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Norway Part 1

13 November, 2026 Leave a Comment
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Travel

I can’t believe I’m still on my summer holidays.

Saturday August 8

We left Sweden by train from the train station across the road from the hotel. The whole thing was a delight. There was no stress; the train station was immaculate the journey was lovely and we arrived in the centre of Oslo rather than a distant suburb.

And the views on the journey were amazing.

We went to tourist information in the station in Oslo where the lovely staff gave us an excellent lunch recommendation. It was our first exposure to Norwegian prices and although somewhat acclimatised to Nordic prices after our Swedish adventure it was still…exciting. I would add that a Scandinavian holiday may not be for you if you don’t like fish.

We went up on the opera house roof – a new build and one without the anxiety about health and safety that you find in many other European destinations. Quite slippery and not closed in winter when it is presumably even more slippery.

We went back to the station to collect our luggage. There were these slightly odd horse sculptures in the station; the public art budget is clearly not insignificant.

As a special indulgence to Mr. Waffle who is a big pubic transport fan we took the bus to our accommodation which turned out to be a grim basement flat despite the picture on the internet which looked like the picture below. I mean it did look like this but what is unclear is that it is underground and that there is a sad table in the corner of the room for eating your meals. Our initial positive impression of Oslo was somewhat dashed.

However, all was not lost, after more hunting than might be expected, we found a roof terrace on the garage which was also part of the deal and improved matters considerably.

We went out for essential supplies (it was important to stop converting prices to euros in our heads, no good would come of that). We went for a cup of tea in a local cafe and had a chat with an Argentinian waiter who was thinking of moving to Ireland.

That evening we were invited to dinner at the house of a Norwegian friend of Mr. Waffle’s. I was slightly dreading it but I loved it: she and her French husband were great and I got to ask all my Nordic questions (sample, “How do the other Nordics regard Norway?” Answer: “Like the slightly annoying feckless younger brother who has recently come into money.”) Also, weird, she has one sister who is also living in Oslo and married to a French man. When we got home, we sent them a thank you card. Not so unusual I would have thought but she texted to say thanks and she couldn’t remember when she had last got personal post. Clearly, everything is online in Norway.

Sunday August 9

We got a call from home to say that the dishwasher was broken. However, after some worrying it turned out that the water had been switched off (by workmen? who knows?) and the return of the water supply restored the dishwasher. Rejoice.

We took the 30 bus to the folk museum. Mr. Waffle was troubled by the 30 bus which appeared to go different ways at different times but I was happy to ride along admiring the neat surrounds of Oslo. August is back to school and the end of summer in the Nordics so it is always slightly melancholic compared to mainland Europe for an August holiday. But lads, so much more temperate.

As you know, I love a folk museum. My children call them the butter knife museums (guide intones, “here is the very butter knife they would have used in the 18th century”). Oslo did not disappoint in this regard.

But they also had models of some of the unusual buildings from around Norway including the stave church. My favourite was an apartment block that was decorated from different eras on different floors all the way back to the 19th century.

One of the things we discovered was that until at least World War II Norwegian dental health was appalling. They had a real sweet tooth these Norwegians and not a lot of money to deal with th consequences.

The Hotel in Gothenburg rang me – I had forgotten my belt, did I want them to post it to me? Sure, why not. In fact, my sister told me that Swedish hotels have some kind of internal system and if you leave something in hotel A in Gothenburg, they’ll get it to hotel B in Stockholm for you free of charge. I didn’t ask how much it would cost to send to Ireland. A mistake. Off they went about their business and Mr. Waffle and I went for a restorative bun.

From the Folk museum we were able to take a boat to the city centre which I rather enjoyed.

Poor Mr. Waffle was feeling a bit unwell so he went to the pharmacy and bought supplies. €20 for strepsils and paracetemol. He was even sicker. We wandered around the centre for a bit.

We went for a cup of tea in a rather unpleasant Starbucks type place. I asked for some butter with my scone and they appeared willing but baffled. They brought me this. Is butter not a thing in Norway?

We dutifully went to mass. Mr. Waffle made us arrive early and we got the rosary as well. I suppose he was the sick one but I assure you mass was quite long enough for me without adding in the rosary. It went on forever. All around the church there were stained glass images of weird Norwegian saints.

Saint Eystein anyone?

We went home by our new friend the 30 bus. The mystery of its route choices continued to baffle us. As Mr. Waffle was ill and we were not made of money we had pasta and pesto on the table in the bedroom for dinner. A low point.

Monday August 10

It was a beautiful day. We went to a swimming spot in nearby Huk. It was full of razor sharp oyster shells. In contrast to the Nanny State Swedes who warned me anxiously about oyster shells (didn’t encounter any) the fearless Norwegians saw no need for this kind of caution and I cut myself once and was pretty careful thereafter. I saw a jellyfish as well which was a bit of a surprise in Oslo. Mr. Waffle chose not to swim. His loss.

We took the bus back to folk museum for tea. At the bus stop, a woman with same bag from me said “snap!”. My experience of Norwegians was not that they were the greatest at casual engagement. This woman looked entirely Norwegian but yet…I said to her, “Yes, I got mine in the National Gallery in Dublin, where did you get yours?” Berlin but that didn’t matter because she was from Dublin – only up the road from where we live – and in fact her mother still lived there. She herself had lived in Oslo for 50 years and had two Norwegian sons and five Norwegian grandchildren. She asked where we were staying and she knew our Airbnb because her relatives had stayed there. We were just about to definitively establish some people we knew in common based on where she went to school when we had to hop off the bus.

After our restorative cup of tea, we went to the Fram museum which I enjoyed very much. Good visit if you’re interested in Arctic or Antarctic exploration. I was gratified to see that they had material on Shackleton. Hilariously, if you are Norwegian, it’s one panel per person at a time. I went and stood beside (not on top of) a Norwegian man reading a panel and he put his hand out in alarm and mild irritation to ward me off. A rugged, adventurous people with a strong desire for personal space. I can see why polar exploration was for them. Also, there’s apparently a phrase, “Norwegians are born with skis on their feet” which I imagine is useful also.

We had lunch in the museum cafe. My own spirit of adventure made me decide to try the famous Norwegian brown cheese. Not all adventures are necessarily successful.

After our success at the Fram museum we went to the Kon-Tiki raft museum across the road. This was very well done but to my mind a bit less interesting. In any case, it certainly contributes to the Norwegians as adventurers stereotype I was beginning to recognise. Perhaps I loved it less because while I was there I received a communication from the Swedish hotel that they had posted my belt and (I read this several times), I owed them 1120 crowns for the pleasure. This, gentle reader is €102.60. I rang them to check whether I could stop this but it was too late. This for a belt that, you know, was grand but which I bought for about a tenner on a work trip to Florence in 2014. For the remainder of the holiday, everything was priced in belt posting costs. “I could buy that jumper for the cost of three belt postings to Ireland”. That kind of thing.

And then, I chipped a tooth. No holiday abroad is now complete without a bit of a tooth coming off. It was, mercifully, invisible to the naked eye and I soldiered on and got it fixed when I came home but, really, this is a very trying phase.

We took the boat back into town.

We went and looked at a castle near the harbour which still seems to operate as a barracks. Rather thrillingly, a helicopter took off just over our heads. It was nice but there was nowhere to get tea. A real negative, I can tell you.

We found somewhere nearby and got tea and, fortified by this, got citi bikes and had a lovely cycle around the quaint streets of the old town. We also took in a graveyard which I always enjoy.

We then cycled back to near the harbour where I had booked a nice restaurant for dinner. The food scene in Oslo is very happening, I’ll have you know. As we returned our bikes, I looked at our destination across the road. Funny that it had said great views. It didn’t look like it would have great views. I double checked our booking and found that I had booked a restaurant with a similar but, crucially, different name that was miles away up in the hills (that view). At enormous (I can’t bear to think of it) expense we taxied up into the hills.

People, that was a good view. It was also a good dinner and formed a pleasant contrast to pasta and pesto in the bedroom which was what we had enjoyed the previous evening. Our enjoyment was very slightly marred by a large group of English speaking tech bros with opinions at a nearby table but into every life some rain must fall.

There was a lot of sculpture that I enjoyed in Oslo; here’s more of it from the restaurant grounds.

We took the tram home which was a mild thrill for Mr. Waffle who was recovering apace.

We spent the remainder of the evening at home me (the intellectual of the group) doing Sudoku and Mr. Waffle finishing off Mary Wollstonecraft’s letters from Scandinavia.

Tuesday August 11

I woke up sick as a dog with Mr. Waffle’s cold. We were up at the crack of dawn (7) to get the train to Fläm. A very young Polish taxi driver – who confided us that he had only moved to Oslo the previous month and would be going home for Christmas – got us to the station without incident.

Notwithstanding my enfeebled state, I was very much looking forward to the train journey which was supposed to be absolutely beautiful. I mean Norwegian train tickets cost a fortune and dealing with the app to book them nearly cost Mr. Waffle his sanity but it was totally going to be worth it.

Were we pleased to discover that there was no train and we would be travelling by replacement bus service? No we were not. I was RAGING. And even though the drive was actually quite nice and we saw two stave churches I, of course, kept thinking about the train journey we were missing.

Also, hard to blame Norwegian railways for this one but the granola I bought for breakfast didn’t come with a spoon and I had to improvise.

We were finally to change for the train at Geilo where the station was chilly but sunny, a bit like an alpine train station. Norwegian railway staff were quite spectacularly unhelpful and we all milled about in confusion on the platform. I ate my sandwich; my cold was killing me; I was furious. Mr. Waffle took this photo of me looking like a serial killer.

Anyway, we got on the train; everything was wonderful. We realised we would have 4 minutes for our connection which would be tight but the station where we had to change – Myrdal – was tiny. But then there was a “technical problem with the rail” in a tunnel. I despaired. The very elderly Danish couple who were sitting opposite also despaired. I worried that if I gave them my cold, they could both be carried off.

In fact, most of the train seemed to be changing at Myrdal. When we got there it was actually fine and the worst thing that happened was that Mr. Waffle ran into a colleague on the platform. Perfectly nice man but you know, nobody wants to be reminded of work on holidays.

The train ride to Flåm was utterly spectacular and worth all the hype. I really do recommend.

When we got to the hotel it was lovely. To be clear, it is the most expensive hotel we have ever stayed in in our lives and it was the standard of a grand three star.

But the Portuguese man on the desk gave us a warm welcome; the Norwegians are the most beautiful people in the world but, I would say, a bit chilly. I mean I know it’s all about a beauty standard but routinely, the woman behind the till, checking your train ticket, whatever, was one of the most breathtaking people you had ever seen in your life. Not great on small talk though in my experience. Truthful and not prone to exaggeration however, if they say a train ride is spectacular, it is.

I took myself to bed. I had a restorative nap and some paracetamol and finished off the last of the 12 pack of paper handkerchiefs I had acquired. Mr. Waffle went for a stroll and a drink at the bar where he ran into his colleague. Of course

Flåm is exceptionally touristy,

but in a beautiful setting.

I dragged myself from my sick bed and had the best ever fish and chips for my dinner. Hard to know whether this was because I was ravenous or because the fish was fresh from the fjord. It was almost certainly the most expensive fish and chips ever.

Wednesday August 12

I woke up feeling so sick. I dragged myself to breakfast. We had a boat trip booked and I was determined to go. So very often with these things you realise that, in retrospect, you should have stayed in bed and no matter how good something is, if you’re really ill you won’t enjoy it.

However, this was not one of those occasions. Little though I knew it at breakfast, the worst was, in fact, over and I recovered further in the course of what is hands down, easily the most amazing boat trip I have ever had. The fjords are beautiful. The Norwegians were not lying. All the photos I took look a bit samey but, trust me here, it is quite different and jaw-droppingly beautiful.

Your not entirely well, but happy, correspondent smiles for the camera.

We had lunch in a mining town. It ‘s on the fjord and very beautiful but there is a mine there and boats loading this material, which apparently is popular in kitchens, and large lorries rumbling in and out. It was a bit incongrous and slightly depressing. Though we did see a boat which had recently been in Derry; presumably Northern Ireland’s kitchen worktop needs are met.

We walked out to see what was billed as a “war memorial”. It was a bit hard to find and it turned out to be the local German observation post which, I suppose, is a war memorial but not quite what we had in mind.

When we got back to Flåm, I felt well enough to walk to a waterfall outside the town. No one was more surprised than me by this development as the previous day, I thought I might be carried off.

As we were panting up the hill there was a French family from Marseille with two small children one of whom insisted on being carried by his mother. It was 42 degrees in Marseille they told us. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to see the south of France in summer again which is depressing in its own way.

When we arrived at the waterfall there was a large group from India (extended family group, I would guess) dominating the waterfall and all its views. I was enraged. In the photo below, imagine a large talkative group immediately to my left and my right.

I will say that they seemed a lot less obsessed with personal space and a lot better at talking than the Norwegians. Herself says I am an ethnic essentialist but there is nothing like living in Brussels to confirm your belief in all national stereotypes and I am clearly still recovering from that experience.

I bought a new anorak in one of the many tourist shops in the town. I was served by a Brazilian. Most of the staff were seasonal workers from other places. Like many touristy places, actual locals were in short supply. I’d say you’d find them in winter. My coat seemed really cheap because I had adapted to Norway. It was only when I got home that I realised how expensive it was ( two belts sent home from Sweden). Look, it has a Norwegian flag.

Thursday August 13

We wake up to see that a cruise ship has docked. I would say that it makes the view from the balcony in the hotel bedroom a bit less good.

We hired bikes and had the most beautiful, if somewhat steep, cycle up to a place called Otternes which was once a small village but is now a sort of small open museum.

We went to an exhibition about the Flåmsbana. If I may summarise, the railway itself is an engineering miracle and the English milords had a huge role as the first tourists everywhere as far as I can see. I did not expect to find English 19th century aristos in their yachts as the key people in the development of Flåm as a tourist spot but so it appears.

Everyone in Norway speaks English as a matter of course. Mr. Waffle made some efforts in Norwegian following his duolingo immersion but I made none- shame. In my defence, Norwegian is complicated with more dialects than you can shake a stick at. One of the things that the great command of English means is that museums don’t seem to bother running things by native speakers. I was very tickled by this description of the Huldra as “The most common mythical creature in the valley”. In case you didn’t know, it looks like a beautiful human (more beautiful than a Norwegian, how?) but has a cow’s tail.

Then we got the the Flåmsbana up to the junction with the main line where we were due to catch the train to Bergen. We enjoyed the start of the trip but then the train stopped for ages. Would we miss our train to Bergen? We would not. It waited for us. The ticket inspector was getting on the Bergen train, something that would have set our minds at rest, had we but known it.

Train delays notwithstanding, the trip to Flåm was amazing and I would love, love, love to go back and see more of the fjords. Once I have recovered financially from my first trip to see the fjords.

The train journey to Bergen is also spectacular. And the train was not replaced by a bus.

We arrived into Bergen, the wettest city in Europe. It was very wet.

After we found our Airbnb we discovered, to our horror, that there was no washing machine. After a cup of tea and a trip to the supermarket and some tramping around in the rain we found Messrs Clean Coco and loaded our laundry in.

We went back to the Airbnb and Mr. Waffle nobly volunteered to go back and fetch the laundry when it was due to be done. Meanwhile, it was my job to find somewhere for us to dine in Bergen. He went and he was gone ages. I could not find a restaurant to feed us; everywhere seemed to be fully booked. When Mr. Waffle came back he had our laundry but he was gloomy; he said he’d been waiting for ages and some kind of battle had taken place over dryers and it was all very grim. He said the general environment put him in mind of that Edward Hopper picture of the diner. Was he delighted when I said that I had been unable to find somewhere to have dinner? Look, anyhow, I found a Vietnamese take away around the corner from the studenty zone we were staying in and it saved our bacon. And we had clean laundry.

Stay with us for Norway part 2 and see how things develop for our intrepid adventurers in Bergen.

Sweden

30 October, 2026 Leave a Comment
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

Did you think you weren’t getting full summer holiday details as it is nearly November? Think again.

Tuesday August 4, 2026

Herself joined us for the first leg of our trip. We flew from Dublin to Stockholm and ran like the wind for our connection to Gothenburg. We sent herself on ahead to hold the plane. It was unnecessary. When we panted up to the gate there were a lot of Swedes standing around (socially distanced unlike Irish punters who are always crushed together in a queue the second boarding is announced) and no one seemed particularly rushed. To celebrate our good fortune when we got to the airport in Gothenburg we took a taxi from airport. €73 to the city centre. We should have got the bus. We were as yet unused to Nordic prices and it stung us.

Our hotel was a delightful place called Hotel Eggers in the city centre and I loved it. It had electricity and everything.

While the hotel was very central, there were extensive works on the square outside. Mr. Waffle said that perhaps Gothenburg was like Chicago where there are two seasons: winter and construction. Herself made the very insightful comment that whenever we go somewhere the locals always say, “Welcome to our beautiful city – it is so unfortunate that you arrived for just these two weeks of works.” She never said a truer word.

We ventured out for a stroll taking in the botanical gardens (quite like our own) and a walk along the Ramblas of Gothenburg (v unlike the Ramblas). We had an unremarkable but acceptable dinner in an old fashioned restaurant (food wasn’t a total high point of this holiday). Herself tried to get a drink and they asked for ID. “It’s a €5,000 fine for us, if you’re underage” said the waiter, “And I’m not prepared to take the risk.” Salutary.

Herself had read Mary Wollstonecraft’s Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark in preparation for the trip and was able to give us a number of – perhaps not entirely current – insights. We all took against that bounder Gilbert Imlay, I can tell you. Anyhow, Mary Wollstonecraft was very down on the bad air of Gothenburg and I have to say that it was a bit close and the city had been built on a marsh (like Cork) but herself said the Georgians were obsessed with bad air and we could probably ignore it. I’m not so sure, Mary might have had something there.

Exhausted from our initial bout of touristing we went early to bed.

Wednesday August 5, 2026

We had a very nice breakfast in the hotel, if you like herring. As it happens, I am very fond of herring.

We then schlepped up to the castle mound which gave a nice view of the city but was not maybe very impressive in and of itself. Has a big crown on the top though, so there’s that.

As a treat to Mr. Waffle who is a big fan of public transport we got the tram back into town. Herself had identified a cafe called Brogyllen as a good spot for an afternoon tea. I can, unhesitatingly recommend it, if you find yourself in need of a cup of tea in Gothenburg. I had the Princess Torte and you should too. I was charmed to see the link to Princess Astrid of Belgium; who knew?

The city is full of canals and waterways, so I was unsurprised to hear that the Dutch had had a role in its development. It is also a little confusing for the tourist as you are never beside the body of water that you think you are. However, we successfully navigated our way to Magasinsgaten and environs which was full of trendy shops including – something that I think was unknown in my youth – many, many smart second hand clothes shops. This was a feature on our Nordic odyssey. You have to hand it to these guys, they are all about sustainability. Herself was thrilled. I went into a non-secondhand touristy shop and tried on a jumper which I liked but €320, am I made of money?

We went back to the hotel via a lovely food market and then collapsed after our endeavours. Still, like diligent tourists we went out again for our dinner to a Japanese spot near the harbour; grand.

Thursday August 6, 2026

Poor Mr. Waffle got news that a friend of his had died. I knew her a bit too – she was a lovely woman from the year behind me in college. It was a glum start to the day.

Things did not improve as we went on a walking tour of the city in driving rain (Mr. Waffle kindly gave me his coat as I had left mine in the hotel in the optimistic and entirely mistaken view that the rain would hold off). The walking tour was only alright really – although we did get to see a statue of the man who introduced the potato to Sweden so that was something – and when we met herself for lunch we were a bit down and bedraggled.

Things improved, however. We went to the fish market for a very nice lunch – you just have to start ignoring the prices; no good can come from changing them into euro.

In the afternoon we went to the art gallery. It was great. What an amazing collection for a small regional gallery; loads of artists, I knew. I loved it. My big discovery was Carl Larsson of whom I had never heard before but whose work I absolutely loved.

What a delight.

Somewhere in the exhibition they referred to Pomperipossa as an example of an allegory as though that was something totally obvious. There’s a lot to unpack there and if you are interested in Sweden or Astrid Lindgren, I recommend further research.

We emerged gasping for a cup of tea. We ended up in the cafe in the public library. I was thrilled by this as an idea but the execution left a little to be desired.

We got the tram back to the hotel. We were going in the direction of a place called Angered and when there was a little trouble about finding the tram stop one of the wittier members of the party commented that we were “swift to Angered”.

A friend of my sister’s who lives in Gothenburg had recommended an Iranian place for dinner which was grand but quite a schlep from town. As we went out we began to panic that the restaurant would be full; closed; or unfindable. None of these fears materialised but it was a tense time.

Friday August 7, 2026

Herself was leaving us and we wouldn’t see her again before she packed up her bags in London and emigrated to America; did I tell you, gentle readers, that she will be pursuing a PhD programme even further across the water than England? Well, she will. Her hard-hearted mother was inclined to see her off from the bus station (around the corner) but her father said we should go out to see her off from the airport so we did. It was pretty sad. Last sight of our emigrant.

She loved London so much, she was a bit ambivalent about going to America herself which made it harder (spoiler alert – she loves America and is having a brilliant time). When she went to college in England aged 18 she skipped off without a backward glance and although I was sad, the fact that she was so happy (and, I suppose also, quite near) made it much more bearable.

She met an English friend of a friend to talk about doing a PhD in America after studying in England and this guy said, “Honestly, I felt like a young boy from the Peloponnese going to Athens”. I guess America is a big player. “Still,” she said, “I’ll miss my Peloponnese salted fish.”

To recover from our gloomy early morning we went to a nice cafe for a cup of tea and a cinnamon bun. All of the cafe and hotel workers wear uniforms which is something I think we had in Ireland in the 70s but not in a long, long time. We were chatting to one of the staff and she said that Gothenburg was full of Norwegians looking for a bargain. This did not fill me with optimism re Norwegian prices as I couldn’t call Gothenburg cheap.

We went out to the archipelago in the afternoon. You can go by public transport and it is a delight. I cannot recommend it highly enough as a way to cheer up after your eldest child has emigrated to another continent. I swam.

It was very beautiful and pretty empty of tourists.

We went for lunch in a place called Knutssons where they had an extraordinarily healthy basil plant.

As well as…grapes. Surprising.

A book of Swedish sayings told us that “Sailing in on a shrimp sandwich” means everything is going well. Observe, I sail in on a shrimp sandwich.

Having got solar panels ourselves last year, I was on the look out for panels in Sweden but there were very few. It seems all their power comes from hydro-electricity. Who knew?

Stay tuned for the next installment when our intrepid adventurers will be in Norway.

Bank Holiday Weekend Round Up

26 October, 2026 4 Comments
Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins

It’s been quiet here as we hung around the house and tended to middle child. Honestly, I would not wish wisdom tooth extraction on my worst enemy. Not only are you sore and swollen but you can’t close your mouth and you can’t really eat anything but soup. The mood is poor and no wonder. I do hope the worst is nearly over.

Mr. Waffle and I left the house for a mild excursion to the Botanic gardens yesterday. They did good pumpkin work, in fairness.

In view of the improving patient, we went on a slightly longer expedition today to Carlingford, always a favourite of mine. Mr. Waffle was against as the forecast wasn’t great but I urged him to toss caution aside; a mistake I have made more than once.

As we arrived into Carlingford we could see that it was sunny across the fjord in Northern Ireland.

Not very sunny but sunnier than on the mountain we were proposing to climb.

Mr. Waffle remembered some Ulster Unionist slogan along the lines of “We will not exchange the sunny skies of Ulster for the mists and rains of the Republic.” As I said to him, it’s hard to argue with the evidence of your own eyes.

It was damp, no two ways about it but the walk was nice all the same.

We had a light picnic lunch beside some nervous sheep, saving ourselves for a more elaborate lunch in lovely Strandfield later (no website apparently, they don’t need any more custom, honestly, it’s always full).

Of course, on the way home the sun came out. It was beautifully sunny. Like it was when we were in Kilmainham a couple of weeks ago.

I mean, you could be in France.

And it was lovely when we went to Massey’s estate in the Dublin mountains.

And, my goodness, when we walked out to the Poolbeg lighthouse in late September, it was like summer.

I don’t know how it is but I always seem to catch the rain in Carlingford. This is a longstanding problem. Never mind, it’s lovely all the same.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil

23 October, 2026 2 Comments
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

Mr. Waffle had a terrible cold. Both children who are at home got nasty colds. The child in America has the flu. My sister came and stayed; she had a nasty cold. Do you know who hasn’t got a cold? That’s right, me. Even though I couldn’t get the flu jab as they are short of vaccines. Have I tempted fate? I’ll keep you posted.

In other health related news, middle child had two lower wisdom teeth extracted on Wednesday. That is quite the operation and to add insult to injury, the leaflet that got sent home described this as “minor oral surgery”. Methinks not, the child is still very sore and miserable and unable to eat anything but soup. My brother who stayed with us last night and always likes to add to the gaiety of nation took one look at the sufferer’s vastly swollen jaw and said, “You look like Buzz Lightyear”. Oh dear.

It’s Decorative Gourd Season*

18 October, 2026 5 Comments
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

I acquired my gourds and I put them outside. I stepped backwards to admire my work and fell off the step, twisted my ankle and landed on my bottom. You will be pleased to hear that there was no lasting injury other than to my dignity.

*May I yet again recommend this article?

Funereal

12 October, 2026
Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Siblings

I went to a friend from college’s mother’s funeral in Cork last Thursday. I was humming and hawing a bit but in the end I went. I only had internal meetings on Thursday so easier to take the day off and I benefited from the universal social assumption in Ireland that a certain amount of funeral attendance is essential. I said I was going, everyone sympathised and that was that.

I met another friend for lunch the day before and laid out my thinking for him and he said, “You spend your life agonising about whether to go to funerals.” It is, I fear, entirely true.

I headed down on Thursday morning and became filled with fear that after all that, the train might be late and I would miss the mass. No such tragedy occurred. Though there was a mild difficulty with my train ticket which appeared to indicate that I had not paid for it. I had. But while trying to resolve this difficulty the train inspector asked whether I was entitled to free travel. The earliest age at which this is available is 66. Bitter.

I arrived in – I brought my bike on the train and, of course, it was lashing in Cork (it always rains in Cork). I arrived early to the mass which was good as it gave me a chance to dry out a bit.

My friend spoke about her mother before mass began and did an amazing job; funny and moving and it gave a real sense of what her mother was like. There was a single male singer and he was very good (the deceased was 96 and a bit and so traditional numbers were largely the order of the day – “Abide with me” what’s not to like?). Funerals usually happen within 3-4 days of death so, as someone once observed to me, it’s like organising a wedding in a week. I did wonder where my friend had got the singer. At communion we had “Panis Angelicus” which is a firm favourite of a mutual friend of mine and the daughter of the deceased. In fact, he sang it at my wedding. Light began to dawn and on my way back down from communion, I spotted him in the organ loft.

After mass there was a certain amount of milling about outside. A woman I hadn’t seen since we were in college together was giving out about cycle lanes saying no one used them so I informed her tartly that I had used them to get here. The cycling activist never sleeps. Most of the people who had come down from Dublin were heading back but I was staying in Cork overnight and my singing friend was around for the afternoon. Having done our duty we decided not to go to the cemetery and the meal afterwards but to go into town for lunch ourselves.

More than 30 years ago we worked together on the South Mall in Cork – he was my boss – and, nostalgically, we went to the Quay co-op a vegetarian restaurant we had frequented in those far off days. It was 2.30 and I felt it would serve us. I was right about that. The premises are unchanged though now it has a new name.

I regret to say that the food was quite dreadful. I am not sure whether it was always dreadful and I have grown more discerning or whether it has become dreadful. It was nevertheless a nice spot to be in on a rainy Thursday and they let us stay as long as we liked which was all afternoon. We talked about our lives; how much we miss our dead mothers (it was appropriate); and his plans for an eclipse party in Spain in August next year (will I die from the heat or should I go?)

An old friend of mine says that, for her, Cork is full of ghosts. I know what she means. I haven’t lived in Cork since the early 90s and almost all of my parents’ generation are dead and gone; the buildings are changed; the world has moved on and I am somehow still part of the past. It’s always bitter-sweet to go home.

I stayed with my brother and we went out for a very nice dinner together (Orso, if you find yourself looking for somewhere) which made up for the terrible lunch. Then we called into my sister who had been unable to join us for dinner due to an, in my view, unwarranted dedication to Pilates. She made us desert and brought down the last of the family silver to divvy up. I have decided that on the divvying she should have first choice as she cleared out the parents’ house and was closely involved in caring for them when they got ill; my brother should have second choice as he also cared for my parents; and I should be last as I did least up in my fastness in Dublin. She had already picked her stuff. My brother picked out a number of things that I was happy to let him have (silver ashtray with a Waterford cut crystal inset anyone? yet another of great uncle Tommy’s golf trophies from Douglas golf club – I already somehow have two from an earlier distribution, he was clearly a demon on the fairways in the 1920s) but I was sorry to see the enormous solid silver tray which great uncle Jack got when he retired head off to my brother. On the other hand, it weighed a ton so, really, what was I going to use it for; I would have collapsed under the weight if I actually tried to put anything on it. Somewhat against my better judgement I took an Edwardian octagonal sugar caster; matching salt and pepper shakers; a mustard pot; a milk jug and sugar bowl; and a canteen of cutlery – fish knives and forks. I drew the line at two further canteens of cutlery (I already have over half a dozen which must be more than many small museums for God’s sake) as did my brother, so my sister will have to dispose of them as she thinks fit.

The next day I spent the morning disporting myself alone in Cork and I had a lovely, lovely time. I went to the Nano Nagle centre for breakfast. Great spot. I felt a distinct regret that I hadn’t taken us there for lunch the previous day but, on the other hand, they would have thrown us out at 4 whereas I think we could have stayed in the Quay Co-op all night had we so wished.

The Crawford art gallery is sadly, closed for renovations (until 2029 possibly?) so instead of art, I chose commerce and went to the shops which was satisfactory in its own way.

I went into the Market to buy dinner. It’s got much more upmarket since I used to go there with my mother in the 70s and 80s but “Superfruit” where she always got her fruit and vegetables remains determinedly downmarket and absolutely unchanged. I bought some green beans there and very nice they were too. I decided to go to Ashley O’Neill – my mother’s butcher – but his spot has been taken over by the butcher from next door. Mr. Next Door got my business and raised an eyebrow at the mention of Ashley O’Neill; clearly gone some time. My mother’s fishmonger must be gone 25 years and more but somehow when he shut down we ended up with a slab of marble from his stall; a sharp knife with M&E Sheehan written on it; and what I believe is called a receipt spike with the company name on the bottom. I ended up with the receipt spike something I have no use for. I keep it, inexplicably, on the dressing table. I guess it might be useful in the event of burglar attack? Even Mr. Sheehan’s replacement seems to be gone and his stand in the Market is empty. Sic transit.

I had loads of time to my train so I queued up for lunch in the Farmgate cafe upstairs in the Market chatting to a nice party of Americans waiting patiently for a table (five is just an awkward number). I got seated well before them and ordered at my leisure and read my book. All was right with the world.

Then, I looked at my watch and somehow it was 2.55. And my train was leaving at 3.25. I flew back to my brother’s house making a new land speed record of just over 5 minutes. I didn’t even know that was possible. I picked up my stuff which was not as packed as it might have been and flew to the train station. 15 minutes. Another record. I arrived sweating profusely and five minutes before departure. The train was full to the gills and, of course, the reservation system had broken down but what cared I, I was on. All in all, a successful trip and a triumphant bicycle ride to the finish.