The weekend before last we climbed the Sugar Loaf again. The children ran up and down. I struggled behind them as best I could. I was still stiff on Wednesday. Views from the top are still lovely though.
Ireland
Miscellaneous Cork News
I went to Cork for my parents’ anniversary. I was alone. Very exciting. My mother and I went for a walk in Kinsale. The weather was beautiful.
We had a family dinner where my aunt told us about how, as a young woman, she and a friend went to Torquay on holidays. They were desperate to see the News of the World which was not then available in Ireland. They promptly went the newsagent’s and bought the News of the World, the Observer and the Catholic Herald. As the newsagent said, that’s not a combination you see very often.
We bought my parents an iPad for their anniversary. So far they seem wary but broadly positive.
I decided to bring my Great Aunt Cecelia’s Persian rug back to Dublin with me as my parents have taken it up to stop themselves tripping over it and killing themselves. Given my reputation my mother said anxiously, “You can have it, but you’re not to throw it out.” I promised not. I imagined it transforming my room, a bit like in “The Little Princess”:
This is what she saw. In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream seemed changed into fairyland– and it was flooded with warm light, for a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.
It didn’t quite meet those, admittedly stringent, criteria but I like it as does the cat:
That is all.
Thank You for Pushing my Boundaries
That’s what my husband said to me in tones of mild bitterness earlier this evening. We went to see “The Boys of Foley Street” in the Dublin Theatre Festival. It was very hard to get tickets. This difficulty was explained when the tickets arrived with an explanatory note that there were only four audience members for each show. I was unnerved. Mr. Waffle said acidly, “I bet there’s going to be audience participation.” He was right.
Then I got this email:
Dear Anne,
Thank you for your recent booking of tickets to The Boys of Foley Street as part of Dublin Theatre Festival.
I am getting in touch with you now to let you know that since you made the booking we have learned that the production contains scenes of sexual violence. As this is a new piece and constantly evolving, we were not aware of this at the time of your booking. We want our audiences to enjoy every Festival show they attend and we felt it was important to update you so that you would have all the information available on the production.
We advise that The Boys of Foley Street is not suitable for patrons under 16 years of age, and that the production contains material that some may find disturbing.
Should you have any queries or concerns on the content of this material I would be happy to discuss these further with you.
Kind regards,
Box Office Manager
Dublin Theatre Festival
I have to say that my enthusiasm levels hit record lows. As Mr. Waffle and I trudged through the rain to the venue, I feared the worst. We were led to a car across the road and told to sit in. This documentary was playing on the radio. An alarming looking tramp with a bottle of cider under his arm came and knocked at the car window. Actor or local? Hard to tell but I suppose that this was part of the attraction. I rolled down the car window cautiously. He began to ramble but he seemed more likely to be an actor.
Then we were driven around this very depressed part of the city to a housing estate like this only not as pleasant. There were some locals drinking in a huddle in the corner (not actors) and we went into one of the flats where, alas, we were separated. The actors (lots of them) acted very dysfunctional lives just for you – all by yourself. It was really cleverly done, though intimidating. That was kind of the point, I suppose. I did find myself looking at the actors’ teeth showing fine orthodontic work and saying mentally, these people are not really alarming, violent, alcoholics. No they’re not.
I used the same technique in a back alley while a drug dealer was beaten up and I was holding the IRA man’s coat. [I subsequently found a picture of the actor on the internet drinking prosecco with his friends. My conscience is clear] Mr. Waffle was in a shed sitting in an old car while a dead body slid up and down the roof. Frankly, I wouldn’t have minded having him to hand as that would have stopped the actor playing the alarming tramp giving me a kiss (peck on the cheek, but still) because I was his girlfriend. We finished up in a meeting room where pushers were being denounced having been brought there by Macker the reassuring IRA man. When he left, we noticed that our pictures were on the walls. Possibly because we were on “the list”.
Still and all, highly recommended; there are no dull bits.
Running against the Tide
On Saturday I took the children to the Phoenix Park to find that it was closed to cars because there was a half marathon. We parked outside the gates and walked while carrying mountains of kit (me), cycled (Michael deploying new found skills), roller-bladed (herself) and solo-ed (Daniel) 2 kms into the playground at which point we were only fit to turn around and soldier back to the car so that we could get home for lunch.
Then, this morning we dropped Mr. Waffle to the airport (he’s in exotic Finland for work) and went on to a playground in the grounds of a big house nearby. The car park and grounds were full to overflowing. Yes, indeed, another wretched run ruining our weekend.
Some further indications of the national interest in running: the Irish Times is now doing special running articles; lots of my relatives run including ones you might safely assume were a little old for this kind of thing; my colleague who started running a couple of years ago got a bunch of people at work interested and now they’ve gone and won a race – they have a trophy, it’s unmissable; and further the stand-up comedian we went to see the other night is running. I am a little concerned that I may be the one person in Ireland who isn’t running. Look, I had shin splints in 1989 and I’m not going to risk that again.
Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness
Some things grew in my garden this year. Town Mouse who is in the semi-pro category when it comes to gardening and once, if memory serves me, won a prize for her vegetables, had a spread sheet calculating how much she spent on her garden and comparing her prices to those in the supermarket. I seem to remember that the calculation was that growing your own was definitely not cheaper. If this was the case for Town Mouse, it is much more so for me. Things fail with monotonous regularity (slugs devoured this years pumpkin crop when it was two tender leaves poking above the ground). I spend hours in vain trying to weed out brambles, dandelions and bindweed. My crops are small. As Town Mouse points out, they do taste slightly nicer than things you buy in the shops but, you know, they are still, vegetables. But yet, I find it all very enjoyable. Oh middle age, thy name is gardening. This season’s triumphs are detailed below. And I haven’t even mentioned the sweet peas.
The ever-reliable gooseberries providing enough for two harvests and four pots of jam:
The small, but successful, turnip and carrot harvest:
Providing enough for dinner for five (if three of the five don’t eat vegetables).
The pea harvest; the Princess demonstrates using “women laughing with salad” for inspiration:
Every year, I have loads of lettuce. I think it must be the easiest thing to grow. If you’re going to start, start here:
Healthy head of lettuce in the sink with entire potato crop. Let us draw a veil.
Our two apple trees have not been particularly successful producing one apple between them. On the plus side, we have 11 pears on our pear tree. Yes, I have counted.
Garryvoe – Part 3
Saturday, July 21
Mr. Waffle was restored to us. We went out for lunch to celebrate. The sun shone with some determination and when herself and myself went for a swim in the late afternoon, it was warm. Unprecedented in these waters in my experience.
Then my sister came and collected me. While my noble husband minded the children, I went up to Cork for dinner and then the cinema.
Sunday, July 22
And best of all, I slept in my parents’ house and didn’t get up until 11 on Sunday morning. I genuinely cannot remember the last time I slept so late in the morning. It was fantastic. Oh happiness. I am a champion sleeper, if only given a chance. Sigh.
In the afternoon, reunited with my family, we went to “The Queenstown Experience.” We had been before when the children were smaller and they hadn’t liked it much but it was pouring rain, they were older and they had spent the year learning about the Titanic in school. Unfortunately, this made no difference and the boys, in particular, remained resolutely underwhelmed. Alas.
Monday, July 23
This was our last full day in Garryvoe and was to bring two important sets of visitors, our friends who live in the Netherlands and their four children and childminder and the washing machine repair man. Inevitably, they all arrived simultaneously.
The washing machine man said that there was nothing wrong with the washing machine other than that the water pressure was low (confirmed with neighbour that pressure always low in summer). All that was required was to plug it out and it would reset itself which it duly did. Oh bitterness, thy name is hotpoint.
It was lovely to see our friends though. The children all got on being of similar ages. Despite dreadful weather we all quite enjoyed a trip to the beach except for the Hiberno-Dutch children’s Colombian au pair. She sat glumly on a rock wrapped in her coat and looking in horror at the children in their togs. Under the direction of the Dutch part of the Hiberno-Dutch group they were building a canal at the edge of the water while digging for clay an activity which made them all satisfyingly wet and dirty. I asked the Hiberno part of the Hiberno-Dutch couple what she thought of the changes in Ireland since the economy collapsed and she commented: “We’re much nicer when we’re poor, aren’t we?”
Tuesday, July 24
We set off for Dublin stopping in Cork for lunch but, at least no washing, so it wasn’t all bad. We beguiled the three hour journey in a variety of ways. “Guess the character” where one person thinks of a character and the others have to guess who it is. Daniel kept us guessing for a long time. He had “road-runner”, it’s not that we didn’t guess that, it’s just that he wanted us to guess which episode and nobody managed that, as he pointed out.
Michael resorted to the DS. “Why isn’t it in English?” he wailed. “I changed it to Dutch, after yesterday,” said Daniel, “you know, I speak Dutch now.”
It was a long drive.
And next I’ll do France but not until the middle of the month. Yeah, I know, you’re on the edge of your seat out there.