belgianwaffle

Ireland

Sweet Cork of Thee


Posted in: Cork, Ireland

I took the children to Cork last week leaving Mr. Waffle to work alone in the big smoke. I stayed with my parents who I felt would welcome the excitement of being woken early, feeding our picky eaters and generally bonding with their grandchildren. That last worked well, the Princess and her grandmother are now both addicted to “Keeping up Appearances“.

We made the obligatory trip to Fota. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. Mr. Waffle, safe in his Dublin fastness, suggested that it might be fun to go. Hah. It was a warm day and I covered the children in sunscreen. Michael and Daniel insisted on wearing their jumpers which they resolutely kept on all day – turning slowly purple in the heat.

No sooner had we passed through the gates (long queue, of course) than the children scented the possibility of acquiring plush toys. Once this hurdle had been cleared, they threw themselves into the playground by the gate paying scant attention to the monkeys sitting nearby. The Princess discovered that she does not like sand in her sandals and, to my horror, I saw her sitting in the middle of the playground licking the sand off her toes. Does this kind of thing happen to anyone else?

We then hurried on to the cafe in the centre of the park because everyone was hungry. The cafe had long queues and the food was quite vile. I lost each of the children in turn in the seething mass of humanity in the nearby playground and, of course, had to drag the other two, unwillingly, on the search, so that I didn’t compound my losses. I spent €27 on a range of items which the children might eat. The Princess ate most of hers. Daniel ate some chips. Michael ate two or three chips, announced he was full and skipped out to the playground. As is his form, 15 minutes later, when the food was gone, he announced that he was hungry. Ice creams followed. Daniel kept asking to go on the little train around the park but we always seemed to miss it and he spent much of the day looking after it mournfully. At no point, other than when we saw the baby penguins in the incubator, did they show the slightest interest in the animals. Sigh.

Obligatory giraffe picture. They’re all looking at me exploding with rage.
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On Friday, the boys and I dropped my parents’ car into town to get the clutch fixed. We found ourselves in the centre of town at 8.45. It was a perfect morning. Blue skies, leafy vistas and no one in town but ourselves. The boom was kind to Cork and the centre didn’t change fundamentally, it just got nicer. Cork is at its best in summer, it feels like a compact appealing maritime town which is exactly what it used to be. For me, there is nowhere in the world that is so lovely early on a sunny day. Maybe the fact that I no longer live there added some enchantment to the view.

We went into the market for a wander. The lady in the egg stall gave us free duck eggs to try and confided that they were all very excited about the Queen of England’s forthcoming visit. Michael walked around the market holding his nose because it was full of disgusting smells like olives, fish and fresh bread.

We got back to my parents’ house in time to watch the British royal wedding. Sample conversation during same:
Daniel: When will this be over, I want to watch cartoons!
Michael: Why can’t we watch cartoons?
Their mother, sister and grandmother: Wait, wait, look they’re going to kiss on the balcony.

Herself was somewhat confused by the extensive references to the Irish Guards and shouted out gleefully, “Look Mummy, the Gardaí are coming.” Of course, having spent the week in my parents’ house, we were fully aware of all aspects of the wedding. My father reads the Daily Telegraph – does it make it better or worse that they used to always take it in his house when he was growing up? The Telegraph outdid itself last week with pictures of the happy couple on the front page every day.

After the wedding, I prodded the children out the door to the beach. Despite considerable reluctance, they loved Garretstown beach where they had never been before and all got wet to varying degrees.

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And then into Kinsale afterwards for an ice cream.
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Is it always the last day of a holiday that’s the best?

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Outing


Posted in: Family, Ireland

On Saturday we went for an outing to the site of the Battle of the Boyne. Despite Mr. Waffle’s dubiety this proved a very successful expedition with an interesting exhibition, many cannons and some lovely parkland. And, as Michael pointed out to me, in great excitement, a map. The exhibition was very carefully done to reflect what is usually tactfully referred to as “both traditions”. It was underlined that Irishmen fought on both sides. There was no triumphalism and only sign of the unfortunate outcome for Irish catholics was a copy of this act without a great deal of further comment:
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The children were delighted by the interactive displays and the adults were interested. The occasion was only marred by an all too accurate description of the failed charge of the Jacobite cavalry. This led to the Princess moaning for the rest of the afternoon: “They killed the horses, they killed the innocent horses.” Pointing out that, as the battle took place some 320 years ago, the horses were long dead was of no comfort to herself. Even a picnic in the park in glorious sunshine was only a slight distraction from the nastiness of battle and the infinitely superior regime pertaining for horses in Narnia.
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After lunch we took ourselves off to the ruins of the Cistercian Abbey at Mellifont. The visitor centre was closed and I feared that we might not be able to get to the site itself but it was open and we saw it at its best. There were few other visitors and the weather was beautiful. The children occupied themselves filling their hats with gravel and we were able to lie on the grass admiring the surroundings and imagining the cloisters.
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At about 5 in the afternoon when we returned home, I had to go into town to pick up some things. Town was hot and heaving with people, most of them sweaty, red-faced, disgruntled children in buggies. I finished my errands in ten minutes and flew home borne up on the wings of smugness as I reflected on our glorious day in the country. I am sure that this is very bad but I’m past caring.

Feis Ceoil


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

The school had a singing and recitation competition on Saturday. The boys were both very brave but failed to scoop any medals. Michael took this very hard. “I try and I try, but still I don’t win,” he sobbed as the kindly adjudicator mouthed “sorry” at me over his heaving shoulders. The same adjudicator proceeded to award his sister second place in her category which she regarded as no more than her due. If I were giving out medals, I would have given one to Daniel, I think, who did his impression of a child from the Connemara Gaeltacht.

In completely unrelated news, herself walked a neighbour’s child home this afternoon and came back carrying a bag full of swag. Apparently, every day when coming home she, the childminder and the boys, meet a nice lady who lives on the street. The Princess had informed the lady that her birthday was coming, as indeed she has informed everybody. The lady acted on this information and as the Princess was passing her house this afternoon, she came out with various offerings. Unfortunately, the Princess has inherited my sense of direction so she has no idea in which house exactly her benefactress lives nor is she aware of other useful identifiers like the lady’s name. She has composed a thank you letter to hand over next time she meets the lady in the street and that is the best we can do for the moment. Who says the big city is an unfriendly place?

Another First Communion Story


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

This is one from a friend’s taxi driver. He was hired for the day of this little girl’s first communion which, apparently, is quite common. He drove her to the hairdresser, to the dressmaker, to the beautician for her nails and facial and then the child’s mother looked at her watch and said, “You know, we’re running late, we’ll go straight to lunch.” I suppose it might be apocryphal.

First Confession


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Princess

The Princess made her first confession. It was a surprisingly nice ceremony. When I made my first confession, we were taken out of school during the day and filed into the church and into the confession box in turn. No parents were involved.

This was quite different. It was in the evening and families came in droves. The children did a little play and went up to the altar to tell the priests their sins (although as I may have mentioned before, there are no sins any more, only occasions when they don’t “show love”). The sixth class choir came as did all the teachers from the school.

Mr. Waffle and I didn’t quite know what to wear so we were somewhat overdressed for the occasion. My poor daughter was horribly nervous, mostly because she had one small line in the play which she had to deliver in front of an entirely sympathetic audience. As her moment came, she turned pink. Then she scrunched up the end of her skirt in her fist and delivered her line at great speed. Not, in fact, entirely unlike my interventions when forced to speak at large conferences.

After this, the actual confession was painless.

The church where the ceremony was held is very pretty. It’s a beautifully proportioned Victorian gothic structure with lovely stained glass. It is, however, in a very deprived part of the inner city surrounded by run down council flats, some of which are boarded up. After the ceremony we were told by the school to do something celebratory, so although it was late, we decided to take herself to a slightly old-fashioned but still smart hotel nearby for a drink. As we walked past the flats (or the flahs, as they are known locally), I was astonished to hear someone calling the Princess’s name and to see her waving merrily up at a depressing balcony. “Who was that?” I asked. “That’s X [let us call him Bronte] from my class, he lives in the flats.” Truly all human life is here. “Oh, I think he lives with his granny,” I said to Mr. Waffle, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen his mother.” “Who then is the young woman with Bronte tattooed on her lower back?” replied Mr. Waffle.

The Princess got orange juice and marshmallows from the nice waiter in the hotel. She got a sparkly bracelet from Veritas (religious goods store in Ireland, haberdashers in Belgium – I give you this information free) which was the best of an, ahem, interesting range of items. She loved it which was delightful. The whole thing was very pleasant and, I suspect, may be more successful than the First Communion day given the weight of expectation which is riding on it. Of course, she is not really prepared at all for her second confession when she’ll have to go into the box in the church, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Really?


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

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“All garminds must be clean”