Family

La RentrÃ©e – France Part – 1

4 September, 2016
Posted in: Family, Travel

Hello cruel world. We’re back from our French holiday and, as you can see from the title, my pretensions remain intact. Reentry to the world of school and work has been a bit exhausting and I will relay this in tedious detail in due course but first up the annual blow-by-blow account of our summer holiday.

Sunday 31 July

The drive to the ferry was uneventful. We stopped for the, now traditional, meal of chips and Yorkshire pudding. Mmm, I know.

Due to late booking, one of our cabins on the ferry was three star rather than two star. It had a window and a mini-bar. That’s all it takes. The children, who had never encountered a mini-bar before, were very taken with it.

Monday 1 August

During the 5 hour drive from Cherbourg to Quimper in Brittany, we had ample opportunity to regret the new seating arrangements in the back. As Herself has grown taller, it’s not practicable to put her in the seat in the boot, so Michael was there and she and Daniel shared the back seat. This did not work well. A new, larger car is now on our list of desired purchases.

Tuesday, 2 August

We swapped houses with a retired French couple. Their house was large and modern about 15 minutes by car from the centre of Quimper. It was set in about an acre; it was beautifully maintained and what they thought of our garden, I shudder to think. As ever in Brittany, the garden had a lot of hydrangeas and also a perfectly maintained vegetable garden with an ample stock of, inter alia, courgettes. I have to tell you that if I never saw another courgette, I wouldn’t care.

That Tuesday, our first full day in France, dawned damp. To their great chagrin, we dragged the children into Quimper in the afternoon and made them look at the cathedral and the Breton dancing outside.

Happily, our hosts had a subscription to Ouest France and every morning it arrived in the letterbox giving details of local events which would fill our children’s hearts with joy. It also gave death notices. I do love a good death notice (is this odd?). Bretons live long great-grandchildren filled lives.

Wednesday, 3 August

In an effort to divide and conquer the Princess and I went into Quimper in the morning while Mr. Waffle and the boys stayed at the house. This was moderately successful and she and I enjoyed lunch and wandering the quaint streets of the old town etc. We lunched overlooking the river and I commented to Herself that there were a lot of fish in the river (there were) and wasn’t it odd that that white one seemed to be tying to swim upstream unsuccessfully when all the others were going downstream. “That’s a plastic bag trapped under a rock, Mum.” Truly, middle age is full of indignities.

That evening in an effort to ingratiate ourselves with our children, we went to the funfair outside the town. It worked.

That afternoon, I had opened a cupboard in the French people’s house to find a towel and this is what met my startled gaze. I hope and pray that they never opened our hot press. I suspect not as we returned to find it in the state we left it while the toolbox had been meticulously reorganised (they fixed a number of minor snags around our house for their own obscure reasons – whatever the reasons, it was a very welcome development). Are everyone’s presses like this?

Hands up, if you iron your sheets.

Thursday, 4 August

Mr. Waffle and I made a daring expedition to the MusÃ©e des Beaux Arts leaving the children alone in the house. Aside from the mild feelings of guilt, it was excellent all round. The local gallery had a lovely regional collection in its own right and was also hosting an exhibition of self-portraits from the MusÃ©e D’Orsay. Insert here some hand wringing about the quality of galleries and museums in Ireland in small regional towns which compares poorly with the equivalent offering in France. The children relaxed at home.

That afternoon we inspected a babysitter who was going to mind our precious children while we went out to dinner. She was only 16 so she brought her father to inspect us. We gave them some courgettes and she told us that her rate was a very reasonable â‚¬8 an hour and we struck a deal for the following evening.

That evening Herself made us mussels for dinner with crÃªpes for dessert. We had splashed out on a crÃªpe frying pan and associated wooden utensils and we were keen for her to test them out. Frankly, money well spent.

Friday 5 August

This was our first day to visit the beach. We went to BÃ©nodet which is an appealing little town. The beach is always a bit challenging because Daniel and Mr. Waffle don’t like it, Michael is mildly in favour and the Princess and I love it. So, it’s all about compromise and brief dips rather than lengthy stays.

To help Daniel, in particular, recover from the trauma of going to the beach, we went to a campsite/outdoor entertainment spot where they offered a zipwire and sundry ancillary attractions including a long groundsheet covered in water and soap along which the children sped on their stomachs. More entertaining than it sounds.

That night, leaving the children in the care of Manon, the French teenager, we took ourselves off to Pont Aven for dinner in a lovely restaurant where we have been before. We were celebrating our wedding anniversary and the sale of the old house and being on holidays.

When we got home, all was well and we went to pay the 16 year old babysitter â‚¬32 for the four hours she had held the fort. There had been a misunderstanding, she intended a price of â‚¬8 per hour per child which is standard in France. I have had a lot of babysitters in France and this is not standard. People, that was â‚¬24 an hour so â‚¬96 for the night making it the most expensive babysitting we have ever had; this for a teenager who lives at home with her parents in a regional French town. And it’s not like the children are hard to mind at this stage; they read their books, they put themselves to bed. I was fit to be tied. We handed it over AND I gave her a lift home AND more courgettes. Between dinner and the prohibitive babysitting, it was undoubtedly the most expensive evening we have ever had.

Saturday, 6 August

I woke up, still outraged. Brave Mr. Waffle rang the rapacious babysitter and said that we didn’t need her to come the following week as it was just too dear. She said that she had done some further research on rates and realised that a sliding scale would be more appropriate so that she would only charge â‚¬60 for each night so next week we would only need to pay her â‚¬20. With some reluctance, we agreed. Even writing about it now, I still feel stung. And she seemed like such a nice girl.

After dealing with the babysitter, Mr. Waffle further displayed his nobility by going to the beach again. Afterwards, we went to ÃŽle Tudy which, despite its name, is not an island but a peninsula and an appealing place to watch the world go by.

That night we had our greatest success of the holiday. Ouest France had informed its readership that there were to be fireworks in town at 10 that night. Despite the fact that it was late, we decided to go. The fireworks started 45 minutes late and the Princess’s watch fell into river so things were not exactly auspicious at 10.45 but once the fireworks started, the children were completely entranced. They absolutely loved it and I think they will remember it forever. And then we wandered back to the car through the old town and it was all quite lovely.

Sunday, 7 August

We went to mass in the cathedral. It lasted 75 minutes and used up most of the world’s incense reserves. And it was in French. It would be useless to deny that the troops were restive. In the afternoon we took them to a medieval fair (thanks Ouest France) in Pont Croix which is a beautiful little town. I can’t deny that I had hopes. However, the medieval fair took place in a field outside the town which, I have to tell you was not precisely what I was expecting. They’re raising funds to build a medieval village but so far all they have is half a house and a couple of tents.

And it was raining. Michael said, “I told you so.”

Actually, it wasn’t too bad in the end. There was calligraphy, medieval games (as exciting as you might imagine but, any port in a storm) and a goose hissing at a donkey. At times like this, you take your thrills where you can.

See picture of Michael enjoying the throw wood at wood game:

We went into the town for pancakes afterwards, it is still very beautiful and strangely empty. There was a brocante and we bought some tat. All quite pleasing.

Tune in soon for week 2.

Cork

3 August, 2016
Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Family, Ireland, Travel

I took a week off work in July and brought the children to Cork. This was largely successful although Herself came down with a cold which dogged her for the next fortnight. Happily she does not seem to have passed it on to any of her elderly relatives.

We did the usual things. We went to Charles Fort. It lashed rain on us. The walk out was very damp.

But happily, on arrival at the fort, the sun came out.

We had lunch in the Bulman.

We dropped round to see an old friend of mine and her family. She emigrated to America years ago. She and her husband bought a house in Kinsale and now visit regularly with their four American children. We don’t meet very often due to geography but it is delightful to see the children of friends growing up in leaps and bounds. We had dinner with them; found out about each others lives; reintroduced the children to each other and admired the beautiful view from their house.

We went to Shandon.

And rang the bells.

And visited the church (under some mild protest).

My sister and brother were very kind to them and doled out treats which they very much enjoyed. This, in part made up for the pain of having to visit the Crawford Gallery.

Herself was rather taken with this figure in Daniel Maclise’s “Francois 1 and Diane de Poitiers”. She feels it would make an excellent internet meme. Who am I to quibble with a digital native?

Probably a highlight for Herself was another raid on my parents’ attic. They are, of course, only too delighted to let her take stuff from there. As she had done an impressively massive root and branch clean out and re-organisation of her bedroom in Dublin, I could only concede that she now had room to accommodate a number of miscellaneous items which had taken her fancy. I rescued some things myself including a number of china jugs which had been wrapped in newspaper and, for reasons which are now lost in the mists of time, stored securely in an old wicker wastepaper basket.

On our return to Dublin, I ticked off the remaining item from our standard summer schedule and brought them to St Michan’s to see the crusader. You are no longer allowed to shake the mummified hand which, I suppose, is really for the best all things considered. The literature makes it seem like this was a 19th century thing but I know for a fact that it was standard practice in recent years, including last year. I said to the boys, “How exciting, you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you shook the mummy’s hand when you were 9 and when you came back the following year, you realised that that was the last opportunity ever!” They were not excited.

Finally, I might mention that I was rather taken with this junction box in Cork; alas, not an aspiration likely to be realised.

We Few, We Happy Few* or a Party Political Broadcast on Behalf of the Bicycle

8 July, 2016
Posted in: Family, Ireland, Princess

Mr. Waffle was looking at the Transport Strategy for the Greater Dublin Area 2016-2035 (yes, our fireside is a forum for the wisdom of serene old age) and drew my attention to the following paragraph:

The number of girls aged 13-18 cycling to school in the State, has fallen from c.19,000 in 1986 to c.500 in 2011. Over the same period, the cycling mode share has fallen from 11.2% to 0.3%, or from approximately 1 in every 9 girls to close to 1 in every 30.

Funnily enough, 1986 was the year I finished school. I cycled in and out every day for my entire secondary school life, even when it was lashing rain and I feel it almost always was. Mr. Waffle also cycled to and from school. Now, as adults, we both cycle to work. I know there are lots of people who cycled to school who don’t cycle to work but I’m willing to bet that there’s no one cycling to work who didn’t also cycle to school.

So it was understandable that Mr. Waffle and I felt that the Princess might cycle to secondary school when the moment arose, last September. We felt some trepidation at the start of the year but it’s been fine. I must say that I hadn’t realised that she was one of only 500 in the State (although, numbers may, of course, have risen since 2011 and the trend is positive – I await the results of the 2016 census on this point with nerdy enthusiasm). I really wish that cycling infrastructure in Dublin were better and more people could feel comfortable getting out on bicycles. In particular I would love to be able to let my sons cycle alone to their primary school. But it’s just not possible. It’s pretty heart stopping even when I’m with them; I just couldn’t let them go alone.

I know this is going to make me sound like a smug cyclist (for the simple reason that I am, I suppose) but I am so glad that my parents made me cycle to school every day. It never occurred to me to stop cycling when I learnt to drive. Partly, I think because I saw my father cycling to work and around the city as an adult. He continued to do so into his 80s but he has been grounded now.

Cycling is handy and speedy in the city and it’s probably the only exercise I get with any consistency. I hope that I can make all my children lifelong cyclists too.

*I am aware that this comes from a speech before going into battle; sometimes cycling in Dublin can feel like that.

Where is Heath Robinson When You Need Him?

4 July, 2016
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

I was down in Cork at my parents’ house recently. The cistern in the upstairs bathroom has been delicate for a long time. Unless you put the handle at exactly the right angle, it continued filling indefinitely. When I went to the bathroom, I discovered that the arrangement no longer worked and to address the problem, pro tem, my brother had tied his belt around the ballcock and pulled it upwards by attaching his belt to the window catch. It worked but it was, frankly, sub-optimal.

Inevitably, I suppose, the day I was due to leave, while moving the belt to open the window, I managed to break the lid of the cistern. I apologised all round and ran out the door to get my train. I haven’t been back since and am afraid to ask whether cistern lids are a standard size or whether, even now, something special is being crafted for my parents in the armitage shanks workshop. Sigh.

Northern Ireland

20 June, 2016
Posted in: Family, Ireland, Travel

Welcome to my somewhat delayed account of our trip to Northern Ireland on the June bank holiday weekend. I know, you’ve been waiting anxiously.

I have been dying to get my little family to Co. Antrim since I had a wonderful trip there last year with some friends from a former job.

We set off late on Friday afternoon without the cat, somewhat to her chagrin.

Traffic out of Dublin was dreadful. We decided to go for dinner once we were safely across the border. We stopped in Hillsborough where the children were suitably impressed by the phone boxes and the post boxes. It’s like going abroad, only not.

We were staying outside Coleraine. When I mentioned this to a number of people they looked very dubious and my brother announced that “Coleraine is the dullest place in Ireland.” In fact the accommodation was fine. It was on a farm outside the town. Our host was very chatty and kept goats which the children were allowed to feed and, at her request, took the Princess on a full tour of the farm including seeing bags and bags of sheep’s wool which had been sheared during the week (very oily apparently).

In fact the only problem with the accommodation was that the heating was set to what my friend from Bangor refers to as “Ulster Granny” levels and there was no real way to turn it off. Indeed, our host was quite keen for us to light the fire and gave us logs for that purpose. I am sure, most of the time, that is necessary but the bank holiday weekend was very warm and sunny. It would have been quite cheap as well but, despite my hopes, market nervousness about Brexit was insufficient to make any dent on the exchange rate.

The next morning we were up bright and early to go to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge which we all enjoyed but it was very warm indeed. In fact, a bit too hot which, I suspect is not normally a problem for visitors to Co. Antrim.

Then we went down to Ballintoy harbour for an ice cream. It features in Game of Thrones and I thought that the boys might be mildly interested. They were, very mildly. I hasten to add that they have not seen Game of Thrones but it seems to be seeping into the primary school culture.Â Unnerving. Our host told us that our accommodation had also hosted Game of Thrones crew members. I’d say anywhere within a 90 minute drive of the Antrim coast can boast some kind of connection.

Then we went in to Bushmills for lunch and decided that we would do the touristy thing and take the train from there to the Giant’s Causeway. This was a mistake. The train is actually the world’s slowest tram. It was very slow.Â And not very busy.Â For reasons which became entirely obvious as we were overtaken by hikers en route.

We got there eventually though. We emerged from the tram somewhat disorientated. We saw three locals with fishing rods and asked where the Giant’s Causeway was. They pointed in the opposite direction from where we were going. They were keen to emphasise that although it looked like you had to pay to get in via the visitor centre, access to the site was free via the underpass. I love frugal Northerners. We inspected the Giant’s Causeway. The children were a bit tired and underwhelmed. Herself and Daniel were grabbed by a Chinese woman who wanted them to be in her photo. They were surprised but willing and even now may be being inspected by this woman’s friends in China.

There were busloads of Chinese tourists there. Although it was busier than it had been when I went there last year, it was not too dissimilar. Mr. Waffle, on the other hand had lasted visited in 1986 when he was there on his own pretty well and he found the crowds of people quite surreal.

Unfortunately, the last tram had left by the time we got back to the tram stop and we found ourselves reliant on Ulster Bus to get back to our car in Bushmills. We spent a tense enough half hour at the bus stop but, happily, a bus did come and return us safely to our car.

Mild highlight of the day was returning to our accommodation with a pack of Northern Taytos under our oxters and having a blind taste test as against Southern Taytos to see which was best. For the record, we found them indistinguishable.

On Sunday we went in to Portstewart for Mass which was neither as full nor as long as I expected. After mass the boys went on a bouncy castle and the rest of us had a cup of tea. God, it was hot.

While walking along the Promenade we found this product:

There are no words.

We went to Downhill beach for a swim. This is an amazingly beautiful beach overlooked by Mussenden Temple. The scenery is utterly breathtaking. Our Northern brethern have chosen to let cars come on to the beach and park there. While I think that this is appalling and really, really wrong, a very small part of me has to concede that it is extremely handy to park your car and pull the stuff out of the boot and have it right beside you which seems to be the form locally.

The Princess and I swam and Michael went in as far as his waist. The water was freezing but very clear and when you got out, the beach was absolutely roasting so you dried almost immediately, it was like being in the South of France. Except that the water was freezing.

For lunch we went in to Castlerock. We took ourselves to the only place that seemed to be open and it was quite rough, I thought. For the only time on the trip, I did feel quite conscious that we were Southerners and Catholic to boot. The man told us dourly to take “a wee seat in the wee bar for a wee minute” and we sat with the local, tattooed, beefy, hard chaws feeling a bit unnerved. We were seated speedily enough and our waitress was pleasant and the food alright and extremely economically priced but we were not tempted to linger.

Then we went to look at Mussenden Temple which was quite beautiful and in the hands of the resolutely middle-class and safe feeling National Trust.

I have to tell you that the Earl Bishop of Derry was, however, completely nuts to build a library right on the North coast. Even on the spectacularly warm day we visited it was pretty damp. Apparently in its heyday there was always a fire burning in the basement to keep out the damp.

The big house is a ruin but quite a recent one. It seems to have been pretty much intact up to the end of the second world war.

While Daniel and Michael played in the ruins of the house, the Princess and I rushed to see Hezlett House which was a traditional cottage (price of admission covered by the ticket for the main house). It was quite interesting and we pretty much had it to ourselves. As we arrived, the guide gave us a laminated card and told us that it was a “wee self-guided tour”. He had to say it three times before we understood though. The accent can be challenging for those of us unfamiliar with it.

The next day was the bank holiday Monday in the South but the previous Monday had been the bank holiday in the North. See my cunning? I took us to the Titanic museum in Belfast and it was reasonably empty. It wasn’t totally my cup of tea but I think that the children liked it and it was certainly interesting in parts. It really tries to reset the narrative to focus on shipbuilding in Belfast rather than the ship that sank. It is only partially successful in that regard. A small tender, the SS Nomadic, the last White Star Line boat in the world is available to visit also and we found that mildly enjoyable. Toilets were something of a highlight for the more juvenile members of the party.

And there was dressing up.

And then, back to Dublin. I would definitely go again. It’s really beautiful in Antrim and far more accessible from Dublin than West Cork or Kerry – where the scenery is also pretty impressive. It’s also, busloads of Chinese tourists notwithstanding, generally far less touristy than the South. I think we’ll be back.

Weekends – Rounded up

3 June, 2016
Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

We have had my niece’s communion. Looking at pictures of her Christening, we discovered to our horror that Mr. Waffle is her godfather. How many extra special presents has she got from her godfather to date in her young life? None as both he and I had completely forgotten that this was the case. I note that at one point in 2008 I was definitely aware of this but it seems to have slipped my mind in the interim. Well, we know now, I suppose. The following weekend, I also attended the school communion as Daniel was singing in the choir and he wanted me to stay and listen (and very good they were too). Nevertheless, I am a bit communioned out.

A couple of weeks ago, we went out to look at the bird sanctuary on Bull Island and took our binoculars and wellingtons. The children all enjoyed wading about the mudflats until, inevitably really, about half an hour after our arrival, one of them fell over and covered himself with that particularly gloopy, smelly mud which is typical of that kind of environment. As I tried to clean Michael off with a muddy sock rescued from the bottom of his mud-filled wellington, I realised that we had no option but to return home. We did.

One weekend, we cycled for miles along the canal and saw a heron and, I think, a gannet.

We cycled out along the seafront on Clontarf yesterday which was a moderately successful outing though slightly hair-raising in parts. It was nice on the sea front and in the park where there was segregated cycling provision. Otherwise not so much.

Will Dublin ever get decent joined up cycling lanes? There are times when I slightly despair about how cyclist and pedestrian hostile the city is. I suppose it can only improve. Right?

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