In early June, Mr. Waffle and I went into town for a middle aged adventure but when we got there Grafton street (the main pedestrianised shopping street) and the surrounding streets and the Powerscourt Centre (nice shopping centre in an 18th century building) were all closed. I was baffled and asked one of the many guards crawling around the area what was going on. Some EU Presidency thing I thought. I suppose the Guard was a bit sick of answering questions but he snapped back, “Someone’s been stabbed and killed.” What an alarming development. The internet rapidly informed me that a young man had been stabbed to death in a fight the night before. I always think my children will be safe in town but I didn’t like the sound of this. What can I do? Nothing but hope they will be sensible and safe, I suppose.
Ireland
Mayo for Sam
Mr. Waffle and I decided to go for a nice walk in Portrane today. The weather is a bit cooler and very pleasant. We began with breakfast in Avoca in Malahide Castle. How great was my indignation when I discovered that they stop serving breakfast at 11.30? Pretty great as by the time we got there it was 12.10. I had a steak sandwich for breakfast. Not a form of breakfast that has been hugely popular since the 19th century. I am a city person and breakfast should be served until at least 2 on a Sunday; everyone knows that and these suburban outlets need to pull up their socks.
On the way to our walk we bought strawberries and new Queens potatoes from a bored teenager at the side of the road. The best strawberries I have tasted all summer by some distance. Our walk was, as hoped, nice.
I forget what lovely beaches there are in north County Dublin – I don’t really think of Dublin as a very beachy place but it is. This beach compared favourably to those in the west of Ireland. High praise.
Apparently it is also a place where the rules on horse access to the beach are not fully observed. That horse poo did not smell like it had been there since May.
I went for a swim which was very nice but I was a bit nervous because a number of jellyfish corpses were visible on the strand. I didn’t see any in the sea but I couldn’t quite relax. With global warming the presence of jellyfish is becoming pretty common but it’s still a bit alarming to me. Herself says that it has led to mosquitos in London. She knows because she’s allergic and her leg swelled up like a balloon when she got bitten; even the pharmacist was impressed and gave her a course of penicillin.
Possibly related, I was the only person in the water which felt…peculiar? Did everyone else know something I did not? Was it the jellyfish? Was it the horse poo? It’s a blue flag beach and the local authorities had a sign up saying they tested the water most recently on July 13 and it was excellent. Let’s see whether I survive the night.
We hightailed it home after our walk as the All-Ireland Gaelic football final was on (the winner gets the Sam Maguire cup, hence the title of this post) and we didn’t want to get caught in match traffic. We actually made it home in time to watch the end of the match. Mayo were playing Kerry in the final. Mayo have not won the All-Ireland for 75 years and Kerry seem to win it all the time. Everyone in the country was supporting Mayo except people from Kerry. The consensus was that this Kerry team would win no bother.
The excitement of the All-Ireland final hit the European stage earlier. For Ireland’s EU Presidency Each Member State of the EU (26 excluding Ireland) is paired with an Irish county (also currently 26, if you don’t count the new Dublin divisions and somehow no one ever does) and the Netherlands got Mayo which led to this exchange in the European Parliament. I applaud the Dutch enthusiasm.
Mayo wear green and red and Kerry wear green and gold. During the World Cup there were memes doing the rounds featuring those colours (apologies to English people who may find these images upsetting). The World Cup was all really about Gaelic Athletic Association rivalries some people may be surprised to hear.
The story of the reason for Mayo’s 75 year drought which I must emphasise is completely untrue and known to be untrue by everyone is that the team which won the All-Ireland for Mayo in 1951 were returning home and a funeral cortege was ahead of them. The team were disrespectful and the parish priest put a curse on them and said that Mayo would not win again until all of the members of that team died. This is not traditionally a catholic priest power, in case you’re wondering. Anyway, Mayo have not won since though they have been to the final. One poor old gent survives from the 1951 team apparently.
Do you want to know who won now? I bet you do. It was Mayo.
A Lot On
It’s been a busy week lads. We were out not once but twice for dinner. The second time was last night with friends from Brussels who we have seen over the years but not as much as we would like as they are that wonderful thing: a couple where both of us like both partners. Hard to find. They’re on a three week holiday in Ireland with their dog. I hope the rain holds off for them but I doubt it. They’re starting in Donegal and working their way down the west coast. They had just been in England for their daughter’s graduation. My strongest memory of her is of a short haired forceful toddler so seeing the photos of the graduation gave me a land as Cissie who used to mind me when I was little would say. They are the nicest couple and it was really lovely to see them.
Today, overwhelmed by the hype I bought myself the last ticket to see the Odyssey in the IMAX at 11.30. The woman who took my ticket told me that it has sold out every showing. It’s quite long. Not bad or anything but I probably wouldn’t have gone were it not for the hype and I would have been right. Though it did give me some mild extra insights into James Joyce’s version of the same story so there’s that. And I found myself reflecting again on my friend’s daughter who has a perfectly normal name but had a narrow escape from her mother’s early determination to call her Calypso; ultimately she was saved by her father. If you like Christopher Nolan and swords and sandals, go for it. Even hardhearted me shed a tear when he finally made it back to Ithaca.
And also, the painter has been here all week painting the railings and the front door and the upstairs bathroom. It’s trying, there’s no two ways about it though he does an excellent job. His personality is gloomy and with me working from home a couple of days we saw quite a bit of each other; I’m not sure either of us was delighted by this development. But I am delighted by my newly painted front door, so there’s that.
Arts etc
Mr. Waffle and I went for a couple of tea time talks in the Tenement Museum in Henrietta Street. One on Dublin street traders and one on the markets in the city centre. Both a bit worthy but maybe not completely fascinating throughout.
We saw Project Hail Mary in the cinema. Mr. Waffle loved it. I thought it was grand. We also saw The Devil wears Prada 2. I loved it. Mr. Waffle thought it was grand. One thing did get my goat though. I have covered in the past how much I dislike Niall Williams’s books. Everyone else loves them but I find them a bit Oirish. Anyway, Kenneth Branagh who plays Miranda Priestly’s husband is waiting for her in a hotel room at a crucial point in the film and when she comes in he casts aside the book he was reading. “What was that?” you ask. “This is Happiness” by Niall Williams.
We also saw Disclosure Day. I thought it was grand. Mr. Waffle loathed it and kept pointing out plot holes on the newsroom aspect. Since this is a film about aliens on earth, I think there were areas where a greater suspension of disbelief was required. Anyhow, wouldn’t recommend. Mr. Waffle asked afterwards why Josh O’Connor (English) and Emily Blunt (also English) were given American accents but Colin Firth still had his English accent. Middle child and I explained to him that baddies are all English
We went to Altamount Gardens and Huntington castle in Carlow for a day out. Strong on peacocks. Grand. But not worth the €130 fine and 3 penalty points I got for speeding on the way home. And while I approve strongly of fines for speeding in the abstract, it was hard for me to rejoice in the concrete.
I went to a library talk on Dublin art and Hugh Lane. Fine but no substitute for the Hugh Lane Gallery which is closed for endless renovations. I also went to a talk on Hugh Lane and his own art collection and the role of women in supporting the Hugh Lane modern art gallery which was slow to get off the ground due to Dubliners’ dubiety about the whole project. These impressionists are alright for the French but I’m not sure whether we want them here kind of thing. Interesting.
I saw the Blake exhibition in the National Gallery a couple of times and dutifully went to several talks. I think I can take or leave Blake. He was, God love him, a bit of a tortured soul. On one of these trips I met a friend of Mr Waffle’s from school and his somewhat (but not that much) younger wife. I enquired about their children, starting secondary school kind of age – and she said, “And by the way, I’m pregnant.” Sooner them than us.
Herself was in New York and sent me this message.
Come on, she’s hilarious.
I went to the RHA annual exhibition which I found dull and another exhibition which I quite enjoyed. Here are some photos from the latter.
Mr. Waffle and I went to visit the James Joyce tower (museum of things Joyce and manned by enthusiastic Joyceans) and cycled around the salubrious precincts of Killiney and Dalkey and walked Dun Laoghaire pier. A grand day out.
We went to see the Messiah outdoors in Fishamble street (on the site where it was first performed) at lunch time but the timing was not entirely compatible with lunch and work. Still pleasant in its own way.
We have been looking at auctions a lot. It’s our age. I enjoyed the Morgan O’Driscoll Irish Art pre-sale investigation in the RDS; I enjoyed the Howth castle inspection rather less, especially as it cost me €20 to get in and the Irish art one was free. Increasingly, I find us looking in at items consigned for auction at the weekend. Where will this end? Ominous.
The 1926 census has been published online and there is great excitement. I still haven’t found my relatives – a mystery – but everyone else in Ireland has found theirs. The street whatsapp group was hopping with news of who lived here in 1926 on the day it was released. There was an excellent exhibition in Dublin castle, alas, now closed. The EU Presidency means that the castle is out of bounds for the rest of the year.
We went to see “The Good Luck Club” an Anu production about the Irish Sweepstakes. Their productions are always site specific and this one was in the National Archives. It was part of the Archive’s census centenary programme. But the play wasn’t about the census at all. It didn’t totally work for me but it got the usual rave reviews and was good in parts. Am I still going to go to whatever they offer for the theatre festival in the autumn? You betcha. General booking opens later this month and my fingers are already hovering over the keyboard.
We went to a talk on the sculptor Albert Power. If you’re Irish, you’ve seen his work around but he is a bit neglected as sculpture is a medium about which the Irish nation is, at best, ambivalent. Interesting.
We saw Sinéad Culbert the comedian. Her husband is Dutch. There’s a lot of humour to be wrung from Hiberno-Dutch relations.
I saw Tana French, whom I love, speak about her new book which I read but sadly did not love. The sooner she moves on from the Irish western rut she’s in, the better, as far as I’m concerned.
This isn’t exactly culture but where else to put it? Friends very kindly took us to a terrifyingly expensive dinner in Chapter 1 (possibly two Michelin stars, definitely one, great if your bank balance is feeling strong). When we waddled out of the restaurant later, Mr. Waffle’s bike lights and kickstand had been stolen. Great highs, great lows.
During the very hot spell we went to see “The Whiteheaded Boy” by Lennox Robinson in the Abbey. Lennox Robinson was a funny Cork dramatist who died in the late 1950s. This play was funny in places but overall only alright. A big part of the plot is about breach of promise. For my money, it’s hard to update that to the 1980s but that is what they attempted. The end was surprising, I will give them that. Due to the climactic conditions, Mr. Waffle, with some trepidation, wore his shorts to the national theatre. He works in a conservative profession and was not delighted to see a number of colleagues in the foyer when we arrived. He ran into one of them again shortly afterwards and she said tartly, “I see you are dressed on this occasion.”
How is your own cultural life going?
Jam Production Continues Unabated
Look at it.
Given our surfeit (what you see in the picture is only batch 1, batch 2 is already in pre-production and the plum harvest shows no sign of abating although the painters who are painting the fence – long overdue – keep standing on them which, maybe, is a mercy), I suggested to Mr. Waffle that we might give a souvenir pot to each family member who attends our anniversary dinner in a couple of weeks. “But half of them may not even want it,” he said. He is failing to get with the programme. Who knows whether we will even make this anniversary at this rate.
Exhausting Weekend Round-Up
Friday, July 17
You will recall that I do not work on Fridays. I recommend. I know it’s not good but the glorious weather continued. My friend and I had arranged to meet to go for a swim. I cycled to her house (almost the whole way via cycle lane); then we drove out to Howth in her luxurious car (I’m a bit ambivalent about this but there is something very luxurious about being up high on a leather seat) and had a lovely swim at Balscadden beach and lunch afterwards in Howth. A colleague texted me to confirm that something I was hoping would go at work went. The sun shone. All was right with the world.
We went back to my friend’s house and then I cycled home along by the sea side and through the park and even where I was with the traffic (hardly at all), I had dedicated cycle lanes. Living the dream, lads.
I stopped off on the way home to pick up “The Fellowship of the Ring” which I had ordered from the library a while ago and which had finally landed in my local branch. Thrills. I love the library, what a service.
When I got home, I made 7 kilos of jam. That’s right.
Hot work in the current climactic conditions.
And I made dinner. And afterwards we watched “The Fellowship of the Ring” until the DVD stopped working at the Council of Elrond and I felt a bit less warmly towards the library service.
Saturday, 18 July
First thing in the morning, Mr. Waffle and I went out to Dun Laoghaire to do one of Arran Henderson’s excellent walking tours. We’ve done them before and they have not disappointed. Dun Laoghaire did disappoint a bit though. Not because of the tour guide who is reliably excellent, full of enthusiasm and knows everything but a suburban seaside town just has less to offer than the city. Mr. Waffle is from that neck of the woods originally so I think he got more out of it that me. I’d really like to do an Arran Henderson tour of Cork but this, sadly, is not available.
A former colleague of Mr. Waffle’s was on the tour so the three of us went for lunch together. As we queued for the cafe in the people’s park (location delightful, food mediocre, alas), Mr. Waffle pointed out that the son of my father’s friend was in the queue behind us. His father and my father were friends from when they were in school in the 1930s and his father had died recently. I couldn’t go to the funeral as I was abroad so I turned around, sympathised, chatted and met his niece who had just finished school and was a very patient girl who listened to our reminiscing about childhood summers together in west Cork with no outward sign of boredom. While it was nice to see Mr. Waffle’s former colleague and my father’s friend’s son, it was a bit more socialising with acquaintances than I was quite prepared for.
After lunch we scooted home (no time for a swim, alas, which seemed like a real shame when we were right beside the sea) as I had a tennis match at 4. After tennis, I went round to a tennis friend’s house for a drink. There were four women – 3 Irish and one Polish. The Polish woman looked so elegant compared to us (no shade on my Irish friends but this dilution of the Irish gene pool cannot come soon enough); to be fair, we were fresh from the sweaty tennis court and she had come from a walk in the park, but still. We ended up staying for dinner (who can turn dinner for 2 – hostess and husband – into dinner for 5 at the drop of a hat, not me, but our hostess apparently) and I only staggered in home about 10.
We watched the second half of the “Fellowship of the Ring”. We were able to skip the scene with the Council of Elrond where the DVD refused to perform; perhaps someone had just been watching that scene over and over again? We’d all seen it before (Mr. Waffle under protest) but somehow the sudden appearance of Sean Bean (Boromir, in case you’re wondering), threw us a bit.
Sunday, July 19
After mass, Mr. Waffle and I went out for breakfast together then he, poor him, had to go to work. I went home and prepared myself for another tennis match. My ancient body did not welcome this development at all. I survived but it was warm and myself and my friend spent a lot of time talking. Two hours on court, about an hour’s tennis, I would say. The courts were quiet because it was baking.
After tennis, I came home and prodded the children to do various tasks that they regarded with low levels of enthusiasm and went into town to pick up labels for my jam (supremely unhelpful comment from Mr. Waffle, “I think we’ll know what it is.”).
But maybe I’ll give some away. Actually, I’ll have to, it’s a bumper year for plums. I’ve had to power up the shed fridge. This is what it looks like at the moment and I will be out doing a last sweep of the garden before bed later.
Also, unrelated, I grew these. I know anyone can grow montbretia and hydrangea and they will grow wild on the side of the road but I’m still pleased and look, lilies.
