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Ireland

Tayto Park


Posted in: Family, Ireland

We went to Tayto Park on Sunday with the cousins. It’s an attraction park built on the enduring appeal of the crisp and the place of the potato in the Irish psyche.

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When we arrived, it was lashing. We stopped in a petrol station on the way and I said to the woman behind the counter that we were going to Tayto Park. She put her hand up to her mouth and said “Oh my God.” It was that kind of rain.

As we ran from the car to the entrance in the wettest kind of rain the Princess skipped sideways encouraging us on shoutinge:

‘Charge, Chester, charge!/on, Stanley, on!’/Were the last words of Marmion.

It was very appropriate and all that but did give me a slight shock. “Are you quoting from Marmion?” “Yes, obviously.” Obviously. I have subsequently discovered that she regularly uses many of the lines from Scott’s epic poem:

Heap on more wood! the wind is chill;/But let it whistle as it will

Something she says often and a line that I really like myself especially at this time of year. I had thought vaguely that it was Frost.

And then she knows these couplets about young Lochinvar:

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

And it turns out that this line she is fond of is from Marmion as well:

And darest thou then/To beard the lion in his den

“Are you doing Marmion in school,” I asked (improbable, you will concede). “No, I just know it, I don’t know how, just from reading, I suppose.” She continues to surprise.

After the first half hour, miraculously, the weather improved and Tayto Park’s various attractions were sampled, including a terrifying zip wire that only herself went on. I had to go with the boys around a sky walk which did not look terrifying but really was. The boys and I went on level 1 but herself went on level 2 and pronounced it unscary. Isn’t it well for her?

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There was a haunted house which the children bailed out of in room 1 but I went around because I couldn’t bear not to get value for our money. I scare easily but it was kind of scary. The best moment was when I was alone some way behind three adults screaming loudly. One of the actors from the house was behind them, dressed as Dracula. I tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped a mile.

Overall, I must say, it was very successful; the children enjoyed it very much and it wasn’t too hideous for the adults. The knowledge that in fine weather you may have to queue an hour and a half for the rides we were able to saunter up to was pleasing even though the danger of damp was a constant. Still and all, a win over all.

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And, oh yes, there was face painting:

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The Pain of the Parish Pedant


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Princess

We had the parable of the unjust judge at mass recently. The archbishop came. He gave a great sermon but it contained the following line: “scripture scholars tell us that it was not that this judge was corrupt or took bribes, it was just that he was disinterested”. I said to herself after mass, “Well what did you think of the archbishop?” She replied, “He doesn’t know the difference between uninterested and disinterested.” That’s my girl.

Conversations I Suspect Men Never Have


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

Text received from a friend: See you there at 1, I will be wearing a pink jacket to celebrate the continuing fine weather.

Upon her arrival, I said, “That jacket is more fuchsia than pink.” She replied, “Yes, I know, and I was going to say fuchsia but then I wasn’t sure how to spell it and I went to google it and then I just thought this is getting ridiculous and it’s too pretentious anyway, I’ll just say pink.”

First World Problems


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Work, Youngest Child

As the professionals say, posting has been light. I have found the past month or so demanding as I went back to work and the children went back to school.

During my first week back at work, I found myself slipping out of a meeting with important people to rescue Michael from school where he declared himself (convincingly) to be sick. Mr. Waffle, who normally does the sick child trip, was in a meeting with no phone coverage. I went to school where a surprised and delighted (and crucially, in my view, quite well) Michael greeted me with ecstasy which was rather charming. We went home. In the utility room was the corpse of a mouse which the cat had brought in for inspection. I disposed of it. Mr. Waffle came home and I hared off across town on my bike to my next meeting.

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We have a new childminder, who seems lovely, but we all have to get used to each other. And the children are still flattened from being back at school.

And then, this time of year brings heritage week (a man dressed up as Robert Boyle in the Casino Marino – excellent thanks although herself now wants a vacuum pump for Christmas); the Fringe Theatre Festival (Ashling Bea and James Walmsley – only mildly funny- and The Stoneybatter Strangler – really quite dreadful performed outdoors by a large cast with little talent and a chill wind blowing, mildly atmospheric in places); the Theatre Festival (A Feast of Bones – for children, a bit creepy but herself loved it and Sheridan’s The Critic where I struggled to stay awake for the first half but found the second half alright and the ending superb); Culture Night (where we saw a limited number of things: Tailor’s Hall, St. Audeon’s but had pizza); Open House (by now flagging, we only inspected two premises, one of them very small); and we went to the opening night of the documentary film festival where we saw “The Great Hip Hop Hoax” which was good but the interview with the Director afterwards was even better and added additional layers of context to what is already an extremely odd story; there was a fly-by (sounds more exciting than it was – lots of planes – new and old- flew up the river Liffey at quite dispersed intervals, town was jam packed and the children couldn’t be bothered to get out of the car to look); we went to the Dublin growers’ festival and got the apples from our three apple trees pressed into apple juice and possibly cider (the jury is still out on this last one); and the Princess and I went to Cork for the weekend (twice).

And I broke a molar and had to go for an unscheduled trip to the dentist.

And the boys turned 8.

And, as of today, Mr. Waffle is lame with a horribly swollen and blistered ankle. He is allergic to wasp stings and got stung yesterday. He also got stung the week before last. His parents have a wasp’s nest in the largest tree in their garden. One our children like to climb up and get stuck in.

Is it any wonder posting has been light?

Dingle – Part 2


Posted in: Family, Ireland, Travel

Wednesday

Having had a very successful dinner at the cousins’ B&B the previous night, we developed a plan to go on a cliff walk to the beach just across the road. The fathers would drive towels and picnics to the beach and the mothers would shepherd the children along the cliff path. I instantly felt that the fathers were getting a far better deal. Somewhat to my astonishment, this turned out not to be the case. The weather was beautiful, the children were cheerful and the walk was pleasant. We spent the day at the beach and the Princess got the chance to walk up the road and renew her acquaintance with the shopkeeper who had given her a lift the previous day.

That night all the children stayed in another cousin’s house and six of the grown-ups were able to go out to dinner together. Let joy be unconfined.

Thursday

We collected the children from their cousin’s house and went for a walk in the damp.

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Reaction had set in, they were all tired and cranky. We trudged back to the house. The day was redeemed by an evening trip to the merries in the driving rain. The children had a fantastic time. Almost certainly the highlight of their summer. I felt mildly ill after a ride which should have been called the whiplash and knew myself to be as old as time.

Friday

The children and I spent the morning in Dingle’s really excellent library. We all read books peacefully and I actually heard lots of Irish spoken though one of the librarians was from the North which meant that a fair bit of it was impenetrable to me. On a whim I asked the librarian whether our Dublin library cards might work there. They would not but they would issue temporary cards for our stay. Too late, alas, for this trip but filed away for future knowledge and may some day be useful for you to know also, gentle reader.

We met an old friends of mine from college and her family for lunch. During our college careers I had often visited her in Dingle. This time was, however, the first time I had actually been able to see the mountains on the Dingle peninsula. We reminisced fondly over the endless rain that had been a feature of our youth. Her four children and our three bonded and Daniel continues to speak with a midlands accent (where they now live) as a tribute to this encounter. They also bought us lunch – what’s not to love?

That afternoon, using the local knowledge from lunch we went to the beach where, some 20 years previously, I had swum with the Dingle dolphin. I very rapidly turned tail; dolphins are enormous. Of course, Fungi was not then the celebrity that he is today. I brought the children and the cousins to the same cove but Fungi chose to bond with the dozens of boats driving tourists round the bay. Some of us saw him once in the distance. Not, regrettably, Michael, who was inclined to cry.

That night, Mr. Waffle and I went out to dinner while my saintly parents-in-law babysat. All very satisfactory.

And do you know what? The weather was so fine that we never got to visit the aquarium. Saved for next year.

Saturday

Our lovely landlady came to say goodbye. We had a long chat with her (as Gaeilge, very thrilling). She knew a number of the teachers from the children’s school who also come from that neck of the woods – further thrill. We brought her out to the car to meet the children (they were already strapped in for the journey) and finally they spoke some Irish. Not much and that little not grammatical but, you know, it was something. Our landlady and her husband are both local native speakers who moved to Dublin. They spoke Irish to their children but our landlady said that her mother always said what odd accents the children had. She also said that there was a lot more Irish spoken 20 years ago. A former colleague of mine from this part of the world, who has now retired, told me how when he was 12 he won a scholarship to a school in Killarney (this was before free-second level education). A lot of the local clever boys did. This was a school near the Gaeltacht which promoted and supported the Irish language. Yet, somehow, the boys from the Gaeltacht didn’t feel happy speaking to each other in Irish (although this was strongly encouraged) in front of their peers. He described to me the huge sense of relief the boys from the Gaeltacht felt when they sat on the bus home together at the end of term and could relax and speak Irish again. It’s all a bit depressing, really. However, on a cheerful note, have a link to the cups song and “Wake Me Up” in Irish just in case you are the only person who hasn’t seen them.

Dingle – Part 1


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

Did I tell you we were spending a week in Kerry with Mr. Waffle’s family? Well we did. Just for a change this year, we went to Dingle.

Saturday

It’s a long, long drive from Dublin to Dingle. We spent all day in the car, much of it, it felt, crawling through the picturesque town of Adare. Dingle is in the Gaeltacht (the Irish speaking part of the country) and the children’s fears were divided between concern that they have to speak Irish and fear that they might run into their teachers, several of whom are from the Dingle peninsula.

As we passed the sign saying “An Ghaeltacht”, I said to them, “Right so, only Irish from now on.” “No,” said Michael, “we only have to speak Irish where they can hear us.” Regrettably, they severely overestimated the strength of the Irish language in the Gaeltacht and I think about two words of Irish passed Michael’s lips during our stay.

Sunday

The children were delighted to discover that there was to be no escape from mass in Kerry. And in Irish to boot. Having recently learnt the Irish mass off by heart for their first communion, they were very sound on the responses. The church was heaving with huge crowds standing at the back (last experienced in other parts of the country about 1983) and we ended up sitting right at the front so the priest was able to get the full benefit of Daniel’s clear articulation of the responses (they were taught to speak out for their communion) and Michael’s regular audible whisper, “Is it over yet?” The Princess got to sit beside the mayor of Kerry. If the mayor of Kerry is at your mass, it is not going to be a short one. A nice lady beside us was delighted with Daniel’s responses, patted him on the shoulder and told him, in Irish, that he was a good boy. Virtue rewarded.

Monday

Our second trip to the beach. Imagine going to Kerry and getting two fine days in a row. I had intimated to the boys (who loath the beach) that trips to the beach would be limited and indoor activities would abound because I had hardly thought that the weather would permit two consecutive days on the beach but so it was. They were only slightly mollified by the presence of their cousins.

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Tuesday

In the morning the boys and I went into Dingle and shopped while the Princess and her father climbed Mount Brandon. In the afternoon, I took herself and the boys went off with their father and cousins. She was keen to go to the beach and the boys had dug their heels in and refused to go again. I was keen to go to the beach where we had been the previous day [subsequently identified as the most dangerous place to swim where a local has never been seen swimming – we were led astray by all the foreigners swimming; we’re mercifully all still alive] but he took us to Wine Strand which was, I felt, less good and less near a tea shop (but, you know, we’re alive). There was some coldness on parting and I said, rather rashly, that we would be perfectly fine to make our own way home.

After about an hour on the beach, we were ready to go. “Let’s start walking home,” I said, “I don’t want to bother Daddy and the boys.” There was a horrified pause. “Can’t we get a taxi?” said she. Oh my city child. “It’s only 11 kms.” We walked up from the beach with our gear and our sandy body board and I recalled my own late teens and early 20s when I used to hitch hike all over West Cork. “Come on, we’ll hitch,” I said. “REALLY?” she said. I stuck out my thumb. We were picked up immediately by a silent Cork man who dropped us at the main road. Somewhat heartened, she tried herself. A lovely matronly Dublin lady with an immaculate car picked us up immediately. She would have driven us all the way back to our house but I felt we hadn’t walked at all yet and asked her to put us down in the next townland. We thought we might get a cup of tea there. A chat with an English tourist revealed that there wasn’t even a bar (horror) but there was a shop.

We walked five minutes up the road to the shop. We were there a long time as the Princess likes leisure to choose and there were no other customers. We told the shopkeeper about our hunt for tea and on hearing that we were on foot, he promptly shut up shop and drove us himself to the nearest bar. He too wanted to drop us home but I was keen that we should walk at least a little of the way. It was only as he drove off that we realised that the bar was closed. Woe, no tea. We walked for a bit. We saw a lot of caterpillars.
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We brought one home:
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Mr. Waffle rang to see whether he could collect us from the beach. “Oh no,” I said mysteriously, “we’re nearly home”. We stuck out our thumbs and to my indignation (having being picked up immediately previously) had to wait nearly five minutes before a hired car pulled in. The driver was a Dubliner who lived in America and the Princess piled in with his American daughters in the back. He drove us home and on my instruction pulled up out of sight of the house. We walked in to cries of acclaim – “What a distance you have walked, you must be exchausted!” Triumph.

More tomorrow. Maybe.