belgianwaffle

Archives for February 2026

Burying the Lede


Posted in: Siblings

I went for lunch with my brother for his birthday. He was just back from his skiing holiday so I asked how it went. Himself and a bunch of guys from school plus one random Dubliner had gone together. A great time was had by all. Loads of snow. His friend W (with whom he shared a room in their accommodation) had insisted on a fancy hotel and my brother dwelt for some time on the waste of this when they would only be using it for sleeping. He’s not a big believer in a luxury hotel.

He hurt his knee on the last day (taken out by one of the more inexperienced skiers in the group who the other lads had taken on a black run, no one but himself to blame – though when he clarified that the injury was acquired by the guy skiing into him when getting off the chair lift I was v mildly sympathetic). Anyway you will be pleased to hear that it is much better now.

We chatted some more. We consumed lunch. Then he said, “You know your friend J from school?” Obviously I do. “Well her brother was on the trip.” “He was in the resort with his family and you saw him?” I asked. “No, he was on the trip with us, he was the year ahead of me in school and one of the guys in my year was friends with him.” I exclaimed over the amazing coincidence. “Did you talk about me and J at all?” “No,” said he. Fine. Pause. “I asked him whether he’d ever been over to Vermont (where she lives) to ski with her?” Fine.

We left the restaurant to walk back to our offices. He was limp free so my knee sympathy had entirely expired. “How did you find sharing a room with W anyway?” I asked just before we went our separate ways (I am a grown-up I no longer share rooms with my friends when we go away and I like it). “Oh well, it wasn’t for long, he got wiped out on the first day, broke his collar bone, went to the hospital and had two pins put in. I thought he’d stay on but he went home.” Was he stretchered down the mountain? He was. As he was being trussed up, my brother, the Job’s comforter, remembered an article I had read him from the local paper when I visited him in France a couple of years ago. This article was about a skier who had an accident on the slopes and was being skied back to safety by someone pushing a stretcher; as he was being taken down the mountain a skier took out the guy pushing the stretcher and the stretcher went flying down the mountain where it was finally stopped by some trees but having started with a simple broken leg the skier had much more serious injuries after this. And obviously trussed up like a chicken there was absolutely nothing he could do in his stretcher to halt its breakneck progress. Some people might have thought this wasn’t a great story to tell a friend about to be taken down the mountain to hospital in the exact same way but not my brother. I suppose they have been friends for well over 40 years so this won’t be the end of it but surely W was sorely tried.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that maybe a great time was not had by absolutely everyone.

Gloom, Gloomier, Gloomiest


Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

Last night herself called about 9pm from her job in the City in London where she was waiting for some data to come in – a regular 10.30 finish genuinely seems normal, she is resigned but she is not loving it; middle child was lying on the sofa suffering from a really bad dose of food poisoning (origins a mystery); and youngest child rang from his Erasmus destination to say that he is still stuck in the middle of nowhere and the speedy bus service he was promised remains illusory as the buses are all on strike. And it’s still raining.

Plumbing the Depths


Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

The washing machine broke a week ago last Tuesday. Bosch said it would take a week to send out a repairman. How could we last a week? We rang the plumber who said he could come the next day. He came. He said it would need a Bosch technician to repair it. He looked at our kitchen taps. A deeply unsatisfactory situation arose when the last plumber (now no longer on our books) came to look at the water pressure, broke the hot tap and replaced it with one that, ok, worked, but did not match the cold tap. A delightfully eclectic look. The new plumber said he could re-affix the old tap. Could he? Reader he could not. He said he would take it away with him and see if he could replace some element. He then replaced the non matching tap. For this, not entirely perfect, service he charged us €135.

I rang Bosch. They confirmed what was on the website, a technician could only be with us the following Tuesday. We washed by hand. Mr. Waffle, the youngest child and I went off for the bank holiday weekend (you will recall our new bank holiday on February 1 in honour of St. Bridget, a post-Covid reward for the people of Ireland) to set him up in university abroad where he will be spending a term under the Erasmus scheme. We left poor old middle child to fend without a dishwasher.

I must say, when we came back the house was spick and span but middle child had chosen to have six people around to dinner while we were away. That’s a lot of washing up to do by hand. The task was not rendered any easier by the replaced tap coming off (before it didn’t look great but at least it worked). Enterprising middle child had a pliers by the sink which was being used to turn on and off the hot tap. Again, I question our €135 expenditure on this.

The Bosch repair man came on Tuesday morning. He replaced a broken part and charged us €103 (labour and call out) plus €9 (parts). It works, I rejoice. This weekend Mr. Waffle and I are going to the plumbing shop to buy an entirely new kitchen tap set up. I can’t wait. You come here for the fascinating domestic logistics, I’m sure.

I am 102


Posted in: Travel, Work

I was having a cup of tea with some much younger colleagues the other day and one of them said, “Look at this lovely old music book my grandparents brought me at the weekend.” I had a look at the photo, “Oh Moore’s Melodies, how nice,” I said. “Who?” said the young people. “The Last Rose of Summer, Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms, The harp that once through Tara’s Hall?” I asked in growing alarm. Nothing. They hadn’t heard of Percy French either (for reasons I cannot explain – possibly because my mother used to sing both a bit – Thomas Moore’s work and Percy French’s sit in the same cabinet inside my head). I regarded the group aghast. A philosophical young man at the table pointed out it was horses for courses and said, “Anne, Wu Tang…?” “Clan,” I said proudly but given that they were formed in 1992, that is not quite the achievement it might have been. Had he chosen to mention any band at all formed after the children were born, it would have been a different story.

Anyway, my horror was as nothing compared to the security guard’s at the airport the weekend before last. As I went through the scanner she said to me, pointing at her younger colleague, “He’s never heard of John Wayne, tell him that’s crazy.” I obliged but I could tell that he thought we were crazy. Truly, it’s like being the elves going into the West.

No Favours Received etc.


Posted in: Princess, Reading etc.

I listen to a podcast called “As the Season Turns” which I enjoy in a mild way. It comes out on the first of every month and talks about what will happen over the month (nature wise not events). It’s sponsored by Ffern perfume and as I listened over the years I became more and more curious and eventually signed myself up to the “Ffern ledger” (I am alarmingly susceptible to advertising). I had to wait to get on the ledger, mind. Notions: queuing to buy something. But I did get on and eventually I was able to get my own barrel aged, small batch, whatever you’re having yourself, perfume made in Somerset. It comes with various small items and, unboxing, as I believe the expression is, is a joy. There’s also a short film every quarter. I don’t how much they pay the likes of Ruth Wilson and Bill Nighy for the slightly twee English material but there must be money in flogging stuff to me and my ilk.

I quite like the perfumes (they come quarterly on the 21st of the month) but to me they are heavy very adult scents like my mother used to wear. The first time I wore one, Herself said, “Is that your Ffern perfume – it smells very young!”. I guess everything is cyclical (insert your own joke here about the turning of the seasons).

Liège


Posted in: Belgium, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

Can I tell you how surprised I am that my youngest child decided he wanted to go on an Erasmus trip? He was adamant that he wanted to go to Belgium where he was born and francophone Belgium to boot. I would have loved if he had gone to Brussels but the only university his faculty had an arrangement with was Liège so he decided to go there.

The preparatory period was not without its alarms. He discovered quite late in the process that he would be having a lot of lectures in French and he needed a certificate confirming his level of French was sufficient. This certificate was available from the Alliance Française at considerable expense and the test was after the date he was due to arrive in Belgium. His university authorities gave him a cert with a stamp. “How did they know you spoke French?” I asked. “They didn’t,” he said. I am very grateful to them for their flexibility; not a distinguishing characteristic of university administrators when I was in college.

Anyway, he got there and the day rolled round at last for his departure.

Thursday, January 29

I was working from home and took a half day only as we were travelling in the afternoon. If I have learnt anything from this experience it is that it is a terrible idea to try to work the morning you are travelling. You’re welcome.

I left the house in a state of some anxiety. We had a late lunch in the airport at this place called Fallow which I know to be vile yet I keep falling for its menu descriptions. I had the worst burger I have every had in my life and I dropped ketchup on the only pair of trousers I had brought for the weekend. A great start.

When we arrived in the airport, the car hire man said that he had upgraded us to a jeep. I am not the biggest jeep fan but this was not the biggest jeep. It was also canary yellow. I noticed that everyone treated me with a lot more caution than when I drive my ancient station wagon at home. There is something about a canary yellow jeep that says don’t mess with me.

Saintly Mr. Waffle drove us to Liège which is about an hour from the airport. We had agonised quite a bit about where to stay in Liège. The main university campus is a 15/20 minute drive outside the city and in the end we thought that it would be good to stay near there so the Erasmus student could acclimatise to his new surroundings. Huge mistake. We were in the middle of nowhere. Which is also where the campus is. It’s basically out in the woods.

The airbnb when we got there was lovely. And delightfully cosy. But actually trying to find it nearly sent us to an early grave.

“Who stays here?” said Mr. Waffle when we got in. Who indeed?

I signed up to uber eats something I had resisted to then but when the devil drives etc. I have to say, it was extremely efficient if not totally delicious.

Friday, January 30, 2026

First things first, we went in to the city for breakfast in the Pain Quotidien and very satisfactory it was too.

Himself went off to a welcome day (highlight was a tour of the opera house – whatever floats your boat, I guess) and Mr. Waffle and I had the day to explore.

Liège is a curious place. It was run by a prince bishop for about eight hundred years. It has all of the infrastructure you might imagine for such a place including a truly spectacular bishop’s palace. After 1795, there was no prince bishop but the area and the city became an industrial power house. An English guy called Cockerill seems to have been the main mover in the industrial revolution and there are still ample signs of his presence in street names and so on. In the industrial 19th century they built an opera house and the like. The city still reflects the money that was there in the past but like many another industrial region the post-World War II era has been one of long slow decline and Liège is left with the grandeur of another era and not a lot of money at present as far as I can see. Beside the river are acres and acres of rusting factory buildings from its heyday which is not the most attractive riverside feature.

I am developing a theory that the more affluent a place, the more likely it is to have good cycling provision. I will tell you, you would take your life in your hands cycling in Liège and the car is king with parking spaces everywhere.

As it was a prince-bishopric, churches are big in Liège. The biggest of all, the cathedral was knocked down in the revolution. It was replaced by the next best church which is now the cathedral and quite impressive all the same.

There are seven collegiate churches and all, I am sure, are well worth a visit but we only visited one. It looked a bit down at heel but we had it ourselves. Please admire St. Denis and a positively disturbing Curé of Ars.

Damp seems to be a bit of a problem.

Although there was some spectacular woodwork.

There was an absolutely terrifying confession box. What kind of psychopath installed this?

We went to the tourist office which was large, well-staffed and well-stocked and empty except for ourselves (to be fair the end of January is not perhaps the best time to visit). The man behind the desk seemed genuinely delighted to see us and was very helpful. Their guidebooks and maps were extremely useful so off we went to explore further.

I took us to the Curtius museum which was large but a bit dull. Mr Curtius supplied weapons for the Spanish army so munitions were big. The art collection was limited but there were a couple of examples of the lactation of St. Bernard. You were not aware of that? Well, here’s a treat for you.

Separately, I quite enjoyed the tranquil expression on the woman’s face in this offering.

There was also a very sad memorial to the Jewish population of Liège who were murdered during World War II.

The big thing to see is 374 steps known as the Montagne de Buren. It gives a good view and is not as hard to climb as you might expect.

Better than that is the way back down the scenic narrow roads.

These lead to the extraordinarily vast bishop’s palace complex which is across from where the cathedral once stood and is still the administrative centre for the province of Liège and the seat of the courts. We poked around a bit. I was unsurprised to see that the authorities in their wisdom had set aside one of the courtyards for parking.

We also had a look at the city hall.

Simenon was a local boy and apparently he liked this part of town. I suppose I should have brought one of his books to read on his home turf but I was not able for a French novel on top of the logistical challenge of installing a child in another country.

We went for a sustaining cup of tea and had this slightly intimidating cat glare balefully at us.

After Michael finished up, we went hunting for dinner. We had neglected to book for dinner believing we could stroll in anywhere. Apparently the burghers of Liège are good at booking ahead; we could not stroll in anywhere. We had a quite revolting dinner in a Danish tavern. I do not want to speak of it.

Saturday, January 31

We had a late start which Mr. Waffle did not enjoy. Is it my fault that he is always up and about at the crack of dawn?

He and I went for a nice walk in the nearby wood while our child slept on. God almighty this place is in the middle of nowhere.

We went to the supermarket and laid in stocks for the youngest child to survive in a foreign land. We checked out the Sart Tilman campus and we found where his faculty was. The area was full of young scouts in shorts; I had forgotten this aspect of Belgian life but scouts are very prevalent in Belgium. Millions of young children supervised by a couple of supremely laid back teenagers. It works for them, I guess.

We went to inspect the newly built and newly opened accommodation. When we arrived there both of those adjectives seemed inaccurate. The young man on reception in the old building confirmed he had our student’s name on the list but when asked whether the new accommodation would be open on Monday when he was due to move in, the student receptionist laughed and said laconically, “I doubt it.” This was not calculated to reassure the student and his parents.

We went into the local (one horse) town to recuperate. Pleasant enough in its way but not exactly hopping with life.

We pushed on and went into Liège to find dinner. It wasn’t as bad as the night before but it was hardly a triumph. It was a matter of some regret to me that despite Belgium being the home to really excellent food we had mostly mediocre meals. Alas.

Sunday, February 1

I made us all go to a long and quite early mass in the cathedral. The mass was described as “Irlandais” but all of the hymns were new to us and mostly French (some Latin). I just am unsure that this makes it an Irish mass.

Anyhow it was St. Bridget’s day and my mother’s birthday so it was nice to get an Irish mass, however served.

The closing hymn was Prince of Egypt by Hans Zimmer. Again I have some questions about the designation of this mass as Irish.

After a sustaining breakfast at the Pain Quotidien (eat what you know) we took our beloved child for an obligatory visit to the Bishop’s Palace. He was exhausted after this cultural adventure and we took ourselves back to our accommodation to regroup.

Mr. Waffle and I being gluttons for punishment went back into town to go to the art gallery to see a Doisneau exhibition. This was really great though heaving. Mr. Waffle actually met Doisneau when he (Mr. Waffle) lived in Paris and has one of his pictures signed by him. I had his picture “Les Locataires” on my bedroom wall for years. I hadn’t realised but Doisneau had taken lots of photos in working class Parisian suburbs and industrial towns. Really interesting. And all of the rest of the stuff you might expect.

I loved loads of the photos.

After a sustaining cup of tea we tackled the permanent collection. This was charming and, mercifully, small.

The picture they seemed proudest of was of Napoleon in Liège by Ingres and why wouldn’t they be?

But there were loads of other very enjoyable pictures. Paul Delvaux is big.

And there was also a Picasso.

There was a big picture by Constantin Meunier – another Belgian artist – who specialises in men doing hard physical work.

We had dinner in a pizzeria. Again, to be honest, a bit of a disappointment but look dinner is dinner. And as Liège is under touristed everyone was very excited to hear we were Irish, something other European destinations have become distressingly jaded by.

Monday, February 2

With some trepidation we brought Michael to his accommodation. The builders were on the same corridor as he was, fixing stuff. A woman was frantically cleaning in their wake. But his room was available. We rejoiced.

There was no wifi for the room and no electricity for the appliances in the communal kitchen. The washing machine was coming. This hilarious message came from the authorities the day after he moved in.

Within two weeks he had wifi (2 days later), kitchen appliances (1 day later) and washing machines (full two weeks he had to go into Liège to a launderette something not rendered easier by the ongoing bus strike).

I have to say that I did not feel fantastic leaving him with these rather meagre resources in a small dark room (which he, rather tactlessly, pointed out was bigger than the box room he has at home- he is to move to the firstborn’s room on his return from Liège as I have, with great reluctance, accepted that she’s unlikely to live at home again).

On the way to the airport Mr Waffle and I stopped in the small hamlet near his rooms where I had identified a supermarket which he might use. It dealt exclusively in luxury goods – you know the kind of thing, one perfect carrot on a silk cushion. Shortly after we left he had to buy toothpaste there. I was a bit surprised they had toothpaste but not at all surprised to hear it cost him a tenner. Teething problems, I guess (ha!).

Mr. Waffle and I headed off gloomily to the airport; however, for reasons which are not entirely clear we had lounge access. I would recommend. We discussed our worries in quiet with vast quantities of free food and drink. Could have been worse.

Let’s hope the student loves it in the end.