Email from husband following conversation the evening before about economic woes – you know how it is, we talk of little else.
Subject: Wondered how Iceland was getting on ?
Much better than us, it seems
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/business/analysis-and-features/iceland-the-broken-economy-that-got-out-of-jail-2349905.html
On the plus side, even the OECD no longer believes that happiness is solely dependent on GDP. Just as well, eh?
Saturday, July 23
The children and I went to Blackrock Observatory in the morning where they have been many times before but they still really like it. For the first time I got there without getting lost.
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At lunch time we met my husband and sister [who had spent the week moving from Leiden to Cork via Dublin – it’s complicated] at my parents’ house. Hurrah for the cavalry. I had a rather relaxed afternoon and Mr. Waffle drove back to Garryvoe [Penalty points!! Don’t worry, Daddy’s driving!]. We stopped in Castlemartyr for chips for the children’s dinner. I am not proud.
Mr. Waffle and I went to Ballymaloe for dinner. The setting is lovely but the food is really only alright despite the excellent reputation. Every time I go there, I swear I won’t come back but yet, there we were. There, I’ve said it, I’ll probably be barred from Cork forever.
When we got home, the babysitter recoiled in horror when we suggested that we would pay her €10 an hour. “For babysitting,” she screeched, “I couldn’t take that.” This was distinctly endearing. She lived five minutes away and I drove her home. On my way back to the house I got lost and spent 45 minutes exploring the lanes of East Cork. My concern that my husband might be worried about me was unfounded as he was sound asleep on my return – insert mild sigh of reproach here.
Sunday, July 23
I went to mass, cravenly leaving the children with Mr. Waffle. As I went out the door, I heard herself taking Michael’s reading into her own hands – “Listen, Michael, when two vowels go out walking, the first one does the talking.” Daniel, doesn’t need her help.
We found ourselves in the diocese of Cloyne in the eye of the child abuse storm and much of the parish newsletter, when I got to mass was given over to these very distressing matters and I was glad that my two readers hadn’t got the opportunity to give it a look over.
In the afternoon, we dropped Mr. Waffle to the train to continue his labours in the big smoke. The children and I went to the butter museum which is appealing in a low key kind of way.
Monday, July 25
We went to visit our Limerick cousins. My aunt has a small shop from which she doles out sweets to the delight of the children. One of my cousins is an undertaker. When my mother asked how was business, he said “Very bad, same everywhere, no one’s dying anymore.” You heard it here first. Then on to my cousins who have a farm. This is usually a huge success but on this occasion it was marred by the following: one child who sulked and would not get out of the car for much of the visit; a fall in a bed of nettles and one child who fought with all of the young cousins present. A low point was a work call while dealing with several children trying to loudly explain their grievances to me. We will draw a veil.
An anecdote for my trouble: one of my cousins, who was also visiting, works in the research institute in Cork where the Queen visited. “Did you meet the Queen?” I asked him. “Well, I could have,” he said, “but she wasn’t coming until 2.30 and we finish at 1 on Fridays…” His family have form on this. His older brother was supposed to serve mass when the Pope came to Limerick in 1979. “What,” he enquired of the school authorities, “would happen if he didn’t serve mass?” Then he would have the day off like everyone else. He took the day off.
Tuesday, July 26
Recovering from the trauma of the previous day, we spent much of our time peacefully and happily around the house – the children created a club in the shed. It was pleasant. Daniel told me about the wages of sin. He said that no one can forgive my sins but Jesus and that the Bible alone will bring me to salvation. Slightly conscience stricken, I told him that Catholics and Protestants believed different things in some ways – I covered confession, the role of the Church and transubstantiation in outline. The Princess intervened, “You know, Mum, I think Daniel is probably more of a Protestant than a Catholic.”
Wednesday, July 27
We all cleaned the house. The children, in the absence of the mysterious cleaner were a big help with the hoovering. Then we locked up and went to Cork where the children’s kind grandparents gave them a tenner each to spend in France. Joy was unconfined. We went to Shandon; we played the bells; we climbed up to the tower; we looked at the matchstick model of the tower and the old books in the church including a Bible in Irish [those Protestants and their Bible reading again – Shandon is a Protestant church].
And then, we drove home [penalty points, penalty points!] to Dublin.
And, tomorrow, we’re going to France for a fortnight [full description on our return, bien sûr]. I can tell you, my return to work at the end of the month will be painful.
So, are you looking forward to a full description of our second holiday of the summer? Ah go on.
Tuesday, July 18
The children and I drove from Dublin to Cork. Humiliatingly, I managed to turn the wrong way on Dublin’s mighty ringroad. I had to ring Mr. Waffle and ask him to pay the toll twice – once for going the wrong way and once for coming back the right way. The children were very virtuous on the longish drive. They were particularly conscious of my recently acquired penalty points [2 for doing 60 in a 50 km an hour zone, since you ask] and any time that they felt the car speeding up at all, each would make a little comment.
Daniel [in tones of panic]: Penalty points, penalty points.
Michael [drily]: Achem [he sounds faintly Arabic when saying ahem, who knows why?], penalty points.
Herself: Only 10 more points until you lose your licence.
It is fair to say that these interventions certainly had the desired result. We lunched with my kind parents and drove on to East Cork where our wonderful friends have a house which they lend us regularly – so regularly that some of the neighbours think we own the place.
When we arrived, conscious that the house would need to be cleaned before we left the following week, I contacted a cleaner whose number Mr. Waffle had got from a colleague. This colleague had said to him, that the woman would do a fine job but on no account was he to reveal where he had got her number. She said this to him on several occasions but refused to go into the reasons why just saying that it was complicated. The cleaner’s reply to my text was to ask where exactly I had got her number. I said “friend of a friend” but the cleaner never contacted me again. A mystery.
Wednesday, July 19
We went to the seaside and the children neatly divided themselves between the beach on one side of the car park
and the playground on the other
while I ran between both locations making sure that they were still alive.
After we had been burnt by the sun, it started to rain and we drove to Cork city looking for diversion. I decided that we would visit Mahon Point in our search for wellingtons. I was fascinated by this shopping centre which, whenever we pass it at Christmas has cars backed up the motorway for ages which indicates that people are surely desperate to get in. Oh the bitter disappointment, as Michael said, “It’s like the ILAC centre with fewer people”. We took ourselves to Debenhams which, alas, had no wellingtons but we picked up a new kettle for the house. As I was paying for the kettle and the children were all talking at me, my phone rang. I thought that it was a local babysitter and answered in that spirit. [Please insert noises of children/paying for kettle/apologies for taking call into the dialogue below to appreciate the full effect]. I missed her introduction but she followed up with “Where are you?”
Me: In Cork
Her: On holidays?
Me: Yup, are you available to babysit?
Long pause.
Her: I just called to tell you I’ve decided to retire.
Me: Sorry, who is this? You must have the wrong number.
Her: No, I haven’t it’s me, your boss, I thought I should tell you before you heard on the grapevine.
The mortification. The distinct quashing of holiday spirit. I love my boss – she is a really interesting person to work with as well as flexible and extremely brilliant and I was curing her faults – maybe that’s what forced her into early retirement. Alas.
The Princess and I deposited the boys at their grandparents’ house and went to see Harry Potter which we enjoyed. We returned to the grandparents’ to find that their television – a key part of their babysitting strategy – had broken down. With great presence of mind, my mother had lured the boys to the park with promises of chocolate and then made them run races to get it. I think, nonetheless, that our return was greeted with relief.
We went back to Garryvoe where, inspired by the Princess’s tales of Harry Potter, Michael waved around a wand [a chopstick which he had brought from Dublin for this very purpose] and the others were given kitchen implements as substitute wands. Of course, herself wheedled Michael’s chopstick out of him in no time and he was left with a slotted spoon.
Thursday, July 21
We went to the beach in the morning and then to Stephen Pearce’s pottery in Shanagarry for lunch where, astoundingly, not one of the children saw a solitary thing that he or she liked. Michael briefly contemplated a cheese sandwich until he discovered that it was orange cheese and not white cheese [in Michael’s world, cheese and cheddar are synonymous]. We left dolefully but were cheered up by a young potter running out with three plastic bags full of clay which he said that the children might like to play with. They had a great time making lumpen pots and the like which they brought back to Dublin and which [the shame] I have just covertly thrown out.
So, for lunch we went to the Kilkenny design shop which was unremarkable except that the Princess spent all her money on a teddy bear which we had refused to buy for her at Christmas. And also, we were able to buy three pairs of the world’s most expensive wellingtons.
The afternoon took us on our annual trip to Leahy’s Fun Farm which always pleases. I ran into old Mr. Leahy and asked him about the economics of the place [because I am shameless] and his views on the viability of the Valentia pet farm for which my kind brother-in-law has prepared a website. The answers were a) excellent – it supports seven families and b) slightly pessimistic. The children brought home a caterpillar from the pet farm – great excitement – but eventually let it loose in the wild.
[Not a picture of the caterpillar]
Friday, July 22
The children finally plucked up the courage to investigate a group which had been intriguing them. The previous day, we had seen people in red jumpers giving out leaflets on the beach. They were the “United Beach Missions“. Their leaflet specified that they were not a cult, which may not have had the reassuring effect they were hoping for. It seemed to be run by rather nice older ladies from Northern Ireland and, crucially, they played games.
The children started to play games interspersed with God. An older lady and I sat and watched – her great niece was playing too. All the other children were very quiet but mine were roaring out the answers to everything. “Why is this?” I asked the other lady, mildly mortified. She replied, laughingly, in the manner of all Cork people, “They’re from Dublin, aren’t they?” “Do you think they’re being indoctrinated?” I asked. She felt yes but then got distracted by telling me how you could get mass online. I turned my attention back to the children who were now all bellowing out about the wages of sin. The man leading the group, said that everyone could be saved, it didn’t matter who they were or what their ages. Inevitably, I heard Daniel pipe up “What about someone who is 42, my mother is 42.” The lady beside me became mildly hysterical.
The missionaries broke for lunch so we went in to Ballycotton and had a walk along the pier which was nice though windswept [please note crisp bribery].
The children then had a surprisingly good time running up and down the ramp to the lifeboat station – almost as much fun as they had tipping all my change into the RNLI collection box in the pub (you know the one where the ship goes up and down in the waves as the money goes in – an object of huge fascination to my from my own misspent youth in pubs).
We were careful to be back for the indoctrination tug of war which was followed by further bible study [all you need is the bible, there is no need for further enlightenment or explanation – the catholic in me winces] and then a break before the talent show. I went back to the house. We took too long and when we returned to the beach the talent show was over. Michael was inconsolable and ruined the presentation ceremony by wailing “WE WERE TOO LATE” until I bundled him into the car. Daniel took up his role and was placated by a puzzle and yoyo from the missionaries.
To recover from the missed talent show, we went to visit the Ballymaloe shop – part of the Ballymaloe empire – poor choice – rather dull and expensive. The wailing continued unabated. Back to the Stephen Pearce pottery shop on the basis that, though unsuitable for lunch, it might provide an acceptable restorative snack. It was closing. The lady behind the counter, observing the children’s mournful faces suggested that we might buy something to eat outside which we did. Outside was lovely – warm and sunny with room for the children to play some of their newly learnt Christian games. All was well.
That night, after the children had gone to bed, the next door neighbours knocked on the door and asked whether I would like a glass of wine in the front garden with them. They were lovely. She works in the cinema and had only the previous week been to London to see some flick Keanu Reeves was making. “What’s he like?” I asked. “Well,” she said, “my colleague and I were hampered by the fact that we had to pretend not to be overwhelmed that he was talking to us so that took away most of our conversational skills but he seemed like the guy in “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure”. So now you know. I had to leave then as herself marched across the grass to the table to tell me it was high time I came in.
More tomorrow, if you’re feeling strong.
Tuesday, July 5
On Thursday morning, we visited Daniel O’Connell’s house. While the younger children played around the grounds, the Princess and I went for our annual inspection of the Liberator’s house. As we crossed the courtyard, she said “40 shilling freeholders”. “I beg your pardon?” “Catholic emancipation, the 40 shilling freeholders got the vote,” she sighed. In the house, I pointed to a cabinet saying, “Look guns!” “Yes,” she said, “the duelling pistol with which he killed a man, and there beside it is the black glove he wore for the rest of his life.” When we arrived downstairs, the nice woman on the door said, “Is this the young lady who I heard speaking so knowledgeably upstairs?” The Princess glowed with delight.
That afternoon, my cunning sister-in-law suggested that it would be nice, if the ladies of the party had an opportunity to go for a cup of tea together. The three of us ran out of the house like coursing hares leaving the men in charge which they took stoically, if not enthusiastically. We went into Sneem (great name, no?), past some of the most beautiful scenery in the country; we had a cup of tea and cake and it was all delightfully peaceful.
Wednesday, July 6
In what was, alas, to become the leitmotif of the week, the day dawned rainy. My sister-in-law suggested a nature walk. The children were quite extraordinarily excited by this prospect and rushed out of the house. I became fascinated myself. Daniel and I collected a bucket full of different flowers. I would never have thought that there was such a diverse range of flowers in the hedgerows. Our destination was an artist’s studio up the road. On arrival, we met the artist’s wife (our babysitter for the evening) and son leaving the premises which were closed. Our troops were undaunted and continued back to the house reasonably cheerfully. Except, Michael, of course, who objects to walking and was hopping on a point of principle as, he maintained, his socks were wet. Daniel and I had a serious conversation about ferns and how they were around when the dinosaurs were there.
Daniel: And fossils were made while God was resting?
Me: Well, well, not exactly..
Daniel (seriously): Is the Bible true?
Me: Well, not literally true no, well some parts of it are true, well, it’s all true but some parts of it aren’t literally true.
Daniel: It’s not true, is it?
Michael went upstairs and stood on the windowsill of our bedroom, fashioning himself a cloak from our curtains. “Who are you?” I asked. “I am super-deluxe man,” he replied. What powers do you think super deluxe man might have?
That afternoon, we spent on the beach at Derrynane which is, possibly, one of the nicest in the country.
The Princess amused herself by gathering jellyfish and discovered empirically that these particular dead jellyfish don’t sting.
The adults oversaw a vast engineering project and had all the children hard at work.
No sooner did they get a chance than the little barbarians stamped out civilisation with every appearance of enthusiasm: “Nothing beside remains: round the decay/Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,/The lone and level sands stretch far away.” As the children finished their stomping, my three year old niece rushed up to the adults and said, winningly, but clearly untruthfully, “It wasn’t us.”
That night the adults went out to dinner leaving the children in the hands of the artist’s wife. It was a really lovely evening – we have a lot in common and we don’t often get to speak uninterrupted by children for more than 5 minutes at a stretch.
Thursday, July 7
This day was, in my view, our greatest triumph. As the Princess said, “It rained like bullets all day”. The parents-in-law went to Waterville where they sat in a car park overlooking the sea with their newspapers. The younger members of the party went to Valentia island, westernmost and almost certainly wettest point in Europe on, possibly, the wettest day of the year. It was the point at which America and Europe were linked by cable and the guide book says that for years Valentia enjoyed better, if not cheaper, communication with New York than with Dublin.
Our first stop was a “pet farm” for which my sister-in-law had picked up a brochure earlier. When we arrived, it looked unprepossessing. The rain was bucketing down. “This,” said Mr. Waffle bitterly, “is an Irish holiday, driving miles in the rain to see things you wouldn’t cross the road to see at home.” An inauspicious start. But, it was absolutely terrific. The place had only just opened and the owner was a lovely man. Hugely welcoming. The children got bottles to feed the lambs, biscuits for the ponies, rubbed rabbits, held tiny baby chickens and terrapins. Saw lots of chickens in fact. They were able to rub all the animals and name the goat (Lucy, since you ask). As a parent, I have a lot of exposure to petting farms, and I really would give this one the best of the bunch award. It was particularly appealing the way the owner kept urging us to come back another day when it was sunny and he would let us in free; he also encouraged us to have a cup of tea in the house (again, no charge, just a ‘you must be miserable from the rain offer’). I only hope he can keep going because these are not particularly commercial attitudes and the season is short. If he lasts, then I can guarantee that he will have clients every year we go back to Kerry. If you find yourself in Valentia with a small child, go to the pet farm, you will not be disappointed. Alas, no website to link to, as yet. My brother-in-law, who is technical, hovered over the test site and offered the best advice he could – if it goes live, watch this space for an exciting link [updated to add – the brother-in-law came good; here is the exciting link].
After the pet farm, we went to lunch in Portmagee. The food was fine and the children were all really great. Nobody misbehaved and everyone ate something. The shape of things to come, D.V. (as my mother’s teacher used to write in her letters to her – I will be suitably impressed, if you are not Irish and know what it stands for. Clue: teacher was a nun).
After lunch, sister-in-law was keen that we go to a candle place. I was not keen, nor did I feel that the troops would be keen. However, they got to make their own candles and they loved it. There was also, for reasons that are not at all clear, a car racing track which Michael, in particular, found irresistible.
Please note, that the rain continued relentlessly throughout. As the children left with their (€4 – excellent value) candles clutched in their paws, we announced that we were going to the Valentia ice cream company. The Princess said in tones of genuine delight, “Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any better!” As we sat in the slightly glum parlour (lovely, I imagine, on a sunny day looking out across the Atlantic) eating really excellent ice cream, two young men sidled in the door and asked for a cone each; the sons of the house. The older boy, about 8 went outside with Daniel and me and we patted another rabbit. When I asked the rabbit’s name, the boy lifted it up in the air, examined closely and said, “It’s the girl.” Ah, young farmers. Upon enquiry, he confirmed that the damp cows in the field between us and the Atlantic had supplied the raw material for our ice cream. No food miles there.
Then we went into Knightstown. I am beginning to feel that my husband and his family are wilfully hiding aspects of this part of Kerry from me. The first year I went, I was only allowed to see Derrynane beach on the last day; the second year, Staigue fort was revealed to me, on the second last day; this year the charming Knightstown was revealed to me on the third last day having been concealed on all previous trips. It’s a really pretty planned little town full of the kind of upmarket tourist tat that I love – look, it has a stained glass shop. We took ourselves into a lovely cafe/bookshop. Daniel, perhaps a little tired of our attempts to stay dry, said, as we went through the cafe to the book shop, “Not another little bite to eat” which drew a grin from the waitress.
And then we took the ferry across to the mainland. It was “the best day ever”. Despite the rain like bullets.
Friday, July 8
“You know the cousins are leaving this morning,” I said to Daniel. “I know,” he said, and started to cry, “and they’re going to take their great ball game with them.” Despite the wrench of parting with the cousins’ ball game, the children recovered sufficiently to go to the beach for a last afternoon. It was overcast with sunny spells, during one of the sunny spells, I swam. Oh God, the bone crushing cold. Even the memory of it makes me shiver and my ankles start to shrivel. We then departed to partake in that most classical of Irish summer entertainments, drinks in the pub with crisps for the children. When we got back to the house, the grandparents gave us pictures of Derrynane which they had got from the local artist, which was rather lovely of them, particularly considering they were already paying for everything, even the hot water.
Saturday, July 9
We handed over the keys to the lady who manages the house. She commented that we had had “the wettest week of the year” and that she never remembered it being so wet in July before. I found this strangely uncomforting. And, frankly, this which I found online tonight, adds insult to injury.
And then, we broke the journey to Dublin with the Dutch Mama and her family in Mitchelstown (it’s complicated) which was great. There is something very appealing about visiting other parents – they are less alarmed, if your children eat nothing. The Dutch Mama had a bag of hand-me-downs which the Princess was initially – mortifyingly – outraged by (not being aware that she had had hand-me-downs in her wardrobe before) and subsequently charmed by as she found an exciting bag full of pretty things which, essentially, now constitute her summer wardrobe. The Dutch Mama has been investigating her ancestors and how they got through the famine. As she put it “it ain’t pretty”. Perhaps material for another post. Survivor guilt.
And then, onwards to Dublin and home. Did I tell you that we’re off somewhere else next week? It’s non-stop chez Waffle.
I interrupt my detailed day by day description of our holiday in Kerry to offer the following two problems for your sympathy:
1. Herself had an appointment with the dental hygienist a couple of months ago which, unprecedentedly, we forgot. They phoned us, we grovelled. We re-set a suitable date. It was yesterday. Did I remember to take her? Alas, no. Even though Mr. Waffle’s last words before leaving the country (for work, not anything more sinister) were, “Don’t forget the dentist.” My mortification knows no bounds.
2. Our new childminder who hasn’t started yet but who was perfect because
a) the children liked her;
b) she has lived in Ireland for a long time and is unlikely to leave in the middle of the year;
c) she was doing a course (childcare) in the mornings which allowed her to keep her benefits, if she worked fewer than 20 hours a week so had every incentive to stay
has texted to say that her course hours have changed and she can no longer work for us. I could weep. This, of course, is Nemesis in action as only yesterday I said breezily to the new father up the road, that finding a childminder would be no problem. And, also, I had told everyone how terrific this was going to be. I think that this is the first person who has left before she started. Back to the drawing board.
Oh yes, and Irish bonds have been downgraded to junk. It’s always worrying when your personal credit status is better than your country’s.
Updated to add: Also, we have woodworm.
And we’re back. You will recall that I spent last week in the wilds of Kerry with extended family. My very kind parents-in-law rented a house and invited us all to stay. They got a crop of 2 sons, 2 daughters-in-law and 5 grandchildren.
Saturday, July 2
The journey to Kerry was, as ever, horrendous. 3 hours to County Kerry and then a further three hours to get to Caherdaniel at the extreme end. We stopped for a picnic outside Adare having crawled through the town due to some exciting festival. The spot was considerably less idyllic than this picture might make you think as cars were whizzing along the main road opposite us having just broken free of Adare.
We were also somewhat delayed by the Ring of Kerry cycle – 1000s of insane people cycled round the Ring of Kerry (112 mountainous miles) that day and we met most of them on our journey. The road was windy and poor Daniel was sick (out the window – those are narrow, winding roads with no hard shoulders). All in all, we were tired people when we pulled into the holiday house that evening. Once we had been restored by tea. Grandad Waffle suggested that Mr. Waffle might like to go the pub – he was, nobly, reluctant but overborne. Mr. Waffle’s mother suggested that we walk to the beach – a suggestion which was greeted by her grandchildren with immense enthusiasm and by her daughter-in-law with none at all. However, my mother-in-law was proved right and no sooner did we get to the beach than the children threw on their togs and, oh the delight, proceeded to completely ignore us. Children are so hardy. Please observe what your correspondent wore to the beach. The item wrapped around my legs is my daughter’s jumper. You may well ask what exactly I am wearing and why a dead animal appears to be sitting on my head. I cannot say. Keep this image in your mind – this is how I looked all week, except sometimes I was wetter.
Late on Saturday night, the cousins arrived together with their parents, Mr. Waffle’s brother and his wife. Think of how I look above. You should know that my sister-in-law, who is a delightful person is, however, tall and willowy – furthermore, she is half Italian and her sister is a stylist. I’m only saying. I would post a picture of her doing yoga on the beach but the contrast would be too painful.
Sunday, July 3
Oh the delight of the cousins on seeing each other on Sunday morning – particularly the boys who are very close in age. The addition of cousins stops Daniel and Michael hitting each other for reasons I don’t fully understand but it is so welcome.
The trip to the pub quickly proved its merit. It allowed Grandad Waffle to chat to an old friend of his with a speedboat. Grandad Waffle kindly used up his credit with his friend to get us all a spin on this boat. Sunday morning saw us sitting hopefully on the pier. Michael was curiously resistant to this treat. Close questioning revealed that he believed that having driven to Kerry the previous day, we planned to get the ferry to France that morning. His plaintive bleats of “Can’t we go on the boat another day?” were explained. I suppose we big people are so odd, this was just the kind of thing we might do.
The weather was glorious. I had never been on a speed boat before and, I have to tell you, it is excellent. The children and I had a fabulous time and the Princess confided to our captain that it represented the high point of her life to date. I told her that her kind grandfather was the supplier of this treat and that, in fact, the grandparents were paying for the whole holiday. “Even the hot water?” she asked awed.
I might digress here to explain that, unlike in other countries, hot water does not come readily from Irish taps. You need to remember to turn on the immersion at least half an hour beforehand and, crucially, also to turn it off. Otherwise you will be scalded when, innocently, a couple of hours later you turn on the hot tap expecting it to be tepid at best and it is near boiling. Parents become somewhat obsessed by the immersion and particularly turning it off which not only saves everyone from death by boiling but also saves money and, possibly, stops the immersion exploding. I know a woman who, as a child, left the immersion on accidentally and realising that this was the case knew that her father would be furious. So, surreptitiously, she went to the bathroom, turned on the hot tap in the bath and poured a whole tank of hot water down the drain rather than suffering the consequences of his discovering the dreadful truth. This explanation by Irish American comedian Des Bishop, is perhaps the best way for non-Irish residents to understand the ramifications of the system.
Monday, July 4
We took the children horse riding which ours enjoyed mildly and the cousins rather more (first outing). Although Daniel seemed to be quite happy while riding, on dismounting, he complained bitterly that his horse sneezed and put him off. Given the weather, it would be hard to blame the horse. About this point, I became aware that my brother-in-law (who is immensely outdoorsy – maps, running up mountains at night, orienteering) was getting spectacularly accurate though unwelcome weather predictions from the Norwegians (www.yr.no). I offer you this, lest some day you too would welcome hour by hour predictions of rainfall levels in South Kerry. Your search is over.
The weather gave Michael an opportunity to hone his card playing skills and he defeated each of his relatives in turn at Happy Families until he could find no one to play with. Daniel meanwhile read,
and read
and read.
His reading has been improving for ages but he really got the hang of it in Kerry – he read to his brother and cousin, he read alone, he read road signs. He loves to read. Michael still doesn’t think much of it: he’s focussing on becoming a professional poker player.
We made our annual visit to Staigue Fort which is really a most astounding structure but as I stood there in the damp July weather, I did think that our ancestors must have had a pretty miserable time.
More tomorrow. Possibly a little less dull, possibly not.
