We climbed the Sugar Loaf during the week. Due to my legendary sense of direction, it took us two tense hours to complete the one hour journey there. If I never see the ludicrously named hamlets of Stepaside, Kilgobbin and Scalp again, it will not be too soon.
Lovely views from the top though.
And, I managed to get us home in under an hour, notwithstanding rush hour traffic, so that was something. It would be churlish to point out that the climb up and down only took about 90 minutes. Sigh.
The Princess was very keen to go to Cork for the weekend alone. With some trepidation, we sent our precious 12 year old off last weekend. I really thought there wasn’t much possibility for disaster. She’s a train veteran and it was a non-stop train, how bad could it be?
Well, on the way down, there was a drunken man in her carriage announcing loudly and intimidatingly that he had just been released from Mountjoy (Dublin’s largest prison). The staff were called but they went away again when he sat down and my poor 12 year old was petrified. Not helped by a six year old running up and down the carriage telling the man he was drunk; some kind of altercation ensued between the mother and the drunken ex-prisoner and the mother and six year old (who had been sitting opposite herself) hightailed it out of the carriage. Herself was terrified and wouldn’t talk to me on the phone in case “he would hear”; I was hearing this blow by blow by text message. I was very upset for her. Mercifully, a kind, saintly midwife sitting nearby asked the Princess whether she was travelling alone and suggested that she sit in beside her for the remainder of the journey which she did, very gratefully.
After the initial trauma, her weekend in Cork was terrific but it would be useless to deny that she approached the train ride back with some trepidation. She met the midwife again in the same carriage so that was a relief to her but they were the only two people in the carriage. One of the staff sat down opposite herself and asked was she travelling alone. She said that she was and he pointed out that every other seat in the carriage was reserved for Dublin supporters who would be getting on in Thurles and they might be a bit rough. Would she like, he asked, to move to first class. She would like. “What about the midwife?” I asked. “I waved to her as I went past,” said she. She travelled back to Dublin in first class. “I am never going back,” she said to me firmly. We’ll have to see about that now.
So, hats off to Iarnród Éireann for prompt action on the return journey but, alas, for the outward journey. Still, I think she is prepared to go on the train alone again, provided that she can travel first class.
We got married 14 years ago yesterday on the only fine Saturday in 2001. And we’re still married. Pretty good going.
Herself: That story about the labourers is really unfair.
Me: Mmm, my granny always hated the one about Martha and Mary. She used to say that Jesus would have got cranky fast enough if someone wasn’t bringing him a sandwich and a cup of tea or the biblical middle east equivalent.
Herself: And how about the prodigal son, how is that fair?
Me: Well, I suppose the prodigal son and the labourers are parables…
Her: Oh come on, God needs to start accepting some constructive criticism.
We came back to Dublin on Thursday, July 16. The cat was delighted to see us back.
That night, the boys and I went to the opening night of the IFI family festival where we saw “Inside Out”. As it was the opening night, they had various competitions and events for the children. As they went around the stalls, Michael was given a stage pass. Before the film started, the children with stage passes were called up to the front. Michael loves this kind of thing and bounded up. There were four other children onstage. They had to do a little piece where they answered “sausage” or “banana” to every question asked. The other children were nervous and almost inaudible. Michael was in his element and had the audience rolling in the aisles. He got awarded the winning prize of the “golden banana” and I have worked out what he can do when he grows up. A win all round.
In fact, it was afterwards I was most pleased. Michael might have been tempted to boast but he hardly referred to his triumph because he felt for Daniel who hadn’t won a prize. Daniel for his part was sad that he shouldn’t have been chosen to go on stage and didn’t win a prize but bravely congratulated Michael and was pleased for him.
We went back to the festival on Saturday with all of the children and a friend (tickets, incidentally fantastic value at €15 for a family and €5 for an individual). We saw a terrific German language film, Winnetou’s Son. It was very sparsely attended which was brilliant for our little group as the star of the film was there with his mother and in the Q and A, they got to ask him loads of questions. He was a lovely, immensely polite child and he posed cheerfully for pictures afterwards:
Added bonus, Michael was yet again exposed to the advantage of speaking foreign languages. The star was 11 and didn’t really speak English. Mr. Waffle and I speak German (he’s much better than me but I like to talk more so it kind of evens out) so we were able to chat to the star and his mother which Michael could see was useful loath though he might have been to admit it.
Then we went to the closing film. It was a Norwegian film with beautiful cinematography. When I hear the words “beautiful cinematography” I always think, “rotten film”. The film wasn’t bad, it’s about three children who get stranded in the Arctic through a series of deeply improbable events, but for this once, the cinematography really did make the film for me. It was one of the most stunningly beautiful films to look at. The children found it reasonably enjoyable; the main characters are an older sister and her annoying twin siblings and this resonated particularly with some of the family, less so with others. Michael, for example, doesn’t want to see another film, possibly ever, certainly not for some months.
Saturday, July 11
We left Kerry behind us and drove to Cork. Mr. Waffle, alas, had to return to Dublin so it was just the four of us. We were in Cork by lunchtime where, for consistency, it was lashing. My brother took the children into the library for the afternoon. New books, new rain; it was all excitement.
Sunday, July 12
At mass, we had my favourite priest. He is now Michael’s favourite priest too. He is reverent, he doesn’t rush matters, he gives a good sermon and that Sunday, notwithstanding the fact that there was a choir, mass was finished 28 minutes after it started.
I remain convinced that the health of the Catholic church in an area is inversely proportionate to the length of Sunday mass. This explains why, for example, in Godless Dublin our mass is always nearly an hour.
In the afternoon we went to Fitzgerald’s park to go to the playground. For their own inscrutable reasons the city fathers have chosen to do up the playground in July. So, it was closed.
I am sure it will be terrific when it re-opens but, you know, sub-optimal for the moment. In the absence of the playground we went to the city museum. A poor substitute. It’s a good little museum with lots of interesting (if occasionally slightly random) exhibits but the troops were not in the mood for it.
Even the recreation of the WW1 trenches failed to spark their interest.
So we went to find the ice cream van and bounce on what is known as the Shaky Bridge (officially Daly’s bridge). Even this failed to cheer the troops. Daniel who doesn’t like ice cream (I know!) was particularly uncheered.
All that was left for us to do was return to my parents’ house and play with electronic devices with a vengeance.
Monday, July 13
Determined to make up for the previous day’s lack of success, I took the children to Milano’s for lunch. Joy was unconfined. As ever, I decided to push my luck afterwards and take them on the UCC George Boole tour. It’s mostly a UCC tour. And though the guide was knowledgeable and friendly, and there were a couple of costumed characters, it was pitched just wrong for us. For me, with an intimate knowledge of UCC, there was very little I didn’t know already and quite a lot I could have added; for the children, it was too much and too boring and too long. I could see that the tourists were entranced but it just didn’t work for us. For me the highlight was getting into the observatory where I had never been before; for the children, it was the costumed characters but, by the end, I think that all of the goodwill generated by the pizza was exhausted.
Tuesday, July 14
Michael did not feel well so, leaving him to the tender mercies of his grandfather, his brother and sister and I walked into the market to buy materials for lunch and ingredients for a cake for my aunt. My aunt, who lives next door to my parents, turned 86 on June 21 and after much logistical discussion we were having a birthday dinner for her that night. Herself had undertaken to make a marble cake for the event.
On the way back, I pointed out to the children a historical plaque on one of the houses (my poor children, how they suffer). It said “Professor Simpson who first synthesised succinic acid lived here”. “I wonder,” said herself, “did he have a lisp.” Perhaps you had to be there, but it was the funniest thing I heard all week.
In the afternoon, herself went next door to visit my aunt and came back with an emergency change of plan. Apparently, my aunt doesn’t like marble cake; resourceful child, she made lemon cake instead. Dinner itself passed off very well with only some slight difficulties as follows: 1. My brother, sister and I having concocted this between us, forgot to tell the birthday girl until the last moment, she was able to come all the same; 2. Having accidentally omitted to tell my father, he was convinced that it was a Bastille day celebration (he always celebrates July 14 being a Francophile and a republican – non-violent branch) and, as he is a little hard of hearing, it needed several stage whispers before he understood that it was a belated birthday dinner for his sister and he returned wistfully to the Bastille theme several times over dinner.
Wednesday, July 15
I seized the day. The weather forecast said it was to be sunny and by mid-morning we were in Kinsale on our usual forced march to Charles Fort. It was really lovely, even the children seemed to enjoy it. It made a great change from the rain.
As we walked back to Summercove to have lunch in the Bulman, I got to make the standard remark which is nonetheless true, “Ireland is the best country in the world for holidays when the weather is fine.”
Favourite sign on the walk:
When, we got back to the car, it was still sunny. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go to Garretstown beach. If there is a problem with Cork (which is, of course, denied) it’s that you have to drive out of the city for a good hour to get to a nice beach. It was sunny, we were already in Kinsale, the beach was nearby, we were fed and the beach gear, by happy coincidence, was in the car, so off we went. It was magic. The sun shone, the sea was warm (compared to Kerry, not compared to the Mediterranean), there were waves but not too high. We all loved it and came back to Cork sandy and happy.
Join us for our next installment, when our heros return to Dublin.