Travel

I’m Back

18 December, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Hodge, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Work, Youngest Child

For the first time in years, I didn’t post every day in November. I just forgot. It’s been busy back in the world of work.

Daniel’s shoulder is still causing problems. I’m not sure that he is entirely capable of managing his own medical affairs. One evening he had to call the doctor’s surgery – land line, this is relevant – about his shoulder. The surgery closes at 5.30 and at 5.27 he rang me (whatsapp free on the home wifi) to tell me he was out of credit. It was a race against time to top up his phone and inevitably when he rang at 5.31 he got the automated, “Did you expect us to pick up? You must be joking” message. Anyway he did manage to get through eventually and has been scheduled to be seen at a sports clinic where the next available appointment is July 2024. Fantastic.

Since I last wrote we have had riots in Dublin and a school stabbing so it hasn’t been the best of times for Dublin. On the night in question, I was out in Skerries in north County Dublin (subsequently revealed to be the best place to live in the world, honestly, nice and all but not entirely convinced) having dinner with a school friend. Poor old Michael texted me to check whether I was ok but, in fact, he was far closer to the action at home than I was in my North Dublin fastness. I subsequently heard that on the night of the riots various groups were trapped in their offices (my favourite, the Department of Education quiz night participants) and Trinity students had to stay overnight on campus.

We were flying to England to visit herself at the weekend and I was a bit worried about the boys and asked them not to go out in town while we were gone which felt like we were giving in to the rioters but there it was. Anyway, they were fine and there was no more rioting either. We had a good time in England except for the part of it we spent on trains. It had been suggested to us that flying to Birmingham would be a good way to travel. I cannot recommend Birmingham airport which is undergoing extensive renovations. I fell over comprehensively in a damp lift (water, I think) and lay on my back like a beetle waving its little legs in the air. All of the pre-recorded announcements had a hoover in the background. Unpleasant.

Nor can I recommend the train service which in my (admittedly limited) experience cancelled trains at short notice and had everyone squeezed on like sardines with no chance of getting to your reserved seat. However, Birmingham airport was redeemed by its lovely staff. Mr. Waffle lost his wedding ring and he just gave up. I, however, went back to security and a really kind man checked all of the security belts. He didn’t find it but gave me a form to fill in in case it turned up. Mr. Waffle had no faith in the form – to the extent that he just bought a new wedding ring – but he filled it in and they found the ring and sent it back to us. Very gratifying.

We had a nice time in England overall notwithstanding our transport trauma and it was very nice to see herself.

I have returned to tennis having finally got back in to the tennis club 18 months after I applied to rejoin. I was stiff all over after my first session. Let us hope things improve.

My sister is on the mend having been pretty unwell. I went to Cork to visit her to speed her recovery. I am not sure that it really helped but I had a pretty good time. It was nice to visit Cork at Christmas (all of December now apparently) and finally get to inspect this Marina market which I’ve been hearing so much (fine but, as my sister observed, probably not notiony enough for me). While I was in Cork, Dan’s team won the Championship. He was very pleased, notwithstanding his shoulder he’s been turning out a bit for training and matches (the physio thinks it’s ok, I hope it’s ok).

The Cork-Dublin train is Ireland’s best train line and when you travel you can shove your bike in the guard’s van. If, like an amateur, you get the Cork Dublin train that is not direct you have to stand on a chilly platform in Mallow, change trains and put up with this kind of bike storage.

Some of you have doubtless been wondering what was the source of the weird smell under the stairs which appeared around the time of my mother-in-law’s funeral. It went away but then Mr. Waffle disturbed the beast in its lair and it came back with renewed vigour but this time, Mr. Waffle managed to trace it to its source. It was a (mercifully wrapped) packet of cooked chicken pieces which had been purchased some months ago. They had lain forgotten in a rucksack in the interim waiting for their moment to shine.

A former colleague’s father died and I spent the days before the funeral humming and hawing about whether I ought to go. It was in rural Kilkenny which is just far enough out of Dublin that I would have to take a day off to attend but not so far that nobody could reasonably expect you to attend. I was definitely going, then I was definitely not going but in the end, I went. Having taken the day off work to go to the funeral, you might have thought I would arrive on time, you would be wrong. As with every funeral I have ever been to, I was glad I went afterwards; there was actually a big crowd of former colleagues there and we had a grand old chat. The burial was in the church yard which in my experience is quite unusual as most funerals seem to involve a trek to some graveyard in the back end of nowhere. And then there were sandwiches and tea (of course) in the adjacent church hall. A more elaborate lunch was being served in the town afterwards but the tea and sandwiches in the hall were great as they allowed me to sympathise in the warmth, and, you know, a cup of tea, not to be sneezed at.

I went to the Kildare Village outlet shopping centre on the way home. I despise it and all it stands for (the fake American vibe, the car dependency, the absence of the diversity you get in an actual city etc) but I also really like it. A difficult time for me. I see they have bike parking. A luxurious Sheffield stand it is not, but it is something, in fairness.

In one of the shops I attempted to buy something for €20. The shop assistant refused to take my money and said that I had to buy two things. Did I leave in a huff? I did not. I, somewhat reluctantly, picked up something else. What a wheeze.

We had Saint Nicolas in Dublin. He sent chocolate to herself in England. His feeling for weights and measures is not what it might be. Herself was, on the whole, pleased to get a kilo of chocolate delivered.

I had my Ukrainian lesson on December 6 and we talked about St. Nicolas in Ukraine. They have him, he comes on December 6 and he brings satsumas. On December 6, when my teacher was growing up (she’s about the same age as me so this would have been in the 70s), the classrooms all smelled of oranges as people illicitly peeled their satsumas under the desks. When I was growing up in Cork in the 70s we used to get a tray of satsumas for Christmas. The excitement in seeing them come into the house, the joy in eating satsumas whenever you wanted. In retrospect, I am very puzzled by this. It’s not like satsumas were not available all year round and I can’t imagine that my mother (very much officer in charge of food in our house) would have objected to us eating as many as we wanted at any time of year, unlike other Christmas treats which were rationed for obvious reasons. I have verified this with people my own age; the big tray of satsumas for Christmas seems to have been a treat for everyone in Ireland in the 70s. Baffling.

I’ve been Christmas lunching with work to beat the band. Exhausting but not unpleasant. I have had not one but two book club Christmas events (two bookclubs). One in my friend’s beautiful house in the suburbs where she had a magnificently decorated 12 foot tree in her drawing room (replacing the grand piano which normally sits there – question to self, where on earth did she put the grand piano?). Her son took a picture of us all in front of the tree and everyone looked amazing except me and I’m right in the middle. Sigh. Even my children felt the need to reassure me that I don’t really look like that. Eyes closed, mouth half open. My other bookclub met in the Westbury hotel for afternoon tea yesterday. Lovely and Christmassy and I kept my mouth closed for all the photos. Sadly, I looked a bit like Rudolf as I was dying with a cold and probably shouldn’t have gone and definitely should not have cycled home in the rain. I was so miserable last night, awake all night that I stayed home from work today. My new boss is lovely and, as I said to Mr. Waffle, “Since I started only about six weeks ago, I have taken every kind of leave, bereavement leave, holiday leave, leave to go to a funeral and now sick leave. He’ll think I’m incapable of putting in a full week.” I have looked at my work email over the course of the day but only in the most desultory way. All I need now is to tell him I’m applying for adoptive leave. I am not applying for adoptive leave.

I have had my hair cut – finally – first time in about 18 months, honestly, well overdue. I am delighted but I was truly unnerved to see how like my brother I looked in the hairdresser’s mirror with my hair cut short. Herself wants to know why I look so glum in all the selfies. Look, I feel foolish photographing myself, there was a time when this was not unusual, right?

Here I am looking slightly cheerier with herself.

Crocheted Christmas tree – an idea whose time has come?

My sister-in-law sent me this very pleasing picture of Hodge, Samuel Johnson’s cat in London.

We have got the best Christmas tree ever this year. I am delighted. I held off until this weekend just gone in the face of some opposition. We had to go to a new place because our regular vendor was out of trees in the size we wanted. What a blessing in disguise; a definitely superior tree was found after some tense moments that I would prefer not to speak about.

Everyone was there to decorate it (herself back from staying in a foundation in Munich where her friend is studying and which appears to be the most amazing place the Princess has ever stayed , I have rarely seen her so enthusiastic about anything and she’s polishing up her German again on foot of the visit so pleasing). And we had Christmas music playing in the background. I was beside myself with joy. Except for dying from my cold. It doesn’t really photograph well but you will have to take my word for it that the tree is magnifico.

More news as we get it.

The Condemned Man

30 October, 2023
Posted in: Family, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Work, Youngest Child

Earlier this week, I went for a cycle in the park with my loving husband. The place was pretty much deserted on a damp Monday afternoon.

We had a cup of tea at the lake.

Then we headed for home where we arrived safely notwithstanding the fact that this stag looked pretty dubious about our bikes. You have to imagine the sound effects – Mr. Waffle saying in increasingly urgent but low pitched tones, “Don’t stop to take a picture, keep cycling.”

The weather was lovely on Wednesday and I went for a swim in the sea with my friend who swims in the sea every day of the year. She has several pairs of magic little bootees which fool your body into thinking it’s not going to be unbelievably cold. I am a big fan. I think I might buy my own for summer time swimming which would look stupid but do I even care anymore? It was lovely swimming – yes really – and then we went for lunch afterwards.

We went to Wicklow overnight with the in-laws. Of the younger generation, only Michael and the youngest cousin (6) came but they both seemed to have a good time. Daniel was home alone for the first time. Delighted.

It was lovely to see everyone and my only regret was the bank holiday traffic which was horrendous. In fairness Wicklow (the garden of Ireland as it styles itself) was looking pretty good.

My sister was in Dublin for the weekend and came to dinner last night. It was great to see her. To my absolute horror I realised that her birthday is coming up in November and somehow, in all of the other excitement, I am not as on top of her present as I might be. Never mind, there’s still time. She filled me in on her extensive building works – she’s moved out until Christmas at least. Terrifying.

Today Mr. Waffle and I cycled to Howth, stopping off for breakfast on the way. I raced him back – I wanted to cycle and he was going to get the suburban train, the DART which allows you to bring your bike on board on bank holidays. I got home first but, alas for him, he had to cycle as well as the DART was undergoing bank holiday Monday repairs. I feel that correct competition conditions were not observed. Howth was looking lovely although there was a woman photographing a rat sitting up and eating some fruit and nuts on the pier. “He’s only a baby and people keep leaving stuff out for him,” she explained. He looked very large for a baby, if you ask me.

I am fully decorated for Halloween tomorrow.

Although none of my decorations are as effective as those of my neighbours up the road who have impaled turnip heads on the spikes of their garden fence.

A busy week. What am I trying to avoid thinking about? Why the return to work tomorrow. It has been fantastic being off. I’ve been lucky to do it. And the job I’m going back to will be grand, I think. But currently this music is playing on repeat in my head. As the young people say, “If you know, you know.” Wish me luck.

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.

Mid Week Break

12 October, 2023
Posted in: Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Travel

Mr. Waffle and I found a blue book voucher on the bookshelves and decided to go away mid-week. The excitement. If you gave us the blue book voucher, I am really sorry because we have no idea who gave it to us.

We went to Hunter’s Hotel where we last stayed in January 2003 just before we moved to Brussels. The hotel is nice but the food was terrible then. My sister-in-law who I normally find very reliable on these matters said, “But it’s really improved in the intervening 20 years”. I regret to inform you that it has not. Still a lovely setting though and a good spot for afternoon tea or breakfast but definitely not for dinner.

And we went for a walk in Glendalough. All of the pines on the way up to the Spinc – which is a walk we sometimes do – have been cut down and replaced by native trees. I am sure it will be lovely in 20 years but at the moment the walk up is the abomination of desolation.

You win some you lose some. Still nice views from the monastic site:

and from the top.

And I am very excited about the mid-week break as a concept. I suppose this will dissipate when I return to the salt mines in the near future.

London

7 October, 2023
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

Saturday, August 26, 2023

We went back to the airport AGAIN. I’ll tell you this, I feel rather differently now about a flight of a mere 50 minutes.

We were travelling to London for our friends’ 25th wedding anniversary. Very generously they were putting us up at the Caledonian club which is where they were having their party. It is in a very salubrious part of London. We went out for a slightly pricey lunch and were pretty excited to see a statute of San Martín on the way.

Not to mention the Argentinian embassy or possibly residence. We pressed on and I bought a signed copy of the new Kate Atkinson book of short stories in Hatchard’s (which it turns out is now Waterstone’s, who knew?) – spoiler alert, a bit disappointing.

Thrillingly, on the way back, we passed the house of Chips Channon. I had read volume I of his diaries earlier in the year and bored everyone about it. He has a lot of content about 5 Belgrave Square and the Amalienburg dining room he installed at truly staggering expense.

I posted these pictures to the family group chat and they got the level of enthusiastic response you might expect. Herself did offer the information that that she was staying around the corner from us. Our paths did not in fact cross in London as we went to our assorted parties for different ages.

At our party, each anniversary guest had got a personalised letter from our hosts, welcoming us and saying how glad they were that we could come. They are setting a pretty high bar for future celebrations.

My expectations for dinner were quite low (club, big group) but the food was excellent. The evening was fantastic also. The guests were all about the same age, and it turned out, shared a lot of interests. Both Mr. Waffle and I knew loads of people there (always a formula for a good night out) but met loads of interesting new people as well. Our hosts had a quiz which was surprising but such good fun. There were a lot of academics present and one round was about who had written various books and articles. My favourite moment was the man who had forgotten that he had written some article and whose table hadn’t got the question right. I might just mention that my table won the quiz. Just saying.

Sunday, August 27, 2023

The following morning we had a sustaining breakfast at the club. Our hosts had arranged for anyone who was interested to go on a tour of Buckingham Palace which was nearby. I was interested (more grist to the mill for my children who say I have bootlicker tendencies) and Mr. Waffle tagged along as well. One of our hosts led the group to the Palace holding the tickets above his head and we all dutifully followed in his wake. I was quite impressed by the power of holding tickets in the air. People just let us through as a group and a policeman even cleared a path for the stragglers in the group to catch up. There was an unnerving moment when it looked like we might miss our slot due to the press of people admiring the changing of the guard, but a policewoman from Northern Ireland chivvied us through a gap.

Buckingham Palace was heaving but there is an audio guide and it’s all very well managed. They have an absolutely stunning art collection.

I enjoyed the trip very much and we had lunch in the garden café afterwards. What’s not to love? Mmm, lovely shoe leather, so tasty, so delicious.

Mr. Waffle said to me later in tones of horror, “Did you see how much the tickets were?” £33 apparently. I suppose King Charles needs the money. You could convert your day ticket into a season pass at the exit but since it’s only open for a month, you’d need to live in London to get value for it. It seems an odd way to manage things.

After lunch, Mr. Waffle and I peeled off to go to Hazlitt’s hotel where we had booked ourselves an extra night. Very nice.

I was quite struck by how clean the streets of Soho were. I mean, how can Soho be cleaner than Dublin? The receptionist in the hotel was Italian and we had a little chat in Italian which I enjoyed. I was still in “io parlo Italiano” mode.

Monday, August 28, 2023

We went out for breakfast to a nice café. “Why are there so many people here when they should be at work?” I asked indignantly. Ah, it was a bank holiday in England. This makes the spotless streets of Soho even more impressive.

We had a very relaxed trip out to the airport and passed peacefully to our gate. There was a huge crowd from the last flight. “Poor souls,” I thought blithely, “there’s obviously some problem with their flight.” As time marched on, there was no sign of our flight being called. “I’m just going to ask someone at the gate what’s going on,” I said to Mr. Waffle.

I nabbed a man at the gate. “Your flight’s cancelled and it won’t be leaving today,” he said. “Nothing is leaving today, air traffic control is down all over the UK. Go back to arrivals and pick up your luggage.”

I scurried back to Mr. Waffle and told him the news, urging him to speed along so we could beat the inevitable queue at the Aer Lingus desk. “But there’s nothing on the monitor,” he quibbled. This was the greatest test of our marriage. “Do you trust me?” I asked. Notwithstanding his belief that I might well have misunderstood and that there were no notifications on the monitor or anywhere else, he got up and followed me. Ladies and gentlemen, a triumph for trust.

He went into baggage reclaim to get our luggage back and I pressed on back to departures to see whether I could rebook our flight or find out what was going on. It was beginning to get a bit chaotic; people were in big queues trying to check in; no sign of anyone on an Aer Lingus desk. Eventually a woman in Aer Lingus kit, stood up and addressed the milling hordes. “Go home, nothing is flying out today, Aer Lingus will contact you by text with alternative arrangements.” I managed to re-book us in to Hazlitt’s, it’s an ill wind etc.

Meanwhile, Mr. Waffle was trying and failing to find our luggage. “Ask someone,” I said firmly on the phone. “But there’s no point,” said he. I insisted, he did and he was pointed to a big pile of luggage in the corner including ours. It was my day of triumph.

We went back into Hazlitt’s and then contacted Mr. Waffle’s sister.

One of the things I like about her is that she is a very calm person and never seems to get annoyed; she reminds me a lot of my mother-in-law. We had told her that we would be in London but our schedule was too busy to see her but now we wanted to spend the afternoon with her. “Come round,” she said cheerfully. And we had a very pleasant afternoon in the sunny suburbs of North London. And they made us cake.

She and her husband gave us two excellent recommendations as well: go to Zedel’s for dinner and take the Elizabeth line to Heathrow in the morning. Zedel’s was great (unprepossessing at street level with an amazing dining room underground) and the Elizabeth Line (around the corner from our hotel) was the business.

By late that evening, however, we had received no word from Aer Lingus. I rang the help desk after dinner and didn’t really expect to get through at 10 on a Monday night but I did eventually and they stuck us on a flight at 10 in the morning.

Tuesday, August 29, 2023

Can I again recommend the Elizabeth line? So shiny, so new, so handy. We had breakfast at the Perfectionist cafe in Heathrow. Quite a hard name to live up to, particularly in an airport, but actually, in fairness, pretty good, though pricey.

The flight home was painless and that was that.

I put in a claim to Aer Lingus subsequently and to my absolute amazement and with a minimum of paperwork they paid for Hazlitt’s (not cheap), Zedel’s (only cheap if you go for the prix fixe menu, we did not) and even the Perfectionist café. Chapeau. Delighted with Aer Lingus. Will I fly Aer Lingus again? You betcha. Just, ideally, not anytime soon. I’d like to stay home for a while.

Argentina- Part 8 – Are we there yet?

30 September, 2023
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Saturday 19 August, 2023

The kids refused to come on a tour of the suburbs of BA. Their loss as San Isidro is an absolutely beautiful suburb.

We then went on a boat ride on the delta which I loved. Mr. Waffle thought it was a bit like a tour for the elderly and was unconvinced, but I am clearly leaning in to what, I suppose, I will have to call late middle age. The only negative element was the loud commentary in English, Spanish and Portuguese (there was a large, blingy Brazilian group onboard clearly driving the Argentinians bananas).

The delta is enormous and very attractive with its own infrastructure including water boats which pick up from your own jetty on the side of the water by your house and a supermarket boat that delivers your groceries.

There were numerous rowing clubs including “the Jewish”. It turns out Argentina has a big Jewish population of about 250,000. Who knew? A lot of these clubs were built in the early 20th century when Argentina was really rich and the world was keen on very elaborate club houses.

There was a museum to Sarmiento who was a 19th century president. The whole house is preserved in a special glass case. You heard me.

This upmarket area is the political base of Massa the economy minister. I asked our guide why she thought people were voting for Massa as the economy is, well, in some difficulty. Until that moment she had seemed very like me: same kind of age, children in college, husband in nice professional job, cousin who was an engineer who had emigrated to the south side of Dublin (small world – she gave us some alfajores to bring back to Ireland for him), similar slightly wishy washy views, appalled by hearing that some of her children’s friends had voted for Milei. This question, however, unleashed her inner fascist. “All the people getting social welfare money vote for him,” she said indignantly. “I know that in Europe, these people can’t vote in elections, but here they can.” We hastened to clarify that absolutely, in Europe, people in receipt of benefits from the State can vote and Mr. Waffle began talking about economic versus social and political rights but she was having none of it. “I am sure that this is the case in Norway anyhow,” she said firmly. We were absolutely baffled. Why would she think this about Norway of all places?

And then, she told us, the universities, which are free and apparently very good are “overrun with foreigners”. “What percentage of students are foreigners?” I asked. 4% apparently. It all made me feel a bit nervous about Argentina’s squeezed middle.

I tried to draw her out a bit on the relationship with Spain. It was like I was speaking a third language that she was incapable of understanding. “We are Spanish,” she explained. “But you got independence from Spain, you had a revolution, how does this affect the relationship?” I asked. I tried to draw parallels with the complexity of the Irish-English relationship but she was having none of it. She explained that one of the Argentine revolutionaries was Spanish “from Spain” she clarified. Yes, I understood but that doesn’t mean that there would be no Argentine bad feeling towards Spain. She looked at me, nonplussed. I was pretty baffled myself. I gave up. They love the Spanish.

When we got back on shore we had a look at some local markets which specialised in wicker; very attractive but, sadly, nobody was going to be bringing baskets back to Ireland.

On the way back into town our guide pointed out thousands slum buildings right against the motorway built there, quite obviously, in breach of all regulations. A bit depressing.

We got back at lunch time to an empty apartment. Very alarming. Mr.Waffle reckoned the children had gone to lunch and we should too. We went around the corner to the Pain Quotidien and, to our amusement, herself and Michael were ensconced. But where was Daniel? There was a slightly Jesus in the temple moment (I thought he was with you). Then I sprinted back round to the apartment where he was, in fact, still in bed. The relief.

That afternoon, herself had expressed an interest in going to the Malba art gallery. I would totally recommend. We taxied there and back (living like oligarchs approximately €2 each way – little “Las Malvinas son Argentinas” posters on the back of the headrests).

It’s a modern art gallery which I thought I didn’t love but after here and the Met in New York, I am beginning to reconsider. I quite enjoyed pointing out to Michael that he and this character have similar eyebrow action.

I was quite taken with this large work.

Corinne had suggested booking us a nice dinner towards the end of our stay and this was the night. It was a steak restaurant called Don Julio. When we arrived there were queues round the block but, at this point, you will be as unsurprised as we were that we were speedily accommodated leaving those whose lives were not organised by Corinne to weep and gnash their teeth in the outer darkness. Dinner was, hands down, the nicest meal we had in Argentina. We mostly like our steak rare and had learnt the word “jugosa”. This was the first time it was really as desired. The chimichurri (arguably Argentina’s greatest food invention) was excellent but so, more surprisingly, were the vegetables. We reminisced a bit about our trip and just had a lovely time. We were under heaters outside. It was quite pleasant but there were blankets. Mr. Waffle drew a comparison between me and Queen Maeve on the old Irish pound note. He is still alive, you will be pleased to hear.

Sunday, 20 August, 2023

Up again at 6 am to get the ferry to Uruguay which is only across the river. The ferry port was like the airport with security, passport, immigration and, most excitingly, passport stamps. Speaking of stamps Mr. Waffle was muttering anxiously about stamps and said, “Uruguay is a functioning country, I’ll get stamps there.” On a Sunday? I think not.

Herself stayed behind and initially, I thought this was a huge mistake. Spoiler alert: it was not a huge mistake. On the ferry, a nice purser let me go and have a look around first class. It was a bit underwhelming but I remain surprised that Corinne countenanced coach class for her charges. It was quite a short ferry trip – only just over an hour.

When we arrived, there were many ads encouraging Argentinians to buy property in Uruguay which seems to be a thing.

Our guide and driver picked us up and gave us a tour of Colonia del Sacramento which is a cute small town fought over by the Spanish and Portuguese and with architecture from both. Observe the Spanish v Portuguese streets.

Its big business is entertaining tourists from BA. It has a bit of a seaside village feel.

Then we had a lovely lunch and a couple of hours to wander on our own. All very pleasant.

We were dropped back to the ferry port for 3.30 and then to our absolute horror, our ferry was delayed by two hours. Honestly we had seen absolutely everything Colonia had to offer. We went for a desultory look at a local market but our hearts weren’t in it. We had tea and looked at the internet a bit. Inter alia, I logged on to the library app to see if the book I’d ordered had arrived. It had. The library app also managed to tell me that I was very far from home.

It was hours before we got back and then there were very long passport queues. Our driver was dutifully waiting for us in BA but it was 9.30 before we got home. Our saintly firstborn had dinner ready for the weary voyagers which was a highlight.

Monday, August 21, 2023

It was our last day. To celebrate, nobody got up before 10 am. In a signature move, we went to the Pain Quotidien for breakfast.

While Mr. Waffle snorted in disdain, on the way home I asked the man in the kiosk selling papers whether he had stamps. He only had the ones we had from the private courier company. “Where on earth do you post those?” I asked. He indicated a small discreet cardboard box at knee height. So, we posted our postcards, and if you got one, you’d better be grateful because it wasn’t easy.

We went to La Biela for lunch which was nearby and was a famous spot where all of the motor racing greats hung out back in the day (Argentina is big in the motor racing world). Crucially, from our point of view, we were all able to get something we liked for lunch.

That afternoon, Corinne came to our Airbnb to meet us. I was a bit dubious but, in person, I found her very warm and really lovely; and also the person most likely to be interested in our Argentinian adventures. She had only that morning flown in from Yerevan (but of course) where she and her son had been participating in the world Armenian games (who knew?), but was not to be deterred in her plan to see us. She presented us with a cactus and silver framed family photo of us up in the mountains near Salta. I was genuinely thrilled. What a nice gift. What a service! If you or someone you know is going to Argentina, let me know, I will pass on her details, you will not be disappointed but possibly plan for more downtime.

Then it was time for the airbnb checkout which was very thorough. I felt our host (who did not come himself but sent two young women to inspect) was not really psychologically ready to let out on Airbnb; he loved his (admittedly beautiful) apartment too much. I had thought he must be an architect because there were loads of architectural books about but the young women said no, he was a footballers’ agent. Honestly, he seemed much too sensitive and worried to be anyone’s agent for anything.

And then, our driver picked us up for the last time and we arrived at the airport. Daniel was very excited to see a Hard Rock Café but herself couldn’t face it and he said, quite bitterly, “I suppose it will be Ron’s Kale again.” They have different tastes, though herself introduced us to her airport motto “Always be Grazing” and stocked up to ensure that she could live that particular dream. Unrelated, but she had spent the summer unsuccessfully trying to read a tome on Spinoza and was disturbed to recognise his face on the front of some Spanish book in the airport; a sign, she felt, that they had spent too much time together.

We left BA to fly to Miami at about 9 in the evening BA time. It’s a nine-hour flight to Miami, yes nine hours, you read that right; you will remember Argentina is very far away. Mr. Waffle had sprung for seats together (let us not speak of the cost) which was a considerable improvement on the way out but still it was grim.

Tuesday August 22, 2023

We arrived in Miami at the crack of dawn US time, maybe 6 in the morning. My concerns about US immigration were misplaced and we flew through in about 45 minutes. Some profiling occurred as people took one look at us and tried to put us through the US citizens’ channel but we were steadfast in refusing and they shook their heads at our idiocy.

Breakfast in Miami was pretty grim. I mean actual breakfast was fine but we were all flattened and the kids dozed in their seats. We left for Philadelphia at about 8.30. You have questions? Do you know how much it costs to fly five people half way around the world? Well, anyway, this was the cheapest route but I would be lying if I didn’t say I was really regretting it.

We got into Philadelphia about midday. We booked ourselves into one of those airport shower things and all came out cleaner and marginally more cheerful.

I had a Philadelphia cheesesteak for lunch and, I’ll tell you what, nicer than you might think but I noticed that all the people pictured on the walls enjoying their cheesesteaks were pretty large. I have to say that dinner in BA breakfast in Miami and lunch in Philadelphia is not at all as glamorous as I would have thought. In fairness to Philadelphia, it’s a nice airport but it’s not somewhere I would necessarily choose to spend six hours.

We got on our six hour hop to Ireland that evening. There was a time, late July, when I would have thought six hours was a very long flight but not anymore.

I was sitting beside some nice older Americans who were going to Ireland for a week. Their first stop was Cork. “When are you going to Cork?” I asked innocently. “Oh,” said the enthusiastic Texan lady, we’ve got a car booked and we’re going to drive there when we arrive in Dublin. It’s only three hours. Maybe we will go to this Kinsale place you were recommending this afternoon. Honest to God, it’s no wonder they’re a superpower.

Wednesday August 23, 2023

We got home at 5am. As we were in the taxi from the airport, Dan got a message inviting him to a GAA match that very evening. Incredibly, he was keen.

We had a quiet day, we slept, we unpacked. I had some mate at home – still revolting.

That evening Dan cycled up to his match. I got a call from one of the trainers about an hour later. “We think Dan has dislocated his shoulder.” The GAA continues in its mission to ruin our lives. We brought him to the clinic, he was sore but not too bad and he was also starving. I went to a burger place across the road called the “Hog and Heifer” to ask if they did take away. Their gimmick as you cross the threshold is that an alarming moo sounds. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I think anyone would concede that I was fragile and not up to being loudly mooed at. However, they did do takeaway. I told the man that I was in the clinic across the road and would come back but shortly afterwards he turned up at the door of the clinic, burger in hand. A very gratifying touch. Dan had his x-ray. Not dislocated but not quite right either – endless physio to follow but at least we could go home.

My sister called, “I didn’t want to tell you before but you are Aunty Pat’s executor.” My cup runneth over.