Herself met another Irish girl the other day. To the astonishment of their English acquaintance, they talked until they found people they knew in common and then worked out that they had been at the same funeral a couple of years ago.
She has also been media manager for a college play and it nearly sent her to an early grave. But it’s all good experience, right?
There’s been something of a clear out of Mr. Waffle’s parents’ house and my parents’ house over the last few years. Herself has taken a chair from each house and they now reside in her bedroom which is a space rich in chairs.
I can’t help feeling that each of them somehow encapsulates something about the families that Mr. Waffle and I grew up in. Mr. Waffle’s parents have provided a rocking chair which they bought when they were living in Costa Rica; my parents have provided a regency striped gossip chair which my mother acquired at auction.
I wonder will herself bring them to her own house someday or whether (very likely) they will now live in a corner of my house forever.
So we had a slight whirlwind with herself coming home from France on Sunday, 2 October and leaving again on Tuesday morning. I was due to drive her to England and had a nasty cold that developed over the week from when I had flown back from Paris and confined me to bed for the weekend. Honest to God, if I had Covid again and couldn’t take her back to England, the logistics would kill us all. With some trepidation, I took a Covid test. It was negative.
Despite her expertise based on a summer of travel she came into Dublin airport and left her hold baggage behind her on the carousel which, as we discovered, is a more difficult problem to remedy than you might think. Eventually she was reunited with her luggage and got home.
I was slightly dreading Monday as I was still a bit ill, there was her packing to organise and, in a fit of madness involving failure to consult my calendar, I had volunteered to host book club. We managed but it was a little exhausting.
Tuesday October 4
I must say, the ferry was pretty painless. I would definitely do it again. They didn’t even look at passports and tickets, just asked for my name, looked at the car reg and waved us on board. It was so much less trying than the airport equivalent. Herself was a bit less taken with the ferry than I was.
My only quibble was that somehow, even though I hadn’t used it at all, my phone racked up a 60€ charge at sea. Maybe something was downloading in the background but it’s pretty sharp practice to connect you to the wifi without any notification and then charge you a fortune.
In a stroke of genius, I left the three books I had intended to take with me on the hall table. I bought the Telegraph for old time’s sake – my father was a daily reader – I thought it was pretty poor. Opinion pieces and so on quite thin. But look, some reading material is better than none.
We stopped in Conwy in Wales for lunch. It’s a lovely little seaside place. It lashed on us though. We visited the smallest house in Great Britain, very small and answered a survey being carried out by local school children on multi-lingualism. It was all very thrilling.
Notwithstanding the poor weather, I can recommend the views on the North Wales expressway. I find the roads and signage in the UK pretty good. This was necessary as both of our phones were dying and I was relying on them to get us to our destination. There was some tension in the car. “Daddy,” she said unhelpfully, “would never travel abroad without a hard copy map.” I had her jot down the directions from google maps. In fact, the phones lasted a good way. Herself was not delighted though.
“Why is this drive taking so long?” she asked grumpily. “Because it’s a long way,” I ventured. “It’s taking all day,” she said. “Yup, but I would definitely do it again, it’s not very stressful,” I said. Looks like if I do that I will be doing it on my own though as she said bitterly, “I will never do this again” Part of her difficulty was that she had an essay to do for the following day and thought she would get it done on the car using my hotspot and/or that we would arrive in the early afternoon and she could do it in college. I had thoughts but in the interest of maintaining the limited harmony left in the car I did not voice them.
When we arrived at the hotel (lovely), I went down to the bar for dinner and she had room service with her essay. A certain crankiness pervaded the scene. By bed time though she was in better form having made reasonable progress.
Wednesday October 5
We moved herself into her room which was surprisingly painless. Although she is lucky to have accommodation, it was pretty grim. It had the vibe of an 80s designed assisted living facility and for reasons best known to the authorities, a large tree was growing in front of her window which made the ground floor room dim and gloomy. I feigned enthusiasm. It compared very unfavourably to her room from last year and her friend’s room for this year which we went to visit. I say this because just yesterday, the authorities moved her into a much nicer room with a lovely view so she only had to put up with danksville for a month. Oh happy day. But she was not happy on the day she moved in. In fairness to her she turned around and did the wretched essay while I had a lovely day wandering around.
We went for dinner together after the submission deadline and her mood was vastly improved notwithstanding her accommodation.
Thursday, October 6
After a big breakfast with herself, I began the drive to the ferry. I stopped off in Stratford-upon-Avon for lunch. I thought it was a bit grim and depressed. I picked up the paper with some difficutly. There seem to be fewer cornershops in England than we have at home. I went into WH Smith’s which was just grim. Half empty shelves and self-check out tills. Not somewhere you would linger to browse.
Stratford-upon-Avon is popular for Irish school tours. I didn’t go myself but a group from my year did. You could say, I was making up for lost time. There were at least two Irish school tour groups around the Shakespeare’s birth place shop. I looked at them indulgently and overheard one girl say to her friend indignantly, “Why is that woman staring at me?” A friend of mine suggested that I should have answered, “Because I think I know your Mammy.” Sadly this did not occur to me. Here is a montage of photos from Stratford:
Here is a photo that more accurately sums up the vibe.
I noticed this shop which seems to be part of a chain. I’m unsure whether there’s an Irish connection but if yes, well played people
I drove on to stay with my friend in Shrewsbury. She had dinner ready for me, I settled myself in with enthusiasm.
Friday, October 7
Well, isn’t Shrewsbury quite the delight? Of course, it is nice to stay with friends who have planned a delightful weekend for your entertainment but still, I do think that Shrewsbury has lots of money knocking around and it does make it nice. Even in the lashing rain.
We had a lovely, lovely day poking around the town. I bought a fantastic lampshade. I hummed and hawed a bit as it was pricey notwithstanding Liz Truss’s best efforts to collapse sterling but in the end I bought it and I am delighted. It doesn’t look great in the photo so you’ll have to trust me that it looks good in the flesh as it were.
I bought some books in a secondhand bookshop. We went into the museum and there was some truly lovely stained glass by Margaret Rope of whom I had never previously heard.
My friend had previously worked in the Abbey and we went in for a look. Honestly it was like being with a minor celebrity as everybody rushed up to say hello. The denizens of the Abbey were also keen to share the latest gossip about the authorities which I enjoyed very much.
The housing stock is lovely and I can see why it was used as the set for a Christmas carol – grave stone, charmingly, still in situ.
There is a big statue of Clive of India in the centre of town. I’ve been listening to the podcast Empire (which I would truly recommend) and it honestly seems like Clive was a psychopath. I can see why some of the townsfolk are a bit unsure about the statue.
The Shakey Bridge (actually Daly’s bridge but nobody calls it that) in Cork is a big thing. I know it came in a kit but it was still a bit of a shock to see the exact same bridge in Shrewsbury. I sent a picture to my brother and sister and asked, “Guess where I am?” My brother replied, “You’re presumably not in Cork?” It also shakes like the Shakey Bridge. Disconcerting.
We went out for a very nice dinner in town. I forget, when I am not there, how very polite English people are, the service was amazing including presenting a reduced bill for my sardine keftas which I did not love (I dunno, not an idea whose time has come in my opinion but maybe a win for others).
Saturday October 8
In the morning we went for a walk along the river. Charles Darwin’s house was nearby. Though not right on the river as the owners of this house were keen to emphasise.
Happily, the weather was lovely. It felt very rural and quite idyllic. This photo doesn’t really capture it but I was scooting through the more rural bits at speed to avoid the bullocks.
Then, back to my friend’s for a lovely brunch and I was on my way. I feel I will be back. If she and her husband can face it.
Inspired by the Empire podcast, I stopped off at Powis Castle on the way to the ferry. All very pretty. The interiors (extensively remodelled in the 19th century, less successful than the exteriors in my view).
Though I was amused to see that despite the doubtless vast resources of the National Trust, the electrics and plumbing still needed some work. Also a gratuitous shot of the bells needed to call the servants. We had one of these in the house I grew up in but sadly moved out of (long story, told elsewhere). I don’t think we had quite the range of rooms though and it was never used as far as I can recall. Also, my memory is that it was in what we called the telephone room, a square room with a waxed floor near the front door and very little in it aside from the telephone and a large chest freezer (no, I can’t say) so I can’t imagine that people would have been sitting around waiting for the bells to ring. I digress.
Clive married in and a lot of his stuff is there in what is called the “Clive Museum” basically an extraordinary treasure trove of material looted from India. I overheard another visitor ask one of the National Trust Guides, “What here is problematic?” And she answered gloomily, “All of it is problematic.” You betcha.
I had a late lunch at the castle – a little underwhelming although a lovely setting – along with loads of English pensioners. In the queue for lunch I was behind an elderly woman and her husband who tried in vain to tap their bank cards. “It’s more convenient to put it in and put in your code,” said the pleasant though slightly harassed teenager behind the counter. “More convenient for whom?” said the older man grumpily. “For…the machine,” she said. Indeed.
I pushed on and drove to the ferry – the North Wales expressway again providing spectacular views. The whole thing was quite peaceful and uneventful. Ferry for the win, I tell you.
Herself came back for two days on October 22-24 so it felt a bit like my epic farewell was slightly overdone. But very, very glad to see her all the same.
Friday, September 23, 2022
Mr. Waffle and I went off on our adventure to Paris to visit herself. V thrilling. The flight was uneventful although the journey to our airbnb from the airport felt good and long. The French metro tickets seemed so old fashioned compared to elsewhere. I was very impressed by London where I was just able to use my contactless bank card. The small rectangular Paris ticket seemed so strange. Apparently it is being phased out and I mildly regret not having kept a souvenir. I was charmed by this welcoming poster in the metro.
The airbnb was fine. The listing promised the best view in Paris and it was certainly a good view though the rest of the accommodation was a bit basique.
And frankly the sign in the lift indicating that the pest exterminators were coming on the following Tuesday to deal with the cockroaches was…unwelcome.
I think that the owner of the property may have been a Belgian as there were pictures of Baudouin and Fabiola in the bathroom. Others might have been baffled but my expertise in the field of Belgian royalty stood me in good stead. As my mother used to say, “knowledge is never wasted”.
Herself made her way around to us and we all went for dinner to a place on the quays in the centre of town. The food was fine but no more than it. The restaurant is related to the Tour d’Argent – the diffusion model, if you will – and I have to say that association is doing the Tour d’Argent no favours.
On our stroll around after dinner, we found ourselves passing the restaurant that saved our bacon when we were a hungry family of tourists looking for lunch in the centre of Paris many years ago. It was Asterix themed. We’re not proud. We took a photo to send to the boys but sadly they had forgotten this pivotal cultural moment.
After having put herself in a taxi, Mr. Waffle and I continued our 2022 tour of European city micro-mobility options by scooting back to the airbnb. Unlike in Berlin where you could basically drop your scooter anywhere, there are designated parking areas in Paris. A better solution, I think, although mildly less convenient for the user. Also cobblestones are a challenge.
Saturday, September 24, 2022
We went for breakfast in the Pain Quotidien (judge away) in Rue de Bretagne which was right beside us. Herself joined us and we went for a little flâne around the quartier, stopping to look in the shops and market stalls and a really excellent book shop. My goodness, you forget how heart-stoppingly beautiful Paris is.
After lunch we went to visit friends for tea. The mother and I shared a flat together in Brussels nearly thirty years ago and we have stayed in touch ever since – exchanging Christmas cards and our children – a source of enormous satisfaction to both of us. Their eldest daughter is abroad for college as well and their boys are teenagers. Slightly to my horror they are talking about buying a house in the country and downsizing to a smaller flat in Paris once the youngest starts college. How did we get so old? Also, their truly beautiful flat in the 16th, how can they bear to leave it and where will they put all their books?
Afterwards we went to inspect the Princess’s accommodation. It was in a very chic neighbourhood in an old building. So far so good. We passed the beautiful main entrance and I was delighted. We went on to the grim servants’ entrance behind and I was distinctly less entranced. She was on the 6th floor no lift.
Her landing was terrifying.
Honestly, if you were a location scout, you would say, “This is it, I’ve found the perfect spot for the crime scene.”
However, the flat itself was pleasant enough though small and boasting some slightly exciting plumbing arrangements.
She took us out for dinner to a local Korean place which was, honestly, nicer than where we had eaten on Friday night and far, far cheaper. It also boasted more wipe clean surfaces though.
To celebrate the saving over dinner we went to a local bar for a drink. People, I paid €7.30 for a cup of tea, surely a record etc.
Sunday, September 25, 2022
We went to Mass in the Marais. At the end of the service, we sang Salve Regina and all turned towards the statue of the Virgin Mary in a side chapel. Bit odd, I thought. Catholics please advise.
We met herself for a very expensive breakfast in Place des Vosges. When I was booking our airbnb, I saw one on Place des Vosges and when I went back to book, it was gone. Alas. Anyway, it was delightful. We re-created some pictures from when we were last in Paris together and what I find astounding is how much the iphone camera has improved since 2017.
We wandered past the Musée Carnavalet. It is free, so I was keen to go in. Mr. Waffle was dubious. It’s a museum of the city of Paris and weirdly like all of the other local city museums you have been to, although somewhat larger.
Undoubted highlight was reading some of the v angry comments on the experience. I particularly enjoyed the one that took the opportunity to have a dig at Paris mayor, Anne Hidalgo (patron saint of cyclists).
We had lunch in the courtyard outside which I thought was lovely and atmospheric and herself and Mr. Waffle thought was a public health hazard. As a pigeon flew up on the table beside us herself commented tartly, “Its first time performing this manoeuvre no doubt”.
After lunch, we tackled the Louvre. Free for the under 25s but €17 for each adult. Still worth it, people.
Mr. Waffle and herself tired and went for a cup of tea in Starbucks (in the Louvre, sacred blue etc) but I persevered.
They have such a good collection of French painters as well as everything else and I love a bit of Watteau, Fragonard, Boucher frills and froth as well as the quieter charms of Chardin.
I am not a massive Claude Lorrain fan which is a pity because the Louvre has quite the collection. I had a quick walk down the long gallery stopping at some of the particularly famous paintings (although the Mona Lisa had a queue with a line other very famous and beautiful pictures did not).
I went to an online talk about the Louvre before going and I offer you the information that Diane de Poitiers put her initials and Henri II’s all over the Louvre to the intense chagrin of his wife, Catherine de Medici. I am sure you are delighted to note that your correspondent is as didactic as ever.
We had dinner in a local restaurant. Fine and a moment of triumph when we addressed the waiter and he said, in French, “Oh sorry, I thought you were English.” We did ok actually in the speaking French to French people stakes (something which was not very difficult in the past). They seemed willing which was all I wanted really.
Monday, September 26, 2022
After breakfast out, we packed up, put our suitcases in left luggage and went for a walk in Montmartre. Mr. Waffle was reluctant as it so touristy but it was handy. It wasn’t bad, I thought. I mean, there’s no two ways about it, it is tourist central – we kept getting caught up with a large Spanish walking tour – but it’s not exactly like the rest of Paris is tourist free. And it is rather charming with good views. It is possible that the on/off rain showers may have scared off some of the tourists.
Observe the site where Saint Denis stopped to wash his severed head in a fountain. Not a great picture but, if you look closely, you will see the statue is carrying the head. This is a source of a great line from a French aristo who having been told the story by some cardinal said, “Il n’y a que le premier pas qui coûte”. It’s only the first step that counts. In other words, once he picks up his head and starts walking, well, the fact that it’s 6 kms is neither here nor there. A perennial favourite phrase with my mother.
By lunch time, the rain was torrential. We were to meet herself in a trendy place for lunch. Many of her friends had recommended it. We queued outside for a good half hour in the lashing rain before getting in. There were two queues: the queue for those with reservations and the one for those without. We were in the latter group, sadly.
When we got in, lunch was nice and it was all very happening. I can recommend Pink Mamma but I would also recommend that you book.
Then we said goodbye to herself and began our epic trek to airport. Nothing went wrong but it was just long. I felt bad leaving her sitting dripping on her own on the other side of the metro tracks but she made it home safely and I felt very proud of my small girl making her way in the big city. Also, I was quite pleased that she was coming home shortly.
We had such a good time. I was delighted. Mr. Waffle was reminded of when he lived in Paris in the early 90s and his parents came to visit him. Overall it went well but his father’s credit card had expired and getting cash abroad was not as easy then as it is now. The upshot of this was that he ended up subsidising them in their high rolling cafe adventures from his slender student savings and he still remembers the pain (fear not, they were good for the money but cash flow can be a problem, if you’re a student). No such difficulties occurred during our visit which was just as well as I think our daughter is more like her profligate mama than her prudent papa.
All in all, a triumph.
Mr. Waffle and I were on a lovely walk (well lovely in parts, parts were a bit inhospitable, but the views were generally nice and the weather was fantastic) in Carlingford the week before last when my phone started pinging.
It was my Sunday afternoon book club speculating about the health of the Queen of England. They weren’t wrong, we arrived home in time to see the BBC read out news of her death. I was startled by how shaken I felt up there on the mountain. I mean, she was 96, it was hardly a complete surprise.
I suppose she reminds me a bit of my father who was of the same generation, just a year older; the old order changeth and all that. I remember my father telling me about the death of the old King – George V – in 1936 when my father was 10. There are few enough people now who remember that. I am surprised that, 100 years after independence, the death of a British monarch still has so much relevance here including for me
The Irish papers were full of the symbolic importance of her trip to Ireland in 2011. The children were in primary school at the time and the school closed down for the day as it was a bit close to the Queen’s visit to town. People were pretty nervous, I remember (presumably not as nervous as she was). It all went off peacefully though. She went to Cork (“Rebel County” snorted Mr. Waffle as gangs of school children waved flags to greet her on the Grand Parade). The fishmonger in the Market made a career from his brief encounter with her much to my brother’s ongoing chagrin. He feels that the fishmonger may have gone overboard on the marketing. He got a book out of the two minute encounter which was featured all over again in the Irish coverage of her death.
On the Sunday after she died, I was surprised when the priest prayed for her at mass. “We pray now for Queen Elizabeth II and that she will be forgiven her sins, and received into the Kingdom of Heaven,” intoned the priest. “That’s what we do when people die, we pray for them and for God to forgive them their sins,” he informed the slightly startled congregation.
This Sunday, I noticed on the missalette under the list of mass intentions (a list of people for whom parishioners have paid for masses to be said – don’t talk to me about the Reformation – for special intentions, anniversaries, exams, dead family members, whatever you’re having yourself) that on Monday, 19 September, somebody was having a mass said for Queen Elizabeth II (RD). RD stands for recently deceased. Like we didn’t know. There she was sandwiched in between Bennie and Maisie (anniversary) and Pat and Mary (deceased) and sitting underneath the information that it was the feast day of Saint Januarius, Bishop and Martyr.
The second reading from St. Paul (something of a pragmatist) to Timothy was timely:
My advice is that, first of all, there should be prayers offered for everyone – petitions, intercessions, and thanksgiving – and especially for kings and others in authority so that we may be able to live religious and reverent lives in peace and quiet. To do this is right, and will please God our saviour: he wants everyone to be saved and reach full knowledge of the truth.
It really feels like the end of an era.
Updated to add: this appeared in today’s Irish Times. My brother is going to get a hernia.
Friday August 5
We went to the fun fair. We were inspired by our trip to Tivoli in Copenhagen years ago which probably remains our most successful day out ever. Gröna Lund was reasonably successful but, I’ll say it now, it’s no Tivoli.
The great thing about Tivoli was the lovely restaurants and walks as well as fairground rides appealing to young and middle aged alike. To be fair to Gröna Lund it does have some charming rides and attractions and lunch on site was grand if not spectacular. We all rather enjoyed the fun house.
I deeply, deeply regretted my choice to try the Monster ride but the boys seem to have enjoyed it. The children went on most of the rides but after the Monster ride, I felt a nice cup of tea was more my thing. Speaking of tea, I enjoyed the Fika ride concept.
It lashed rain on us but that beat the blistering heat of the previous day. I mean, we’re used to rain. Herself persuaded me to go on one of those chair rides with chains, you know the kind. It swung out over the Baltic in a rather charming way and I was really quite enjoying myself until I realised that I was wearing slip on sandals and that there was a good chance that one of them might end up in the Baltic with the attendant complications of being bare foot in a fun park in the centre of Stockholm. I spent the remainder of the ride with curled up toes and clenched teeth.
When we got home, Michael, Mr. Waffle and I went for a stroll to the Buddhist temple at the end of the road. Weird, right?
Over dinner, herself looked around the table and said, not in a pleased voice, “Why does everybody look like me?” I think she needs to spend more time with her family.
Saturday, August 6, 2022
Herself and myself decided to go into Stockholm for the day. We had an early start. We identified a car park in the Gamla Stan and got ourselves there with the help of Half-Right Helga without too much difficulty. But the parking meter was broken. I stood disconsolately in front of it it for a while poking it with my cards. Then I fell upon this lone Swede (it was early) going across the car park. He was so kind. He said I needed a local parking app. He found the app in the app store; he waited while I installed it (giving it all my credit card details, my life history, you know what these things are like). Then he showed me on the app where we were and how to pay. It took ages but he was chirpy, he was off to his boat to go sailing for the day and in no rush he said. Apparently Swedes own more boats per capita than any other nation on earth (so said our boat tour guide, certainly feels true).
We wandered around the old town which was charming and pretty much deserted. We had breakfast in a trendy cafe. Herself had given us a number of recommendations from Gwyneth Paltrow. I was pretty dubious but I have to say, Gwnny did not let us down. I am most surprised to find myself saying this but would definitely recommend.
Then we went shopping and we saw the sights and we just had a lovely, lovely time. You know those days when everything goes right? It was just delightful. As we drove home, I said to herself, “You know, I finally feel like a grown-up, driving with my daughter to a foreign capital city, getting home again and absolutely nothing going wrong.”
I must say that even now when I see a picture of the old town in Stockholm, my eyes are rivetted to the open air car park by the harbour and I think, “I parked there, yes there.” Achievement level unlocked, guys.
The five of us went back into town that evening. We needed another kind Swede to help us with the car park. Car parking in Stockholm is complex for the reasons outlined previously.
We had booked ourselves into a programme of Nordic songs in the Opera House. Herself felt we needed some culture. Definite win.
We arrived a bit early and had drinks on a beautiful terrace looking out over the city. The opera house itself was elaborate; the Nordic songs were interesting; the singer explained them to us in English; the performance was under an hour (there’s only so much Nordic opera that is really fun). I would really recommend, I have to say.
Although the singer explained the songs in English she was Swedish as were most of the audience although there were some foreigners (including a very forceful English woman who made an Opera House employee who she made find her another bathroom down a locked corridor because the queue in the open one was too long. “I’ll miss the start,” she said. “I don’t think you will,” said the employee who you would think might know. She prevailed. I was both disapproving and admiring). English is amazingly prevalent in Sweden. A lot of the cafe/restaurant staff who are not Swedish appear not to speak it which I find pretty startling. I mean they were serving Swedes, in Sweden and speaking to them in English. Peculiar. Though very useful for those of us whose Swedish language skills are rudimentary at best.
We had drinks in the old town and then went for dinner to the Flying Elk which was also a Gwyneth Paltrow recommendation. I had dutifully booked but that proved unnecessary. When we arrived, they said, “You’re the booking!” We were the booking, the place was pretty empty – a gastropub by the harbour – but perfectly pleasant.
Honestly a perfect day.
We went back to the car park and it appeared to be locked against us. We asked the bouncer in a club beside the locked entrance whether he had any idea what we might do. “It’s the same problem every night, people get locked out,” he said gloomily. We were even more gloomy. You will be pleased to hear – but not at all as pleased as we were – that we did eventually find our way back to the car via a night entrance quite a distance away.
Sunday, August 7, 2022
Feeling that further delights were available in town, herself went in to Stockholm on the bus. As she departed she announced that her phone battery was low and she might be uncontactable. Sigh.
Daniel emerged late from his bedroom. He had got up at 4.30 to see the sunrise and it was a very early start. Also, as he dolefully informed us, “4.30 is not sunrise time”.
After the excitements of the previous day we had a quiet time knocking around the house and swimming in the Baltic.
We went to the supermarket where some German tourists, taking us for Swedes asked where the milk was. We got chatting. “Actually, we’re going to Germany tomorrow,” I said chirpily. “Where are you going?” they asked. “To Berlin,” I said. The father actually physically recoiled in horror. “To Berlin?” he squeaked. This did not make me feel good about my choices. I went into mourning for the lovely Airbnb, the beautiful surroundings, the closeness to the delightful city of Stockholm. What, what were we thinking? The temperatures predicted for Berlin were horrifying. I was horrified.
We were distracted from our Berlin horror by two things: 1. herself had found a charger and called us to let us know that she’d missed the bus and could we collect her from town (we could and we did, that’s parents for you – she had, inevitably, found this very cool cafe quarter where, blindly following the directions of Half-Right Helga, we inadvertently drove through a pedestrianised street to pick her up) and 2. our luggage debacle.
When booking our flights via Expedia, we had neglected to add hold baggage – even Homer nods etc. We then found ourselves in this hideous loop where Expedia said only the airline could add luggage and the airline said that they couldn’t because we’d booked through Expedia. When we checked in online 24 hours before departure could we add luggage? We could not. Our lovely luggage with which we had only so recently been reunited. Poor Mr. Waffle spent a couple of hours on the Norwegian airlines helpline and was told maybe they could do something at the airport. A number of hideous plan Bs were developed. We went with the following.
Herself was flying to Dublin on the following day having had enough of Berlin for one summer. Mr. Waffle booked her an extra item of checked luggage (€35) and then as plans developed a further item of checked luggage (“So €70 total, not so bad I suppose,” said I. “Ah,” said Mr. Waffle “you assumed the second checked bag cost the same as the first.” So worse.) Michael and Mr. Waffle took the pessimistic view that we would not manage to get our luggage to Berlin and packed their hand baggage to the gunnels. Daniel and I were more optimistic. We put all of our essentials in one of the hold bags and hoped we wouldn’t have to unpack it and load some of the contents into our hand luggage. Herself was beyond delighted at the prospect of taking two large additional pieces of hold baggage.
We went down for a last walk to the seaside. Daniel pointed up to the moon and said, “Le lune”. He was somewhat mortified as it turned out there were French people nearby. Mr. Waffle reassured him, “They probably thought you were Swedish.” In case you were wondering it’s la lune and that’s a mistake he’s unlikely to make again.
We went to bed early. “We’ve to be up at 6.30,” I said to the children. Poor Daniel, continuing his bewilderment at the flight arrangements in Europe this summer protested, “But I thought the flight was at 12.” It was but with the three hour early check-in advice, the need to bring back the car and the hour long drive to the airport, this seemed the latest we could leave it.
Monday August 8, 2022
We got to the airport no problem. In fairness, returning the hire car was pretty smooth but, irritatingly, the petrol station at the airport had closed down so waiting to get there to fill up with petrol wasn’t the cunning move we had assumed it would be.
We went to check-in filled with trepidation. People, they took our luggage. We would have paid almost anything at that stage but it wasn’t too dear and it was ultimately pretty painless.
We went and spent a fortune on a last family breakfast in the airport to celebrate clearing the luggage hurdle.
We said goodbye to herself. We had been crimping her style with our inadequate airport expertise, but she still seemed moderately sad to say goodbye, I mean not extremely sad now, to be clear. She was going home to Dublin where my brother was staying in our house for a couple of weeks while we were away. Herself and my brother get on like a house on fire but nonetheless, in my view, he is a challenging housemate. “But,” I said to her, “if anyone can make him toe the line, it’s you.” “Yes,” she said, “if it were a film, I would be a sensitive but troubled teenage boy and he would be a wild horse that no one except me can tame.” Quite.
Anyway we got to our gate, herself got to her gate and there was, frankly, relief all round. Honestly the airport experience is now so uniformly vile. It’s just got worse and worse over my life time. My father’s experience of airports in the 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s (which he hated, he travelled regularly for work) is almost unrecognisable. Even my own experience from 20 years ago was way better. I suppose discouraging air travel is good for the climate emergency. I am discouraged.
Stay tuned for the next installment where our brave adventurers go to the fiery cauldron that is Berlin in a heatwave.