Family

The Month of the Dead

6 November, 2024
Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle

November is the month of the dead for Catholics and we say masses for dead people and think about them. I am not normally a big fan of Michael Harding who has a quirky column in the Irish Times but he had a lovely column the other day about visiting the cemetery which I would link to, if their paywall policy was not weaponised. I’m going to Cork at the weekend, and this article has reminded me that it might be a good opportunity to visit the cemetery where my aunt and my parents, and indeed my Cork great-grandparents and almost all their children are buried (my grandmother and grandfather were buried elsewhere with his people).

I often think of my beloved Limerick grandmother in November. Her birthday was November 25th and I can still remember how excited I felt whenever she came to visit. Limerick was a lot further away in those days and when she travelled to our house in Cork she came for long visits of (is it possible?) up to a month at a time. I loved it when she stayed. She was just a delight. I may have mentioned that the children pointed out to me that I am so old that not only do I know someone who was born in the 1800s but I am old enough to miss someone born in the 1800s. This has given me pause for thought.

My mother-in-law’s first anniversary is coming up. My father-in-law and my own parents are long gone. I mean, am I next for take off? Let’s not be morbid here, but this quote really spoke to me:

Always lots of funerals available in Ireland. Someone emailed me about a former colleague’s father (“I knew you’d want to know” – did you? did you really?). I decided to ignore it until I got a further email from someone else about the same man so I reached into my pile of sympathy cards and wrote a nice note. I personalised it, talked about how hard it was so soon after his wife’s mother’s death; how difficult it must be for the children. I addressed it. I came very close to posting it when I suddenly realised that I was thinking of a completely different person with the same slightly unusual first name. It took a lot out of me.

I sent a whatsapp message to another former colleague who is now distinguishing himself elsewhere. It’s a bit weird on whatsapp because you see a profile picture in a personal context and if you only know someone from work, it can be a surprise. He had a profile picture of himself and his mother to whom I knew he was very close. In between congratulating him on the new role, I commented on the lovely profile picture. I think you know where this is going. She had died since I saw him last over the summer. Apparently this is a thing, if someone’s parent dies they use pictures of the parent and themselves as the whatsapp profile photo. I only tell you this so that you don’t have to suffer similar embarrassment to me.

So you know my view on the unnecessary funeral information. However, my friend in America’s father has been ill for the past 6 months but managing ok. She was over and back a fair bit and I asked her to let me know, if anything happened. Then she texted me one Sunday to say her father had died the previous Wednesday. I instantly began calculating when the funeral would be. Provided it wasn’t the next Wednesday, I felt I could move things and make it (it was in Cork). Then she added that the funeral had been the day before. I was gutted. Saturday is a very convenient day for a funeral in Cork and she is one of my oldest friends. I frequently stayed in her parents’ house in west Cork during the summers. I would have wanted to know. But what was I to do? Upbraid her for not telling me earlier? She didn’t want to inconvenience me but I really wanted to be inconvenienced. I had actually considered putting an alert on rip.ie (a thing!) but it just seemed too weird. I was sure that news would reach me through the inevitable grapevine but it did not. Alas. And now I have a card to write to her and another for her mother and I am finding it quite hard. Yes, it is all about me. Your point? I remember many years ago when I started my blog my friend mocking the “About” bit saying, it’s all about you.

And finally in funeral news, Mr. Waffle’s friend’s father died. They live right at the bottom of Wicklow. A good two hours drive away. Mr. Waffle couldn’t go to the funeral on Tuesday due to a work commitment so he went to the removal on Monday night (my friend says no one in England knows what a removal is – can this be true? – it’s a service the evening before the funeral). I knew all this. But yet, I promised my friend around the corner a lift to bookclub 10kms away and when I came out of the house at 7, I was surprised to find the car wasn’t there. We may be looking at compartmentalisation. Which, by the way, is a good way to deal with thoughts of the inevitable.

It’s Decorative Gourd Season

4 November, 2024
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

Every year, at Halloween I think about this article. And I am, apparently, not alone.

When I was a child, the following were standard at Halloween: Barmbrack; bobbing for apples (and pennies); trying to bite an apple hung on a string from the door frame; and getting your face covered in flour (surely you are familiar with the game where a grape is placed on top of a heap of flour and you each cut at the flour mountain in turn until the grape falls down and then get your face rubbed in the flour? No? Your loss.). As I write this list it seems bizarrely Victorian. There were, of course, plastic face masks held in place by elastic but they were barred in our house as my father was convinced that we would somehow melt them to our faces. He had a bizarre list of potential injuries to which he feared his children would succumb, these included, but were not at all limited to, fears that we would set ourselves on fire with the aid of our acrylic pyjamas; poke out each other’s eyeballs by looking through keyholes and putting pencils or screwdrivers through them; choke on chewing gum; and fall off the banisters and split our heads open on the cast iron radiator in the hall. I often think his time as a junior doctor in A&E must have been particularly formative.

Not at all standard were the American pumpkin and trick or treating and decorating your house. I thought I was above these vulgar things (what a tiresome ten year old I must have been, I blame my parents). Well, I’m not too proud to admit it, I was a fool. My objection to trick or treating was demolished by a trip to a friend’s house at Halloween in about 1980. We dressed up and went out to her neighbours and it was very exciting; I didn’t quite understand what we were doing but I liked it. I think it must have been the very beginning of trick or treating in Ireland. My father had heard of tick or treating and was appalled. He called it begging from the neighbours; little did he know that his first born and her best friend were out shaking down the wealthy of Sunday’s Well for their monkey nuts and satsumas. Sweets came later, I think. Then when I had children of my own, they had a fantastic time getting dressed and going around to the neighbours; it wasn’t just the sweets (and, honestly, 15 years ago still quite a few monkey nuts and satsumas), it was the feeling of mild danger being out in the dark with all of the decorations and other costumed children.

And the pumpkins. What fun we had decorating them (far superior to the traditional Irish turnip which is almost impossible to cut up even when you want to eat it let alone for decoration) and even though the children now have no interest, I enjoy it. Behold my selection for this year.

I am particularly proud of the eyeball, I can tell you.

And then cycling home from work after dark at Halloween is quite a thrill. The city is alive with illegal firework displays. Dangerous, I know, and alarmingly noisy too but undeniably pretty and exciting.

And how are you enjoying decorative gourd season yourself?

Pre-holiday Round Up

2 August, 2024
Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Last weekend Mr. Waffle, Michael and I went out to Dun Laoghaire for lunch. We met Mr. Waffle’s sister and her little girl. The latter very bitter to be fooled into walking the pier after lunch. Her mother asked her “Do you want to walk to the end of the pier or just as far as where it bends around?” My niece knew, at some level, that like generations of children before her she was being had. Michael sympathised. My sister-in-law maintains that she loved walking the pier when she was a child. I’m going to call it: unlikely. Much like her abiding belief that it never rained on family holidays in Kerry when she was a child (a belief which is not shared by her older siblings).

Michael drove us out to Dun Laoghaire. It was pretty painless to be fair to him and I think the time is coming when he will need to take his driving test. There is a 12 week waiting list so he’ll need to do it when he gets back from holidays. He is unenthused. But think of the saving on our insurance bill.

Mr. Waffle and I went to see Twister. Maybe it is doing great box office but it was pretty terrible. After the lights had gone down an elderly person came in alone and sat near me. Mr. Waffle whispered to me – did I know who the person was? I did not. Mr. Waffle identified him as a very senior person in a very serious and important job. I found it quite touching that he was making time in his life for Twister. I hope he enjoyed it more than we did.

Michael has kept the existence of his siblings, if not secret, then certainly not front and centre, in his relationship with his new college friends. Unfortunately evidence of his siblings is available in the house. He was chagrined when he invited over one of his friends who looked at the picture of his older sister on the landing and said, “Is that your sister? I was on a course with her.” Again, the size of Ireland makes it hard to keep a sense of mystery alive.

Herself is in London doing an internship having spent a couple of weeks in Estonia brushing up on her Russian (the obvious location for this activity being currently unavailable). She got back to London late in the evening and I followed her progress with some anxiety, worried that she would miss the last train from Stansted. Funniest message of the evening was her description of running to get her luggage from the carousel: “I sent a group of West Ruislip Scouts scattering like bowling pins.” You will be pleased to hear that she made the train and is now in her aunt, uncle and cousin’s lovely house in the lap of luxury. They are over here and will be staying a couple of days in our house and also, taking our car. I am inordinately pleased that we are all getting value from our available assets.

If all goes according to plan, by the time you read this, I will be on a plane to the Baltics where we will be disporting ourselves for three weeks. When we went to Argentina last year, I spent the day before we went tidying the bookshelves. Herself felt that this was not the most useful way to spend my time at that moment. She said that I am a victim of “stress tidying”; whenever I am worried about something, I start tidying up. Over the last 12 months I have noticed that this is correct. This may be why I have the tidiest office in my building. Never mind, there are certainly worse vices. And the good news is that this trip to the Baltics has not entailed an entire bookshelf re-organisation. Perhaps I am not as stressed as I was before our epic trip to South America. On the other hand, I do remember that the last time we went to the Baltics en famille we missed the plane so perhaps I need to be more stressed?

Speaking of Argentina, some considerable time ago we sent some presents to people we had met in the North of the country which never arrived. We were resigned to the fact that they were lost forever (contents plus not inconsiderable cost of postage – €43 since you’re asking). But would you look what arrived back just before the holidays? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this parcel has been to South America and back. Sigh.

Things

21 July, 2024
Posted in: Family, Middle Child, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

My sister has been cleaning out the attic of my parents’ house. A vast undertaking. My experience in the house where I grew up has made me very wary of acquiring too many things in my own. My mother always said that she was not part of the throwaway generation (note the old implied insult there, I loved my mother but she was still my mother, if you know what I mean). She meant it. They kept everything, the useful mixed in with the emphatically useless: carpet cut offs; boxes of paperbacks; silverware; children’s toys; old photos; my grandmothers’ hats and kid gloves; pots and pans; broken furniture; old correspondence; copybooks from the 30s, and 40s; you name it, it was there. To be fair to my parents, they did grow up at a time when Ireland was poor and people did keep things which we would not today. But even allowing for this, I think they were big keepers. I suppose they weren’t helped either by moving from a very large house to an Edwardian semi-D.

I feel my sister is so much more cheerful now that she has sorted through this mountain of things and – epic achievement – emptied the attic. I, unlike my parents, am always giving things away and encouraging my children to do likewise. I have discovered through Olio, that there appears to be someone who wants everything, although the effort required to get it to them can be considerable. Daniel and Michael spent a weekend in Cork helping their aunt with the attic clearance and I was gratified to hear Daniel say that I was quite right to be constantly disposing of stuff. He was horrified by the volume of things.

The most impressive thing that I ever encountered was an English woman I met in Brussels who was moving home to London. Her flat in Brussels had been large and her flat in London was much smaller. Instead of trying to repurpose her Belgian furniture and possessions, she sold or gave them all away (I still have two of her prints framed on my landing) and just kept a couple of souvenir items. “It’s a different place, it needs different things,” she explained. While I don’t know that I could ever do that, I think it is an admirable attitude. I gave my daughter some of my mother’s rings. Seeing the Princess wear them and remembering my mother wearing them makes me very happy and brings me more joy than all of the contents of the attic. I suppose I must caveat this by saying I have no idea what all the contents of the attic are.

The older I get the more I think people can be weighed down by things. My sister says that she heard an older woman say to a young woman in a shop once that there is a time for acquiring and a time for disposing and perhaps this is also true. I like to think that I was always restrained in my acquiring and by nature a disposer but how then to explain my posters of Venice from the 90s which my sister found in the attic?

P.S. Happy Belgian National Day

Mid June Round Up

30 June, 2024
Posted in: Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Friday, 14 June, 2024

Our next door neighbour turned 60 – honestly looks absolutely amazing, an inspiration to us all -and invited us to a party in Donegal where her mother was from. We decided to proceed slowly (it’s a long way from Dublin) and set off Friday evening after work. We stayed in Monaghan at Castle Leslie about which I have heard plenty. The Castle was full for a wedding so we stayed in the lodge. I guess I must have been through Monaghan before but I’ve never stayed there. It feels very northern (though in the Republic). Castle Leslie is only 20kms from Armagh and it was obviously cut off from it’s natural hinterland by the Border. There used to be a train line but it was shut down, in the 20s I think, following partition. Odd spot.

The lodge was quite pleasant in a Victorian gothic kind of way (it reminded me a bit of UCC) but the rooms, though nice were a bit bland – an interior designer’s country house. But fine and the food was good at breakfast and reasonable at dinner.

We went for a walk up to view the castle. Holy mother of God, it is so ugly. Scottish baronial (not a style I am partial to, I must confess) but an insult to that name. It is the ancestor of a million McMansions. I regret to say that I have no photos but doubtless the website will give you an idea. The older church in the grounds is a much nicer building.

I was a bit confused by the Protestant church, as the guide to the peerage in the main house had the young Leslies attending Downshire and Ampleforth (Catholic boarding schools in England), but apparently one of the baronets married an American (sister to Winston Churchill’s mother) and her son either converted or was always Catholic. Apparently he was a big supporter of independence and while his father (a staunch unionist) was parading the Ulster volunteers at the front of the house, he was sneaking out the back to join the rebels. I think it is to the staunch unionist, or possibly his father, that we owe the insult to Scottish baronial style as the architect (I looked him up) seems otherwise to have produced inoffensive enough buildings albeit in the heavy style of the time. I can imagine him getting directions. There is a loggia round the back. Honestly, not awful but not consistent with the style elsewhere. Inside there is a portrait gallery filled with, I’m sorry, terrible paintings by this 19th century baronet. There are also frescoes, the less said of these the better.

However, overall, it’s actually grand inside with lovely views and the interior is much less bland than the lodge.

I wouldn’t mind staying in the main house some time, if it didn’t beggar us.

The grounds are massive and lovely to stroll around provided you keep your back to the castle (“where every prospect pleases and only man is vile” or words to that effect as someone or other said).

In the car on the way up there, I was congratulating myself on currently having no injuries. Hubris. Alas, I gave my toe an almighty wallop on a hidden step in the very fancy bathroom attached to our room and was convinced I had broken it. However, it was fine in a couple of days so possibly I exaggerated the pain.

Saturday, June 15, 2024

It has been a long held ambition of mine to visit the Ulster American folk park. My children will tell you that I love a folk park. Mr. Waffle said to me, “When will we be this close again?” so rather than go immediately to Donegal as we had originally intended we stopped off. Well, what a treat for folk park lovers. Firstly, it’s pretty empty and secondly, it’s excellent. It’s built around the old Mellon homestead. When Mr. Mellon went to America he became one half of Carnegie Mellon and his descendants bought the house and provided seed funding for the park and possibly still provide money for all I know. My friend from Belfast remembers it opening in 1976 and he says it was such a grim time in the North, its opening was a positively thrilling event. I was thrilled, I can tell you.

There is a slightly dull exhibition which tells you about the lives of three emigrants whose houses you will see in the park; one is, no surprises, young Mellon; another is a Catholic young man whose mother wanted him to be a priest and who ended up as bishop of New York (dream big young man) and is buried under the altar of the cathedral there; and the third is a relatively rich man who went trapping and ended up with a house in the American South (where you ask? You might well ask but I have forgotten. Alas.)

We pushed fairly quickly through this and started in the park proper. You start off in Ulster. They’ve moved buildings into the park from other parts of the North which was something I thought only Americans did. They had people dressed up in old fashioned clothes to tell you about the history of the houses. They also have turf fires going in the houses (very bad for the bogs, I know, but so pleasant) and somehow the smoke coming up from the chimneys made it all seem so authentic (though the spotless nature of everything slightly detracted from that, surely, even in Ulster, labourers’ cottages were never so clean and tidy?). God, I was delighted. When people ask whether I would prefer to have the power to fly or be invisible (more frequent than you might think), I always pick invisible as I just want to see into other people’s houses, so the visit to the park is basically a superhero adventure.

Then having seen old Ulster, you’re brought to a town to get on a ship to the new world. The town is fantastic: shops and pubs brought from all over the place. We were chatting to the man in the draper’s and he told us that it originally came from Derry. This was my favourite part.

I was amused to see this sign which the authorities have obviously not yet removed in their post-Brexit cull.

Then you go into a big shed and you’re on the quays with a ship awaiting your departure and a ticket office on the quayside.

You get on the ship, you come out the far side and, hey presto, you’re in the new world. I thought it was really cleverly done.

Once you clear the town, you’re into all sorts of American homesteads many of them (possibly all of them) brought from America. How extraordinary. One of the guides said that the house brought from Tennessee ran into some difficulties as it was set up in a bog in Northern Ireland but they seem to have addressed this.

After our successful tour of Ulster and the US, we pushed on to Donegal. Although it was alternately overcast and lashing rain in the Ulster American folk park, the sun was splitting the stones in Donegal and we had the most beautiful drive into Falcarragh.

Our hosts had laid on all kinds of trips during the day – a walk up Mount Errigal, a boat ride to Inishbofin – but none of these things would be much fun in the rain. How great was my FOMO when I discovered that the weather had been beautiful all day on the Donegal coast? Very great, I have to tell you. Many of our neighbours were there and if another one told me about the amazing swim they had on Inishbofin, I was not going to be responsible for my actions. You can’t have it all, I suppose.

The party was great, however, with music and dancing and food and cake. I took these, not great, photos from the balcony of the hotel at 22.33 and 00.38. What a glorious day.

Overall, a good day. It was my mother’s anniversary – she died five years ago and I think she would have been delighted to think of me having such an enjoyable day.

Sunday, June 16, 2024

We checked out in the morning and heard the hotel staff speaking fluent Irish to each other; it was so nice to hear Irish being used in that way. Utterly incomprehensible, mind you. Mr. Waffle chatted away as Gaeilge but I could only watch and admire.

We went for a walk on the beach and a bite of lunch before heading back to Dublin. Honestly the weather was much more what I expect from Donegal in June.

The house was empty when we got home which was a bit weird. The guys were in Cork for the weekend helping their aunt empty out the attic before the roofers came. Augean stables spring to mind.

Monday, 17 June 2024

I was up with the lark to get the ferry to Wales.

Then I drove to Oxford – about four and a half hours solid – went into town and helped herself pack up her things. I thought she might be sad about saying goodbye but she was quite cheerful. When we had finished the epic packing task we went out for dinner with her young man. I retired to my bed exhausted about 10.

Tuesday, 18 June 2024

I insisted on us setting off at the crack of dawn as I am always worried something terrible will happen near Birmingham and I am terrified by the prospect of having to overnight in Holyhead due to having missed the ferry.

We had breakfast in Oxford and set off before 10 (ok, technically, possibly not the crack of dawn). Despite the best of intentions to travel along the M6 (tolled) motorway, we failed to find it. The main M6 is exhaustingly busy in my view. Nevertheless, as herself confidently predicted we made good time so I was merciful and we stopped in Conwy (which I find a charming town though a little down on its luck) for lunch.

We made the ferry no problem and were safely home by 7.30 or so. Still and all I was extremely grateful to all the gods that I did not after all have to travel for work the next day.

Herself came home with me but then promptly left two days later to fly to France for a post-college holiday (isn’t it well for them etc.). She will be restored to us on Tuesday, I am pleased to report.

Early June Round Up

23 June, 2024
Posted in: Family, Middle Child, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Monday, 3 June

I left you on the June bank holiday. Well, on the Monday my brother dislocated his shoulder. He was out cycling and hit a bump and with those stuck to the pedal shoes, you’re a bit doomed if you go over. My sister rescued him and brought him to hospital. It took them three goes to get his shoulder back in and they knocked him out the last time. Grim. He’s still not quite right and is gutted that he is probably going to miss the Ring of Kerry cycle for the first time in years. I mean, whatever floats your boat but it wouldn’t be for me. Very hilly.

Thursday 6 June

I laid down the law and said as the guys were at home relaxing they were going to have to start cooking dinner one night a week each. Honestly, best decision ever. I am now only cooking dinner two nights a week. I rejoice. Like myself, Michael is not a cooking enthusiast but he is competent. Daniel is always making delicious new things he sees on the internet. Very gratifying.

Friday 7 June

On the way home from voting (locals and Europeans), I stopped to admire a house which has no front garden but has a wildly impressive range of plants growing up the walls. The owner was bringing stuff into the house from his car and I admired his plants. He promptly gave me a present of two sunflower plants. A delightful democratic dividend.

Mr. Waffle then drove me out to the airport and I flew to Heathrow. Some time ago, my sister-in-law suggested she, I, my sister and the Princess should have a weekend in the Cotswolds to celebrate the end of the Princess’s undergraduate college career. When I agreed to this, I did not realise what would be in my future (a trip to Donegal for a birthday the following weekend, followed by collecting herself the Monday and Tuesday after and then a work trip to Strasbourg on the Wednesday – I did not know this at the time of the Cotswolds weekend but I was extremely relieved when my work trip was subsequently cancelled).

My sister and I met in Heathrow and drove to Oxford where we picked up herself and my sister-in-law and took ourselves to lower Swell adjacent to Stow-on-the-Wold (do we love English place names? We do). I was impressed by how easy the hire car was to drive. I did feel sorry for my children learning to drive in a 2014 diesel station wagon but I suppose if they pass the test in our car they will be ready for any challenges the motoring world may throw at them.

Our airbnb was lovely and it boasted a cute nearby pub from the 1700s where we went on the first night. I got my first glimpse of the extraordinary gardening prowess of people who live in the Cotswolds.

Saturday, 8 June

Stow-on-the-Wold is lovely and very near Lower Swell. We repaired there for breakfast and very much enjoyed having a look around the town.

It allegedly has the oldest pub in England. Allegedly it is also the inspiration for the Prancing Pony in the Lord of the Rings books. Though this is a bit of a hotly contested title.

I was disgusted to discover we missed one of Stow’s main attractions, St. Edward’s Church, though we basically parked beside it. Next time. I was foolishly relying on Uncle Jack and Aunt Cecilia’s 1937 guide book by Mr. HJ Massingham (bang up to date from when they visited in 1940) and, I can tell you, guide book technology has really advanced since 1937.

The Cotswolds are absurdly pretty but also very heavily touristed. There are a lot of cars and a lot of tour buses. We made the unwise choice to visit Bourton-on-the-Water. Mr. Massingham has some very temperate praise to bestow upon it: “Bourton has been called the Venice of the Cotswolds, but this is obviously a misreading for the Wigan of the Cotswolds. The only thing to do at Bourton is to stand and stare at those lovely bridges and pray for the death of the Progress all round you..” It is very pretty but it is a terrible place to visit. Mr. Massingham’s prayers have not been answered and it is a tiny village heaving with tourists. I, sadly, cannot recommend. This picture from there is artfully shot to avoid the press of people.

Undaunted (well, perhaps a little daunted) we went for a walk around the outskirts of the town and, although we got lost several times, it was very pretty and the weather was beautiful. Overall a win.

We had a really good early dinner in Stow (the hero town of our visit) and we were all delighted (I would plug the restaurant if I could remember its name). The nice people at the table beside us recommended Broadway as a place to visit and as we finished dinner relatively early we took ourselves there for a look. It’s a lovely spot. I nearly keeled over with delight to see that it is the home of the Lygon Arms.

This is where Jack and Cecilia stayed in 1940 and I had the papers to prove it.

We went in for a drink which was very pleasant but it would be fair to say the staff did not share my excitement that my great aunt and uncle had stayed there in 1940 with one man kindly commenting, “Yes madam, we’ve been here since 1537”.

Sunday, June 9

We went to visit Daylesford which is a shop that the Princess was mildly interested in investigating. It was grand as it was nearby but I wouldn’t go out of my way to inspect it.

We then took ourselves to Moreton-in-Marsh for a quick look around. It’s Mitford territory.

Also, again, Prancing Pony territory.

Then we drove off to Oxford where we said farewell to my sister-in-law who got the train back to London. I have to say, she is a pleasure to travel with and extremely good at organising things. Would 100% travel with sister-in-law tours again.

My sister and I went for lunch with the Princess and some friends (I have not said where herself was at college until now in the interests of privacy – yes sometimes I believe in this – a bit – but now that she has left, I have thoughts which I will share in due course). I wasn’t sure how this would go but it was actually very pleasant. A triumphant weekend. Then on our way back to the car after lunch my poor sister fell and hurt her knee. I had to scurry off to get the bus to Heathrow and the Princess had to scurry with me to show me where to get it due to my legendarily poor sense of direction. My sister was staying an extra day to visit a friend but she didn’t enjoy it a whole lot due to a swollen knee. Alas. I did feel bad abandoning her.

Overall, notwithstanding some quibbles, I would love to go to the Cotswolds again – almost every corner of it (them? what is a Cotswold?) seems to be absolutely beautiful – but my big lesson would be not to rely on a guidebook from 1937. Please let me have your Cotswolds recommendations for my next trip.