Monday September 1, 2025

At the crack of dawn, Mr Waffle took the bus to Lidl to pick up the car. On the way back (what a time to be alive, driving the car), he decided to drive to the Monoprix – a slightly more upmarket offering. Exceptionnelment, the Monoprix was not opening until 10. Well, of course. Then the car started flashing an alarming message on the roundabout that there was some kind of breakdown; though it was still going, so Mr. Waffle (rather gingerly) took it home.

“We’d better ring the car hire people,” said I. We did. They seemed indifferent to our plight. “Did you take a photo of the notice?” asked the bored young woman on the phone. “No because I was driving the car,” said Mr. Waffle. “Well, take a photo and send it to us next time,” she said. Not the kind of customer service I was hoping for from Thrifty. We delved deep into the bowels of reddit France and various threads seemed to indicate that this issue was not a fatal problem so, with some trepidation we packed everyone into the car to drive to Bordeaux.

Time was a bit tight because Herself was doing some tutoring and the last service for the restaurant she had found for us was 1.30 but we got there. The car park we had selected (round the block twice because we missed it the first time) did indeed have a charger but we couldn’t get it to work because there was no internet access down in the centre of the earth where our car was residing (Michael found the wifi code in the car park on our return, I don’t want to talk about it). We abandoned and trotted to the restaurant at speed. It was around then that I realised that I had left my glasses back at the house and Mr. Waffle would have to drive back again. A slightly inauspicious beginning to our Bordeaux adventure.

However, from there on out, things improved. Herself had found a nice middle eastern restaurant for us (Kedem, if you find yourself in Bordeaux, recommended) and we all relaxed over lunch. I learnt two unrelated factlets over lunch: (i) France has banned smoking on the beach and (ii) everyone of a certain age in England is on Ozempic or equivalent. I was quite shocked by the latter discovery. “But not everyone is obese,” I said in horror. “Obese is thinner than you think,” said herself in what I can only describe as a marked manner.

After lunch we went to the cathedral which was grand (big church, you know yourself) and also provided some shelter from the rain.

I have to relate that two of my three grown up children failed to bring anoraks to France. They were damp but they were cheerful.

They are very proud of their theatre in Bordeaux. Very nice from the outside but I cannot say what it is like inside as it is, alas, “fermé lundi”

We went for a fancy cup of tea in the Intercontinental to assuage our grief (also, it was there, it was raining again). All of us got lost in the extraordinarily labyrinthine route to the bathroom but other than that it was pretty satisfactory.

We went on to the Place de la Bourse which is very impressive.

Overall, weather notwithstanding, I found Bordeaux a delightful place to stroll around. It’s small but not too small and quite grand in places.

We went to the Musée des Beaux Arts. It was a lovely size and I really enjoyed wandering around. There were some very nice works which I had to peer at rather closely. I truly mourned my forgotten glasses. I always say of regional art galleries that they have first rate pictures by second rate artists and second rate pictures by first rate artists. That is a bit unfair but it’s not totally unfair. Often the better works, in my view are works by local artists you’ve never heard of rather than works by better known artists. Here are some things I enjoyed.

I like to change my whatsapp icon – drives the children crazy – and I found a picture which I regard as my best find to date for this purpose. Some sub-David artist (Pierre-Narcisse Guérin) who was previously unknown to me and, I’m going to call it, probably to lots of people but good fun all the same.

Honestly, it was an extremely successful day. Saintly Mr Waffle drove us home again and, after some difficulty, I picked up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. I left the others in the car and ran in, the man stacking shelves said, “Madame, I have no idea what you want.” This is trying when you quite fancy your abilities in French. The charcuterie guy was got out from the back and eventually produced a roast chicken already divided up – beggars can’t be choosers.

Tuesday September 2, 2025

Mr. Waffle went to charge the car. He’d downloaded a new app and was full of hope; there were electric charging stations in the campsite only a short walk from our house. The campsite, alas, were firm, charging was only open to campsite residents.

Mr. Waffle rang some app to see whether their car charging networks were operational in Arcachon. They were but the mobile app was only downloadable by residents of 6 countries (including New Zealand) but not, sadly, Ireland.

We took ourselves to the pool out front and spent a happy afternoon playing a game called Marco Polo which herself had introduced to us. This is the kind of cultural product from abroad that we need.

The house was in a pine forest. Most of Arcachon is in a pine forest planted in steep sand dunes. This was why they made a ski slope from pine needles near our house. Sadly, it closed in the 1970s but you have to admire human inventiveness. Can’t imagine it would have been very good for your skis.

A friend of Mr. Waffle’s sister in London is actually from Arcachon and also Scotland and she gave us a number of excellent recommendations. I enjoyed the pleasing phrasing of her messages. Would we be travelling to the “wee towns” around Arcachon? Anyway we took ourselves to one of her recommended restaurants and – get this – we had a great result for car charging. We found a parking place right by the restaurant, the app worked, the car charged and went from 54 to 86 % over dinner. Living the electric dream. Dinner was fine too, not that anyone really cared when we had successfully charged the car.

The faces of people who have triumphed in the car charging lottery.

Wednesday September 3, 2025

After our success on bikes in Île de Ré, I was desperate to get bikes again in Arcachon. This was unsuccessful despite reasonable cycle lanes. Firstly we rented bikes from the campsite up the road and unlike the bikes in Île de Ré, these were just absolutely terrible bikes poorly maintained and not great to start with; secondly, and perhaps more significantly, Arcachon is built on sand dunes and everywhere you went it was steeply uphill and steeply down. I honestly didn’t think you could build on sand (biblical sources indicate that it is problematic, you will recall), but you really can.

The whole town was built in the 19th century and the architecture is pretty consistent. It reminds me of a lot of other places with significant art nouveau housing stock like Brussels (Mr. Waffle observed that in the rain it was a bit like holidaying in Tervuren, a middle class suburb of Brussels) or Riga or the Grunewald in Berlin, the difference being that this was a whole town rather than parts of a larger city.

Anyhow, moving on from architecture, myself and two of the children had a very successful beach trip. Everyone was a bit grumpy on the 15 minute cycle there but when we got there, the Plage Pereire did not disappoint.

We had a lovely swim and we bonded over seeing a French man run along the (happily emptyish) beach at extraordinarily impressive speeds. He went from a standing start and managed to secure his escaping beach umbrella before it took anyone out.

We had lunch at a bar on the beach recommended by our Franco-Scot looking across the bay to Cap Ferrat. Was I winning at life? Oh yes I was.

We joined the other pair in town and, after a restorative drink and some shopping, went home.

I had a swim in the early evening and a mosquito bit me between the eyes. It gave a kind of weirdly Botox wrinkle removing effect but, on balance, I was against. Of course no one gets mosquito bites like herself and she spent the week swelling up like a balloon despite all modern medicine could do to help her.

After dinner we watched “Persuasion” with Dakota Johnson on Netflix. It’s the weirdest rendition I have ever seen but “Persuasion” is my least favourite Jane Austen novel so, whatever as they say, but worth watching for the sheer oddness of the experience. Not everyone is convinced.

Spending time with my children gave me a chance to try to find out about popular memes and what the young people are saying. Are you familiar with “No cap”? Apparently it means “really, no really, it’s true”. Various memes were explained to me – micro trend final boss anyone? My absolute favourite is “They don’t know I’m…” Basically it’s where someone is apart from the group and looking down on them – “There they all are chatting away but they don’t know I am [an expert in middle English/Superman/whatever you’re having yourself].” I see a lot of this in the wild. The children say I have not understood this properly so do not take me as your guide.

Thursday September 4, 2025

I took herself for breakfast in town and we found a man to fix her phone which had been presumed dead after a lengthy dip the previous day. We rejoiced. We went to the charcuterie in the market and bought a whole lasagna. A large very nice lasagna carefully wrapped and presented. It cost €72. I nearly died but was too embarrassed not to pay. It was nice and all but what? [I bought a rug recently – a terrible mistake, more anon possibly – it wasn’t super dear for a rug but it was €300 down the drain – “Only 4 and a bit lasagnas,” said middle child cheerfully.]

The biggest attraction locally is a big sand dune known as the Dune du Pilat. Don’t laugh, I have the fridge magnet to prove it. It was actually surprisingly impressive and, happily, not very hard to climb. Herself stayed at home but the others came and amused themselves by running up and down to the top while Mr. Waffle and I traipsed up the steps.

Despite the impression the artfully taken snaps above may give, the place was full of tourists. I am lost in awe for the marketing that made us all come out and look at a sand dune. A high sand dune but you know, a sand dune.

But on the plus side there was somewhere to get a cup of tea at the bottom which is definitely not a feature of every sand dune.

On the way home we tried to go for a swim but tensions were a bit high so we all just went home. Then myself and beach enthusiast middle child went to the beach for a swim. I regret to say that we took the car even though the bikes were right there and it was not far. There was something about those hills that was just quite off putting. Herself observed at one point as I was plugging the bikes “They’re like mechanical dogs that you have to take for a walk.” There was a lot of walking because those hills were steep. The local authorities seemed to be slightly anti-bike but the hills were honestly doing a lot of that work for them.

That evening we watched “Everything Everywhere All at Once” which is a confusing film. About half way through I got a call from my cousin that my aunt had died. She was in her 90s and had been in a nursing home for a number of years so it wasn’t exactly unexpected but I felt very sorry for my cousin who is one of the kindest, gentlest people I know. He’s a quintessential bachelor farmer and himself and his mother lived together almost all of his life. I went back to the film but it’s really not one to watch with something else on your mind.

I was on tenterhooks about the funeral arrangements. Surely it would be Monday (crucially the day after we returned from holidays). Saturday was too soon and they never hold funerals on a Sunday. I consulted with my sister who was in Munich for the weekend and she agreed they would never have it on the Sunday. They don’t do funerals on a Sunday.

Friday September 5, 2025

Mr. Waffle, herself and I went on a walking tour of Arcachon. The town was founded as a resort in the 19th century for people with various maladies (including TB) to convalesce. There are a lot of big grand houses in the Ville d’Hiver.

My idea was that our tour would take us around the houses and tell us about them. This was not the guide’s idea. We spent a long time in one place hearing a lot of local history and only saw three houses. The guide who was undoubtedly very expert was a bit of a comedian. It was tiresome and, overall, not a success.

The face of someone who has enjoyed three hours of our local guide.

We went into town for a late and grumpy lunch. The death notice for my aunt went up on RIP.ie (that invaluable social resource) and I discovered that my aunt’s funeral was on the Sunday. Whoever heard of a funeral on a Sunday? Much logistical discussion followed. I finally booked myself on to a flight from Bordeaux to Cork for the following day. My sister was arranging her flight home from Munich at the same time as I was organising mine home from Bordeaux. She was flying into Dublin and we agreed that I would drive her car from Cork to the funeral in Limerick. She then would hire a car from Dublin, drive down with my brother who was staying in my house in Dublin and then she and my brother between them would drive her car and the hire car to Cork, dropping me off on the train to Dublin on the way (Luas to Sandyford anyone?). My poor family would be left behind and make their way back to La Rochelle for their own flight on Sunday. My mood was not improved by my brother telling me that I was crazy to come. I still feel guilty for missing my uncle’s funeral in 2008 so probably best to make the effort, I feel.

I was pretty mournful about bailing on my holiday a day early (unworthy, but there it is). I took myself home for a last swim in the lovely pool. As I was floating looking up at the pines and the blue sky, I heard Mr. Waffle whistling from across the road. I hauled myself out of the pool and there he was waiting cheerfully at the bus stop across the road to get the bus to collect the electric car. The bus to the car was such an integral part of our lives at this point that we had really stopped noticing how unsatisfactory that arrangement was but I did feel very grateful as I hopped back into the pool.

We went for a last lovely dinner by the seafront. It was lovely even though I insisted on eating outside and we were almost kippered by French cigarette smoke.

Saturday September 6, 2025

Middle child and I went out for a long deferred breakfast together. Michael – at my request – had prepared a tour of Arcachon which was, and I cannot stress this enough, far, far better than the official tour.

It did finish in the same place though.

Afterwards Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk around the local cemetery because that’s what I enjoy. And then back to the house for a last chat.

How would they manage without me on the drive back to La Rochelle and the flight back to Dublin? Spoiler alert: reader, they were absolutely fine despite another electric motor collapse which we finally managed to get on camera.

Mr. Waffle gave me a lift to the station and from the moment of my getting on the train to getting to the airport, literally nothing went wrong (the train had announcements in French, English and Spanish which I found a bit peculiar but why not?). Every connection was seamless and I got the earlier bus to the airport with no difficulty.

The trouble with building in lots of margin – I blame my father who was a big fan of this approach – is that you are very early, if nothing goes wrong. I arrived at Bordeaux airport with three hours to spare which, even by my standards, is a bit early. When bag drop finally opened I was behind a Cork couple who had inadvertently gone through security with their luggage, got to the gate, realised their mistake and had to come back out again; a challenging process I gathered from their bitter argument.

I don’t know when I last flew into the airport in Cork. It was appropriately rainy but it’s a small airport near the city and I actually arrived at my brother’s place, where I was staying overnight, before the plane was due to land which must be some kind of record.

Sunday September 7, 2025 – Definitely not Arcachon

I drove my sister’s partner (who alas does not drive) to the funeral in Limerick in my sister’s car. There were some mild stresses on the way including a road closure which google maps had no knowledge of and where we were thrown back on our own resources for directions (hopping out of the car at a junction and asking the driver behind) but we got there. Given that I had come from France, I had hoped to be on time for the funeral mass but it was not to be. I also had to make do with the wardrobe I had so I wore converse runners to the funeral; not a choice I would normally have made.

My cousin – the lovely bachelor farmer who lived with his mother – came up to the altar for the eulogy. He’s so shy and gentle, I felt this would be the worst thing in the world for him, wasn’t it bad enough that he had to bury his mother? But he was absolutely amazing: funny and poignant by turns as they say and really confident and engaging. And I learnt a lot about my aunt that I had never known before; her father had been injured in the first world war and her mother was ill and from her early teens she was a carer for both parents and her brothers and sisters. People didn’t really talk about first world war veterans in Ireland until pretty recently; it was in opposition to the narrative about the War of Independence and these poor men almost had to hide that they had fought in the army so in a way I am not surprised I had never hear this before.

I was talking to one of my other cousins after the mass and said I was surprised that the family had decided that this particular cousin would do the eulogy and then I was surprised by what a superb job he had done. His brother said, “No surprise there, he was a star of the debating team in school.” Who knew? Though it did explain why he began his eulogy with the words “Reverend father, ladies and gentlemen…” which I thought was a bit unusual.

My brother and sister didn’t make the mass but they made it to the graveyard where my aunt was being interred in the family plot. In something I had never seen before (although my cousins assured me that I had and in this very graveyard), the family filled in the grave with all of the children and grandchildren working away. I had a chance to chat with my cousins’ children and was slightly surprised to hear that the theoretical physicist’s middle child has gone off to be an apprentice electrician and is having the time of his life. Different branches of the same tree, I guess. I was quite charmed by his youngest child who is delightful. Her older sister is a very successful sportswoman and she was very droll and self-deprecating about trailing in her sister’s wake.

It was strange to see my male cousins suddenly as grizzled old men with grey hair (somehow the women seem to have aged differently?). But then we would start talking and they would just be themselves again. Another batch of cousins had come home from holidays in Albania for the funeral (loving Albania, thanks for asking, they went back the following Tuesday).

As always when I go to a funeral after considerable effort, I am horrified at the prospect in advance but really pleased I went afterwards. I think my cousins were glad to see me and now funerals are the main events at which I see extended family. I did enjoy seeing my relatives and catching up at the lunch after the funeral. I dutifully replied to everyone’s favourite question for me “Are you still above in Dublin?” “Yes, yes, I am.” But I enjoy the way the question holds out hope that I might one day escape.

My cousin’s farm is very close to where the Ryder Cup is being held and, it turns out, he is sitting on a goldmine. Another cousin pointed out that someone (whom he knew, how could one bear the shame?) was offering his house for €40,000 – yes, you read that correctly, feast your eyes on these outrageous rates – for the week and it is much further from the action than my cousin’s place. I still don’t think he’ll be putting it up for rent even though I think he might be so close he’s within some kind of security radius. His cattle need him.

Another cousin has a summer house on an island in West Cork and I was surprised to learn that she drives there regularly in her electric car. How can this work? “Is it range anxiety you had?” she asked me sympathetically when I said that I would never hire an electric car again. Where to begin?

My brother dropped me to the train station in Charleville after the lunch (about 7 in the evening, long lunch). I would have to say that the station ambience compared unfavourably to Arcachon where I had been, incredibly, only the previous day. Perhaps, it was down to the weather.

I was glad to get home that evening notwithstanding the ongoing painter chaos. My brother had already given me the deeply unwelcome news that the painter still working away in our house in Dublin so it wasn’t exactly a surprise but it was nonetheless unwelcome.

The painter, a taciturn man by nature, said to me at one point, “I think your cat hates me.” I think that is probably true. But honestly, we were all glad when he eventually finished.

When I was reunited with my loving family, I asked them about their journey. “Was it tense?” “No”. “Was Daddy cross?” “No”. My middle child offered the insight that Mr. Waffle and I were only stressed when travelling together and that each of us was calm when travelling alone with the children or as it was it more succinctly put “You guys are like bleach and ammonia; together you make mustard gas.” I see.

Oh, and our electric car charging card from the French was sitting on the hall table among the other exciting letters which had arrived in our absence.