Travel

London

11 September, 2026 2 Comments
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

Friday 29 May 2026

We went to London for the June bank holiday to visit herself. Want to hear all about it? Possibly not but here it is, dragged out of the archive. Herself was leaving London and it seemed like a good idea to visit before she left.

We stayed in happening Spitalfields in a hotel that is part of a nice chain. We’d stayed in the sister establishment in Soho in the past and we needed somewhere a bit nearer to glamourous (ahem) Dalston where our firstborn was residing. She said, “It’s not close at all.” But it’s closer than Soho, is all I can say.

The hotel was lovely but like it’s sister establishment, not exactly dog-cheap. I went for a nap after arriving as I had a slight headache and was not delighted to see workmen on the scaffolding outside my window. I was even less delighted by the vigorous drilling right beside my head which made sleep elusive.

Once somewhat restored, we went out to dinner in a trendy London eatery with our firstborn. It was Japanese-Italian fusion and herself was keen to try it out. I think once we were finished dinner we all agreed that it was not a fusion that was wholly successful.

We went back to her house share after dinner. It was lovely to see her somewhere she was so happy. I was slightly depressed to note how much better value renting in London seems to be than renting in Dublin.

Unrelated: we saw this advertisement on the way back to the hotel. What?

Saturday 30 May 2026

Mr. Waffle and I went for breakfast on trendy Redchurch street as recommended by herself. I liked it. Then we went to Denis Sever’s house which was on the same street as our hotel. As you know, I like nothing better than a house which recreates little vignettes from another era (folk park anyone?) but for reasons I can’t explain this place didn’t do it for me. But grand, I suppose.

We met herself in Marylebone where we had a very nice lunch and then went to the Wallace collection for a wander around. It famously has Fragonard’s “The Swing” but I was surprised and rather pleased to see an old favourite – The Laughing Cavalier – which I didn’t even know was there.

You can also see Mazarin’s cutlery in the collection. I mean, why not?

By far my favourite picture though was this one of Napoleon’s tomb by Vernet. Come on, it has everything.

After our brush with the arts we went to a chemist herself is fond of – wouldn’t be my idea of thrill but each to their own.

Then we went for pizza in Islington which would have been grand except there was some Arsenal related excitement and everything was heaving with Arsenal fans. In fairness, good natured enough but loud and drunk and many.

Sunday 31 May, 2026

The room in our hotel were named after historical figures (we were in Daniel Mendoza, in case you are curious). When I went down for breakfast the next morning, the young waitress asked me, “Are you Mary Wollstonecraft?” and I must say, I rather enjoyed that.

Herself took us to the Towpath cafe for breakfast. We walked around Dalston which, away from the main street, is really pleasant and has excellent cycling infrastructure. I was pretty impressed by cycling provision all round in London. Surely, if they can do it in London, we can do it here.

We went to the Borough Market and Hackney Depot to a flea market. I felt about 102 and extremely untrendy. We bought her 1950s sandals (for a ball, she is still Oxford balling, they seem to go on forever) in the flea market and the owner of the stand ran after us with a matching bag which she pressed upon us. This was very kind of her and heartwarming. She gave the Princess a big hug. When did the English become a nation of huggers? Is it Princess Diana? I can’t see it happening here.

Mr. Waffle made it his business to buy her a lock for her bin which kept disappearing from her front garden. Someone had entered the garden and set some clothes on fire the previous night so I would have to say that the Dalston experience is an exciting urban one and it’s no surprise that jovial souls spirit bins away from front gardens. We picked up a big rock from a local strip of waste ground for her to put behind the gate to discourage further visitors. What a time to be alive.

And then it was time for us to go to the airport. The bus was pretty much stopped by a million Arsenal fans. Arsenal fans stopped the Windrush line by being on the line. I began to not love Arsenal fans, I will tell you that.

However, eventually we got on the lovely Elizabeth line and safely to the airport (full of Arsenal fans) and on to the plane home (also full of Arsenal fans).

Stay with me. Nordic charms to come. Bated breath etc. on your side, I am sure.

Northern Adventure

7 September, 2026 2 Comments
Posted in: Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

You’re doubtless on the edge of your seat waiting to hear about our Nordic odyssey but first let me tell you about our Northern Ireland trip in May. “Exciting!” you shout.

Friday, May 1

You may recall that some time ago we tried to climb in the Mournes but were defeated due to problems with Mr. Waffle’s coat. A difficult time. We vowed to return and this time we stayed the night before in Carlingford which is nearby and would allow for an early start on Saturday.

We stayed in Ghan house in Carlingford which is lovely but the last time we stayed there was during the pandemic (also lovely then) and we were assigned the same room so it reminded us a bit of that difficult time. But we had a nice lunch, a nice walk and a nice dinner, so what’s not to like?

Saturday, May 2

We spent hours going up Slieve Binnian. It was very foggy as we panted up and as we passed fitter walkers coming down they said gloomily that the normally excellent view from the top was invisible. Was I downhearted? Honestly, a bit. However, we felt our way to the Mourne wall – a key landmark – here it is looking foggy and, well, wallish.

Despite some incentive to turn back we followed the directions and instructions and clambered to the top where we were met with a less than stellar view.

However, as we sat there recovering from our exertions, the clouds miraculously cleared.

And it was, honestly, totally worth the effort; really recommended.

We came back by a different route as I always enjoy a loop but it was a bit dull and quite long so if I were doing it again, I’d probably come back down the way I went up. Although the return did have its own quiet charms.

By the time we got back to the car, we were keen for a restorative cup of tea and a snack so we went to the Percy French restaurant which is at the entrance to the luxury Slieve Donard hotel and, I can only hope, unrelated to it. It was quite vile and an insult to poor old Percy who gave us the song “The Mountains of Mourne“. However, it met our needs, in a very basic and uninspiring way and gave us the strength to push on to lovely Newforge House in Moira where we were booked in for the night.

At drinks before dinner we met the other guests. There was a Cork woman who had married a local who assured me she could drive from there to her mother’s house in Cork in 3 and a half hours (highly dangerous, I would have thought) and two newly engaged (to each other not in employment) doctors who had been to college in Cork. They told us all about their time working in Australia and their return to Dublin. Overall more Cork content than you usually get in Armagh. We got our room upgraded and we got an amazing dinner. Delight all round and the memories of the Percy French restaurant in Newcastle faded.

Sunday, May 3

After a superb breakfast, we went to mass locally. On that day there was an Ulster senior football match. Armagh were playing Down (supporters’ cry which never fails to amuse “Up Down!”) in Clones (Co. Mongahan, a neutral venue, I guess). It had been referred to at dinner the night before and I wasn’t sure that the Polish priest was going to be weighing in at mass but that’s where I was wrong. “I’m not going to pray for Co. Down today,” he said to his Co. Armagh audience, “because they don’t need it.” Daring. He was wrong too, they did need it. Armagh won by miles. Despite being visitors, Mr. Waffle and I were nabbed to bring up the gifts; I was very tense as I can never remember when anything happens in the service and I’m always afraid I’ll miss my cue. Mr. Waffle was on top of it, however, and all went off peacefully. Mass went on forever though.

The youngest child was still in Liège at that stage. He had been in Dublin for the week and had to get himself to the airport without parents to drop him off. We offered to pay for a taxi but he is very frugal and insisted on getting the bus. Everything went wrong: the bus stop moved; the bus didn’t come; there was a delay on the road. But look, even though he had to sprint, he got there in the end. I felt a bit bad but he survived and it doubtless made him stronger.

We took in Hillsborough Castle on the way home. It’s an odd spot. It’s run by the historic royal palaces organisation and they haven’t at all, even slightly, adapted for local mores. I found the tat in the shop (and I love an upmarket souvenir shop) very divorced from the context in which it sat. But it is an interesting building with lovely grounds so overall I would recommend but I would say, in all the years I have been visiting Northern Ireland, I have never been in a more British spot (and I have mostly been on the Antrim coast).

Then it was back to Dublin. Stay tuned for further adventures.

By Our Mistakes We Learn

12 July, 2026
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Siblings, Travel

Last year we went on holidays in late August/early September and I hated it. Too late. Never again.

Part of the reason was that we booked very late. June 16, in fact. Have we booked our summer holidays yet? I’m glad you asked. We have!

We are going away for three weeks in August. For the first time since herself was born, it is just Mr. Waffle and me. Though we have posted our itinerary in the family group chat and said if anyone wants to join us for a bit we will cover flights and accommodation but they’ll have to arrange it themselves (unless they want to join us in Flåm, they just can’t join us in Flåm, too expensive, too complex and no accommodation and no train tickets – more anon). So far, the response has been…lukewarm. And we are going on a thrilling odyssey in my view.

We will fly to Gothenburg, from there we will go by train first to Oslo for a couple of days, then onwards to Flåm (bet you’re excited to hear about Flåm now) and to Bergen. From Bergen we will fly to Reykjavik and then home. I am so looking forward to it.

Before we began the booking process, I had never heard of Flåm but there’s a fjord there and it’s a good thing to see apparently and I became determined to go. Mr. Waffle wrestled with Norwegian rail and bought us tickets from Oslo to Flåm. Not easy, they are very much in demand. We are spending two nights in Flåm, possibly one too many but we will not dwell on that as due to a severe shortage of accommodation we will be spending more per night on our hotel in Flåm then we have ever spent on a night’s accommodation before. When I tell you that Mr. Waffle refused to stay in a shared room in a hostel (we’re too old for that) and that was €250 per night, it will give you a slight inkling of the cost of the hotel. It had better be good is all I can say. We took a few days off after the excitement of the Flåm booking and then realised that we would want to leave Flåm by rail and perhaps those tickets might be difficult to get also. We got our tickets out.

Mr. Waffle has been reading a lot of Nordic crime in preparation for our trip. I hope it will not be directly relevant. More practically my sister has been to these parts very recently and given us her insights. She has a friend who lives in Gothenburg and is a big Nordic traveller. Still, I was a bit surprised when she rang me and said, “I’ve booked my summer holidays and at the start of July I’m flying to Bergen then on to Oslo by train and then on to Gothenburg also by train.” Great minds etc. I am pleased with her tips but since she didn’t go to Flåm (her loss) no insights on that one.

Please give me your Nordic tips.

Travel is Broadening etc.

6 July, 2026
Posted in: Travel, Work

I went to Cyprus for work. You know, work, so didn’t see much of Cyprus. I travelled with a colleague who was in a wheelchair and I am delighted to report that people are very nice to you if you are travelling in a wheelchair. Your pushing companion also gets to skip the queue.

I was staying in a hotel near the beach. Breakfast felt like I was on holidays.

I mean come on.

Was I delighted to be whisked away by minibus at the crack of dawn to the conference centre with windowless rooms? I am only human, I was not.

But we did get a tour of Nicosia in the evening where we saw the monument to liberation from the British (enjoyable).

We also saw the archeological museum which was interesting.

Not satisfied with my baking in Cyprus opportunities in May, I also went to a conference in Lisbon last month. Toasty, but I was last in Lisbon before I was married and I had forgotten how beautiful it is. I would definitely like to go back again on my own dime.

Obligatory tram photo.

On my return flight to Dublin on Saturday morning I was sitting on the aisle side with an American in the middle and an older woman from Cork at the window. I knew she was from Cork because I heard her telling the American man so. We waited a long time on the tarmac to get off (I missed the session in Dalkey book festival I had been scheduled to attend that afternoon, alas). The American and the Cork woman began to talk about politics and I started to feel sorry for him so I staged an intervention. “I heard you saying you were from Cork earlier,” I said to her. No further intervention was needed. We established the following over the body of the misfortunate American: she lived around the corner from my parents; she remembered them from when my brother had been a primary school pupil in the school where she taught (we verified his identity from the photo I have of him in his plum velvet communion suit which pops up whenever he calls me, I’m hilarious, it was the 70s); her son is married to a (very good) hockey player who was in my sister’s class in school; she lives next door to the mother of a friend of Mr. Waffle’s from college; and she plays bridge with my best friend from school’s mother. This is possibly the best illustration of why, fond as I am of Cork, I quite like the anonymity of the big city. I felt quite sorry for the poor American.

Anyway, been anywhere nice for work yourself?

Lyon

18 April, 2026
Posted in: Reading etc., Travel

As part of my ongoing programme of social engagements I went to Lyon with my Monday night book club. We’ve never been anywhere before and we were, in fact, supposed to go away last year to celebrate our 25th anniversary but the logistics defeated us and we went on St. Patrick’s weekend this year. I think this shows that this was no passing fancy, no last minute decision; it was a well planned operation.

Why then, with my passport not due to expire until May did I chose to send it for renewal on February 21? In part, I was influenced by all those letters to the papers saying “hats off to the passport service, I got mine the next day”. In fairness, most people seem to get theirs within a week (like Mr. Waffle, for example, who was in no rush). The website however, says that turnaround time is 10 working days. And they don’t hold themselves to that. So I was flying out on my long planned weekend away on March 13 and despite regularly staring at the passport tracking bit of the Department of Foreign Affairs website did it come in one day, or one week, or even two working weeks? It did not. It came on March 10 which was very, very welcome. Also my birthday so good on a range of levels, what a birthday thrill. But my advice to you is don’t be an eejit; get your passport renewed in good time.

Friday 13 March

Off I went to the airport, clutching my new passport (with unbelievably hideous photo, of course) triumphantly in my paw. There were 9 of us travelling and we were all going at slightly different times but there was a good crowd of us at the airport and we decided to get one of those city pass type things. I never normally do this as I just am not convinced that you will save money but I was swayed by the group dynamic.

The flight passed off peacefully. Personally, I would have got a taxi to the hotel (I am always making Mr. Waffle suffer in this way as, quite genuinely, there is nothing he enjoys more than the challenge of negotiating a foreign public transport system) but again I was swayed by the group and our Lyon pass included public transport. Going in by tram and metro was a bit tricky but basically grand but when we got to our hotel we could not work out how to get to it from the station which it was right beside. This sounds weird but in their wisdom the city fathers built a large motorway and a huge 1970s train station/transit hub/bus station thing on the foot of the island on which the city is built and our hotel was on the far side of these impressive, though in retrospect unwise, infrastructure projects.

As we were standing around in a tourist gaggle a young man came running up to me. Pointing to a woman who was striding off rapidly but apparently unconcernedly, he said, “She took your wallet but I got it back!” and handed it to me. I thought he was a scam artist but he walked off, I was holding my wallet, and the others had seen him and her engaging in some class of a row. I am pleased to confirm that nothing was missing from my wallet – there have been no repercussions and the young man appears to have been a good Samaritan. It filled my heart with gladness and, obviously, getting my wallet back before I had noticed it was missing was very satisfactory indeed.

We ducked under the motorway (unpleasant) and found our hotel. She was a grand old lady – a railway hotel for the 19th century station which still stood but was completely overshadowed by the, if nothing else extremely large, new 1970s structure. The hotel – now a Mercure – had definitely fallen on hard times but there was something very appealing about her faded grandeur and also I was upgraded from a single to a double and where would you be going for three night’s accommodation for €300 including balcony view of the railway lines? Happily my bedroom looked over the bijou 19th century station rather than the 1970s light blocking, looming monstrosity and the M6 motorway.

When I told my friend who knows Lyon well about our hotel location he said succinctly “Perrache [train station zone] is a kip”. Unwelcome and belated analysis.

Lyon is full of magnolia trees on the street as we observed on our initial exploratory trip and they were just beginning to bloom. We had a pleasant aperitif and then one of our number had booked us in to a lovely local restaurant for dinner. Another member – alas not present – had pumped her colleague in the Lyon office for tips and they did not disappoint.

All was not, however, entirely well as the son of one of the group had managed to knock himself out while skiing. Conversation with his mother “What happened?” Him “I can’t remember, I’m concussed.” He was with a friend and taken by ambulance for a scan at a larger hospital. His mother was extremely calm all things considered but, you know, not ideal (spoiler alert – he was, happily, fine and able to fly home the next day as planned – he continues to be fine).

On our return to the hotel as we tackled the underpass of doom, one of the group tripped and, rather dramatically, cut herself with her glasses. She was covered in blood in a truly impressive way. She was wearing a beige coat and it really showed the gallons of blood she appeared to have lost and she turned white as a sheet. Even the pavement was covered in blood; they’re probably used to that in the underpass. When we got back to the hotel they wanted us to go to A&E but we pointed to our doctor member and said, “She’s a doctor and she says it’s fine”. She was right too. Apparently cuts around the eye bleed a lot but aside from a black eye, the injured party was grand and pretty chirpy in the morning. Nonetheless, it was slightly inauspicious, I would have to concede.

Saturday 14 March

Undaunted by the previous day, we set out to explore. Did you know Lyon specialises in knives and silk? Well, it does and you can learn lots about both. Just in case you were wondering, the carré Hermès is made near Lyon.

We split into two museum delegations; one to the Musée des Confluences (Lyon is the point where the Rhone and the Saône meet and this museum was at that very point on the tip of the peninsula). Those who went there pronounced it very satisfactory. Sadly, I didn’t get there even though I would have got in free with my Lyon pass – next time.

The rest of us went to the Musée des Beaux Arts. You know how I love a regional art gallery. There was a lot to love there so brace yourself.

This is not a great photo of a picture by François-Auguste Biard entitled Baie de la Madeleine au Spitzberg.

But look, look, he’s included his own self-portrait. Is he enjoying himself in his 1841 plein air adventure? I think not.

I truly enjoyed these large perpendicular canvasses hung beside each other. They’re from 1905 and show men and women gathered in their separate groups when the car broke down. They’re by Jacques Émile Blanche. Good man Jacques Émile.

How about the ricotta eaters by Vincenzo Campi. Pretty good eh? A bit too real perhaps.

And how about this guy? Got to love him. Great content from Alexandre Séon.

Do we need a comment here? Thank you Albert Maignan for amusing a simple art gallery goer. Please feel free to guess what the subject is.

This is interesting by Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret painted in 1879. Two worlds collide.

I love a snowy scene. This is quietly delightful by Monet. I have to say much better in person than in the photograph.

I have saved the best to last. There was a whole room dedicated to a series of works by one Louis Janmot. It features 18 (yeah, you heard me) pictures depicting the voyage of a soul. The painter had some issues with education. Here the two children (the soul) climb the staircase of knowledge. The, not very sympathetically portrayed, individuals watching them are professors. Basically the way of education is doom. The panel beside this picture explains that the artist, a fervent (and clearly crazy) catholic, is violently attacking lay university education. Ladies and gentlemen, he is indeed.

It doesn’t get any better when they get to the top of the stairs and, gasp, enter university. The old woman here represents science. The accompanying panel tells us the artist was against university as it removed young people from the wholesome environment of the family. You betcha. I mean, lads, the whole thing is worth a look.

I had the time of my life. And I quite liked the hôtel de ville outside as well. Though, that’s probably not a picture they’ll be using on their postcards.

We had agreed that after our cultural morning we would regroup en masse in the Halles Paul Bocuse. My mother had a special devotion to Paul Bocuse and it was nice to see him looming above us; he’s a big man locally.

The Halles were undistinguished looking but my goodness the inside was heaving and full of delicious food and many, many restaurants. I thought we were unlikely to get a table for nine but we did and we had a spectacular lunch. I would truly recommend.

I saw this poster and I liked it. “How can you govern a country which has 246 varieties of cheese?” as De Gaulle apparently said. For cheese lovers.

We then went in different directions to explore the town. We got more exploring than we bargained for as there was a demonstration and no trams running (there is a metro, I can’t believe Lyon has a metro and Dublin doesn’t). If you squint you can see the demonstrators below, general left wing unhappiness apparently in reaction to a right wing demonstration the previous week. Love the French.

I found this very fancy and enormous shopping centre and Intercontinental hotel which in previous centuries had been the hospital. Here it is on the right bank of the river.

And here is one of the, confusingly many, marbled courtyards inside.

I went on to the tourist office to see what else might be on offer. I decided to book myself in to the tour of Lyon and thought some of the others might be interested as well (covered by our Lyon pass!). I went up to the desk. A queue formed behind me as I discussed tour options with F (yes, we learnt each other’s names). I explained I had a Lyon pass as did some but not all of my group. F retrieved my dossier from the computer (not before discovering that there was someone else with the same very weird surname – for French people, I guess – as me in Lyon that weekend – “You mean there are two people of this name here at once?” she chuckled.) The queue grew behind me. F did not care. “I’m not sure,” said I with a glance at the queue “whether all my group will want to come, I might step aside and message them and come back to you?” “No, no, madam,” said she, “message your friends while you wait at the counter.” I did and, mercifully, they responded speedily though F was indifferent to delay. She found all of the Lyon pass people on the computer and added their tour tickets to my dossier, she added the non-Lyon pass people and I have to say the whole thing was rather marvellous and I felt the joy of the person who finally gets inside the system. After our lengthy engagement, she said, “Vous parlez, quand même, assez bien le Français.” I live for the slightly dismissive compliment bestowed by the French bureaucrat.

We had drinks in the hotel before dinner. This was in a famous Lyon restaurant called Brasserie Georges. I had booked it ages ago on the advice of our contact in Lyon and as we walked in, I basked in the admiring comments of the group. Sadly we walked and we walked (the restaurant is enormous) and ended up in an ignominious back room where they had large groups. I mean it was nice but lacked the glamour of the (huge) front of house where large tables of people were singing and rotating napkins in the air above their heads (is it only French people do this to celebrate?). Still, dinner was delicious and somebody suggested we should have champagne to start so we did. And we had a fantastic evening. Three courses, champagne and lots of wine, total bill per head? €50. I know French salaries are lower but seriously, are we being fleeced in Ireland? It feels like we might be.

We had another drink in the hotel bar afterwards and then rolled off to bed.

Sunday 15 March

Three of us went out for breakfast together. We went to a slightly shabby cafe but we each had a perfect croissant, tea/coffee and a squeezed orange juice for a fiver each. I refer to my earlier comment about the cost of eating out in Ireland.

We all met at the tourist office at 10. F came rushing up to me, “Madame, bonjour”. I felt beloved, I’ll tell you. The tour guide began by asking where we were all from and I felt a bit sorry for the young Irish man who had moved there the week before and found himself surrounded by, basically, 9 versions of his mother (who almost certainly recommended that he do the tour in the first place).

Anyway, the tour was superb. We went to the old town which we hadn’t yet visited. Lyon is unusual in that they built the new 18th century town across the river so the older renaissance/medieval town wasn’t flattened as is so often the case. They planned to bulldoze it in the 1960s but genius André Malraux scuppered them by listing the whole area (previously it had been building by building) though apparently the mayor wasn’t delighted. The whole area had been very run down until the 1980s but they started to revitalise it then and now it is lovely.

We were shown a number of “traboules” which are public passageways that cut through private buildings – the old town has largely built roads parallel to the river and the traboules were used to move sideways. It was very peculiar to go through what really looked like a private house. And it was much more venerable looking on the inside than the outside. Apparently, the traboules were much used by the Resistance during the war.

The buildings were quite Italianate on the inside and there were many rich Italian merchants who settled in the town including a family called Gadagne whose house is now a museum and who were so rich that they still apparently say “Riche comme Gadagne” in Lyon.

Almost the whole of the peninsula (where the 18th/19th century city was built) and the old town were pedestrianised. It made for a delightful walking around experience. “How long has it been pedestrianised?” I asked the guide expecting to hear 20 years but no, “A couple of months,” she said and there was still some unhappiness about it in some commercial quarters but the residents loved it. I was fascinated. See, it can be done.

Excellent (and car free) as the tour was, by the end we were all pretty tired. Up to then people had been joining the group from Dublin but the first two had to slip away during the tour. Just before lunch, someone else had to leave. It’s not as much fun when people are going as when they are arriving.

After lunch we contemplated the boat trip (covered by the Lyon pass you will be unsurprised to hear) but it was freezing so we took the funicular up to look at the view of Lyon instead.

The Basilica (hideous from outside and dominating the top of the hill) was actually, surprisingly impressive inside.

And we also inspected the large Roman amphitheater

We walked back to the hotel via a cafe I had recommended to me by my friend F at the tourist office. Very satisfactory.

Isn’t this spot I passed rather appealing?

While I was happy to eat foie gras and animal innards forever (these seem to be local specialities) others were becoming restive. That evening we went to the lovely restaurant quarter and despite the many attractive French restaurants opted for a pasta joint which was quite nice and made a break from offal (but why, why would you want a break from offal?).

Monday 16 March

My last day, alas. I was very keen to explore the old town and its rich array of tourist tat shops. I arrived and it was deserted. All the shops were closed. I was astounded. News flash: shops in Lyon close on Monday and that includes the tourist shops. I had the whole of vieux Lyon to myself and while it gave me many atmospheric photos, I would have liked to buy a tea towel. I am such a philistine.

I went back to the peninsula where the big shops were open alright but all of the smaller ones were closed. I went to the Monoprix (I love the Monoprix) and as I was paying for my purchases, I said to the young woman behind the counter that I was surprised that so many shops were closed on Monday and she replied as though speaking to a half wit “It’s because they are all open on Saturday and they have Monday off then.” I applaud this in principle but in practice, it meant my present buying had to wait for the airport.

The airport was a bit of a rush but fine in the end because we had allowed plenty of time; I would not say that the security queue was a model of efficiency.

All in all, it was a huge success and we’re going to do it again next year, logistics permitting. I think the success was due to us all liking the same kind of thing and then whatever way the group split up everyone got on and, as another friend pointed out, we were all thrilled to actually be on holidays. I would recommend Lyon, the Lyon pass (though I am not entirely convinced that I recouped my full payment despite valiant efforts in this regard but it was very handy) and also the bookclub break which I did a lot of piloting work on over the course of March.

May I congratulate you for reading to the end of this epic post?

Ennis Book Festival

13 April, 2026
Posted in: Ireland, Travel

I went to Ennis book festival with my Sunday book club last month. It’s a book festival aimed at book clubs. They know what side their bread is buttered on.

Friday March 6, 2026

I had a cold all week and woke up on Friday morning, sick as a dog. A wiser person would have cancelled at that point. Am I a wiser person? I think we both know the answer to that. I took the train down, snuffling the while. Ennis is in Co. Clare and, if you knew the geography of Ireland at all, you probably wouldn’t go there via Co. Galway but that was the train route that was available at the time I wanted and I took it. It was long. As we were outside Athenry, I saw this from the train window.

The “Fields of Athenry” were not quite what I was expecting.

The train journey was uneventful except for my belief that I might die. I went through several packets of tissues. It was awful. Not helped at all by a group of women up the train who, in contrast to everyone else in the carriage , were having a grand loud chat, had lots of opinions (not all of which I agreed with, is Malta really only for pensioners?) and generally drove me bananas.

I had a surreptitious look at them when we were changing trains – they looked like me and my friends. Do you know how the people you dislike the most are the ones who other people might think are like you but you know are very, very different. The narcissism of small difference is the expression I’m reaching for. I found it ominous that they too were going to Ennis.

I was amused to see this poster at the entrance to the railway station when I arrived. I’m not sure I would be bigging up my links to the West Clare Railway.

Ennis itself is really delightful. It’s like some kind of platonic ideal of an Irish market town. The centre is largely car free though this does lead to the outskirts of the town being basically several big car parks. Public transport in Co. Clare doesn’t seem to be what it might be.

I crawled into bed when I got to the hotel. For reasons that were unclear to me, I was upgraded to a suite in the slightly old-fashioned but perfectly acceptable hotel. Just as well because (spoiler alert), that was mostly where I was going to be for the weekend.

The others arrived and the whatsapp was full of discussions of dinner in the bar – one of our number had just arrived from Luxembourg and I was keen to hear her news – but I knew my limitations and ordered room service. Ominously, although the steak sandwich was excellent, I didn’t fancy eating it and only had a couple of mouthfuls before retiring again. I then spent the night throwing up. Between the cold and the food poisoning (or could it have been norovirus, if so I am very sorry for the mostly elderly people on the train whom I may have taken out), I thought my final hour had come. It was unbelievably miserable.

Saturday March 7, 2026

I got up and had a shower. Something of a triumph. I went downstairs for breakfast and had some unbuttered toast and tea forswearing the delights of the breakfast buffet.

We had a book quiz to partake in as part of the festivities. I was disgusted but unsurprised to see my nemeses from the train at another table. This, however, only added to my delight when we won the quiz (€25 book voucher each) though. And I didn’t throw up. I was thrilled but still a bit delicate and constantly blowing my nose. We had a terrible team name (forgotten) and when explaining this subequently to my loving family they suggested we should have been called “Pride and haven’t read this” and I respectfully submit this to you in case it might be of use to you some day.

We went to a session with Cecilia Ahern and Bryan Dobson where each of them recommended and spoke about five recommended books. I really took to Cecilia Ahern (none of whose books I have yet read but I might) but that view was not universal in the group. Anyhow, if you’re interested, these are their recommended books.

We all went for lunch but that was a mistake on my part and having thrown up my lunch I left the group and went back to bed while they went off to explore the town. I regretted the necessity of skipping this adventure but I just had to go back to my sick bed.

Revived by an afternoon in bed I went to a session in the hotel on historical fiction with Andrew Miller, Sarah Waters and Nuala O’Connor which was interesting and quite enjoyable and, best of all, I started to feel a little hungry.

We had booked dinner in a nice restaurant – the Old Town Hall – should you fancy a nice dinner in Ennis, I can recommend. Most of the speakers seemed to be staying in the hotel upstairs and, indeed, Andrew Miller was peacefully eating and reading his book at the table behind us. I ate an entire dinner, I didn’t throw up. Sadly, I still felt a bit under the weather and retired early leaving the others happily chatting over dessert. Truly the lot of the invalid is not a happy one.

Sunday 8 March

I woke up feeling, to be honest for the first time since the previous Monday, really quite a bit better. Unlike my travelling companions I was still unable to face the full Irish breakfast but I had toast with butter and marmalade which represented a real improvement.

The last thing I went to see was a live recording of the radio show Sunday Miscellany. Many, many people are Sunday Miscellany fans and it sounds like the kind of thing I would like but it’s not. I’m not really a big listener to live radio and somehow it only really fits on a Sunday morning – it’s a bit of new writing read aloud and some music – generally pretty soothing but not for me. I only went along because some of the others were going. I don’t know whether it was my rapidly advancing recovery or the impact of live music and live reading (I am generally not a huge fan of live music though, I know myself to be a philistine* in this regard) but I found it absolutely enthralling, it was my highlight of the weekend. If you wish you may listen back here and here (they divided it into 2 shows). I expect it is not as good to listen back to as it was to listen to in person but there it is.

I then took the train back to Dublin by the more direct route. Should I have gone? On balance, I think probably not. Will I remember this conclusion another time? I doubt it. Would I go to the Ennis book festival again? Certainly.

*Do you ever think about the Philistines and the unfairness of how they are remembered?