a good time but I was, as the young people say, shooketh.

She also brought me more papers from my parents’ house which I have been dutifully sifting through.

Here is my father in 1946 looking very slender in a picture from his time as a college debater in UCC. More women than I would have expected (expectation – none).

I also found this menu from Jammet’s from 1946. I enjoyed the “It is illegal to serve butter with lunch or dinner”.

On the back, it’s signed by a variety of artistic luminaries and some people unknown to Wikipedia (Lady Cornelius McGillicuddy anyone?).

Where did this come from? I am not related to any of the signatories as far as I know (and I feel I would know). Did some relative of mine disturb these people at their dinner? In fairness, that seems very unlikely. It also seems pretty unlikely that any relative of mine would be running with such a lofty, arty crowd. At best, we were much more commerce than art. A mystery, probably not one which will ever be resolved at this point.

I also found my mother’s French copy book from secondary school in the late 40s/early 50s. I have no idea why she kept it, as honestly, it is a record of academic misery. It didn’t seem that bad to me – I mean super handwriting and some difficult topics covered in the text – but the marks were less than stellar. I asked Mr. Waffle to have a look and having seen the teacher’s handwriting he asked whether the teacher was French. I think she was actually, as my mother’s school was run by an order of French nuns and I have vague recollections of her talking of her ongoing struggles with the francophone nuns (some of them were definitely Irish though including the fantastically named Mother Borgia of whom my mother was very fond and who came to visit us a number of times – she taught physics, however, which was where my mother’s strengths lay). Anyway, those nuns, they set high standards and my mother’s French, imperfect though it may have been served us in good stead on holidays in France in the 70s and 80s.

More news from the archives as we get it.

The Family Home

9 May, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

It’s my age but I know lots of people whose parents have died. With this comes the melancholy task of clearing out the family home.

I am lucky that my sister has bought my parents’ house so it hasn’t been a complete break with the past and in some ways the house feels just the same but in other ways not.

A friend of mine emptied out her family home with her siblings and she said that it was very hard but they did it over a long weekend and then they sold their house. A new family lives there now and she said philosophically “That’s the way it ought to be.” I suppose it is, as she very wisely said, “Without the people you loved who lived in it, it’s just walls and a roof.”