Dublin

On Saturday, I went to see number 10, Henrietta Street as part of the Open House weekend where all sorts of places are thrown open to the public. Number 10 is a beautiful former townhouse which has been a convent since the start of the 20th century. It was restored in 2003 and an architect involved in the restoration gave a fantastic tour.

I have fallen in love with Henrietta Street and want to live there. It is quite beautiful to look at with the King’s Inns forming the end of the street and very large early Georgian houses on either side. The area is very urban and edgy (what some people might call rough and dangerous) and the houses are beautiful, listed, huge and, in many cases derelict. As recently as 1974 they were tenements with 36 families living in one of the houses. Hassett and Fitzsimons has one for sale with the fantastically engaging description “unique refurbishment opportunity”. €1.85 million before you have at all begun your unique refurbishing. When I told Mr. Waffle all this with shining eyes on my return, he started to bang his head against the fridge. I suppose my only hope of moving there is either a) win the lottery or b) become a nun.

During the week my brother brought us up an enormous quantity of apples from my parents’ house in Cork. We took ourselves off to West Wicklow on Sunday morning where a look branch of the slow food movement were making an apple pressing machine available to those with plentiful apple crops. This was terrific. There were lots of children to play together while the grown ups made apple juice. Those attending ranged from bohemian couples with children with unlikely names to elderly protestant ladies. Although we were a bit outside the general demographic, it was great fun and I am contemplating shelling out some of my income to be notified of future events where I will be able to overhear more conversations along the lines of “I knew, just by looking at them that your children had to be homeschooled…” and “Have you met …, she’s a herbalist.” Also the Princess made a friend. They discovered that they were both from Dublin and arranged to meet at the Spire. I knew she had met a soulmate when the new friend said to her father, “Daddy, I am meeting my new friend at the Spire, when would be an appropriate time for us to meet.” [Emphasis added] To her great chagrin, her father replied “In about 6 years.”

The Princess and I went to the National Gallery on Saturday morning to inspect the Baroque rooms. She has developed an enormous interest in Greek mythology thanks to the Percy Jackson books and I thought we’d have a look at some paintings of Greek gods. Unfortunately, this outing of supreme middle class smugness was spoilt by the fact that they are repairing the roof in that wing. So, instead of looking at art we went up and down in the glass lift several times. When we emerged there were two patient English tourists waiting outside, one of whom was Emma Thompson. Being Irish, I pretended not to notice. Being 7, the Princess didn’t notice but I thought you ought to be told.

On Saturday afternoon we walked in the rain in the Phoenix Park. I seethed that Saturday’s Irish Times, allegedly a national paper, devoted a full page to the discontinuation of a Dublin bus route (the number 10, if you’re asking, in fact, its functions will be taken over by the 46A so it was really more a change of name of a Dublin bus route). That was fun for everyone, as you can imagine.

Saturday evening saw us leaving the children in the hands of an older woman who had moved to Ireland to be near her daughter. For 20 years, she worked for a surgeon in Cannes and she lovingly described his spotless operating theatre. I can’t help feeling she must have been appalled at our bathroom. Sigh. We went out and had dinner in a place specialising in Irish beer. Mr. Waffle tried O’Hara’s on the basis that I used to regularly lunch with one of the co-owners who worked in Brussels at the same time as me. I tried to identify him to Mr. Waffle. “You must remember him,” I said. “He worked in the same office as that fellow whose parents live around the corner from my parents in Cork.” To which, Mr Waffle replied, “This country is far too small, isn’t it?”

On Sunday afternoon, Mr. Waffle had to work but the children and I went out to the parents-in-law and, on the assurance of my mother-in-law that their neighbours had said to help ourselves, hopped over the garden wall and stripped the neighbours’ raspberry canes. This morning we had homemade jam for breakfast made from raspberries which were, only yesterday, basking in the South Co. Dublin sunshine. Oh the unbearable smugness of being.

Last night, I cycled into town to go on a blind date. Town Mouse was visiting and had suggested that we might meet. I’ve only ever met one person through the internet before and so this is all a bit new to me. It is a very odd relationship when you know a lot about what a person chooses to put on his or her blog and not a lot about anything else. Like say, her partner, who is a very distant background presence on the blog but, you know, much more rounded when you actually meet him over dinner. There was so much to talk about and I feel that I didn’t get even half of it in. I feel a bit sad now, that, realistically, unless they start making a habit of coming to Ireland, I will never really know TM and her young man. Still, maybe I will go and visit her and insist on inspecting her vegetable garden which fills me with envy. Though she did cast a pall over my evening by mentioning that she, like my children, was a picky eater when young and now she eats most things “except vegetables beginning with C”. We’re doomed.