belgianwaffle

Ireland

Busy, busy, busy


Posted in: Family, Ireland

Saturday

I am godmother to the child of conservative catholic parents. He made his first holy communion on Saturday and we were invited to the house for tea, buns, sandwiches and the use of a bouncy castle. Off we went and very pleasant it was too. Largely because of bouncy castle which allowed the grown-ups to chat peacefully while the children exhausted themselves.

Obviously, as it was the home of very devout catholics, we were the most wishy-washy people there. Aside from the relatives, who, I think, were largely lapsed. Dramatis personae, aside from ourselves and relatives consisted of the local priest (young by priestly standards, mid 30s, I’d say), a friend and her six children and another couple and their child.

The priest and the communicant’s mother had recently been on a pilgrimage to Turin with a group. We relived highlights of this which was absolutely hilarious. The church in Ireland attracts eccentrics and they had their fair share of them on their trip to Turin. In particular, one elderly lady became obsessed with getting two young men whom she knew on the trip. They were in Italy and she felt that they would love to join. The priest told her firmly, no, (as they hadn’t paid) but she managed to smuggle them into her room and persuaded some unfortunate nun to let her double up with her. She then smuggled them in to see the shroud of Turin also. The priest announced that she would be barred from the next pilgrimage. “How?” I asked. “We’ll give her name to the tour operator and ask them to tell her it’s full, if she calls.” The deviousness of the clergy. They’re used to dealing with odd people, I suppose.

Talk turned to the first communion ceremony itself. For historical reasons, first communion in Ireland is a little like weddings in other countries; people who would never go near a church under normal circumstances, take part in this religious ceremony. This means that often parents have only the vaguest idea of what to do during a church ceremony (the expression unchurched, which I only came across for the first time recently, was tossed around like snuff at a wake). According to my informants the parents spoke throughout mass and took calls on their mobile phones. One father assumed that the bringing up of the gifts was the start of the first communion moment and leapt in front of the procession and held it up while he started photographing madly. Amusing all the same.

The woman with six children was home schooling them (yes, really, because Irish schools aren’t catholic enough) and was married to a man working as a eurosceptic in Brussels. Not, prima facie, my cup of tea. We did not touch on politics and this was probably a good thing. But I have to say, she had six lovely, polite, confident children and she herself was charming though pretty tired looking. As you would be, I imagine, if you home-schooled 6 children aged from 12 to 9 months and your husband worked in Brussels, five days a week. I know that there is lots of home schooling in the US but almost nobody home schools in Ireland and I was fascinated by how she was getting on. She said it worked for them but she wasn’t at all pushy about it. I was filled with admiration. Particularly as, while her six, SIX, children were being polite, charming etc. my eldest was lying on the sofa explaining to the first communicant’s grandmother why he was vile (there was an incident on the bouncy castle).

Sunday

Sunday was the nicest day of the year so far and we had a plan. We went to Ireland’s Eye which is an island off the North coast of Dublin.

We had a slightly rocky start as our ferryman was abused by a rival who flounced off with the words: “I wouldn’t travel with him, he has no licence and he’s an alcoholic.” The red face and shaky hands of our captain lent some colour to the latter accusation but he navigated the 300 meter chasm between Ireland’s Eye and the mainland without difficulty. The Princess was entranced. She had never been on a small boat before and hung over the edge peering into the water. The island has a martello tower and she exclaimed, “It’s like Kirrin Island.”

Ireland's Eye 069

Everyone was pretty peckish by the time we got to the island, so we had our picnic. I picked an idyllic spot which turned out to be right in the centre of a circle of nettles and thistles. Alas.

Ireland's Eye 047

However, it did mean that we got to see some seagulls’ eggs. Until the seagulls came back and dived and flapped at us while we ran for safety.

Ireland's Eye 046

Then we went down to the beach and swam and played with buckets and spades while the rich arrived in droves in their yachts.

Ireland's Eye 055

Then, it was time to gather all our gear and get the ferry back.
Ireland's Eye 074

At the end of the pier, the children and I got ice cream while Mr. Waffle went to get the car. Daniel dropped his and the Princess very nobly gave him the end of hers instead. She repented of this kind gesture and began lobbying me for another ice cream. I resisted. She stomped off in a huff. This is something she does when she gets very cross. It was difficult for me to go after her as I had the two ice-cream besmeared boys and mountains of kit. When her father came, I was peeved. I stomped off with him and the boys up to where he had parked the car leaving her hiding behind a sign, reasoning that I could collect her in a moment and haul her off when I had disposed of my encumbrances. When I went back, I knew something was wrong when I saw her with two older Americans whom we had passed earlier. Yes, indeed, she was in floods of tears and thought we had gone without her. I don’t think that I have ever seen the poor mite so happy to see me. The kind Americans were, understandably, relieved and pleased to see me. The whole interlude lasted no longer than five minutes but she was very woebegone. Sometimes I forget how small she is really despite her will of iron. She confided to me that she didn’t trust the Americans and had planned to slip away and go back to the ice cream shop and tell them that she was lost. I was pleased to see her instincts were so sound as I have always told her to go to a shop and explain her predicament, if she is ever lost. On the other hand, I hope she will grow better at guessing which grown-ups are likely to abduct her (something she has been warned of in school, I fear) and which are not for it is hard to imagine a more innocent looking pair than the kindly Americans. All’s well that ends well. Another learning experience for both of us.

Monday

Mr. Waffle and I did not work today and went on one of our occasional walks in the Wicklow hills. Mindful of previous reprimands by readers of this blog, despite the cool and misty weather, I did not wear jeans. I was very grateful as the clouds blew off and it got warm during our walk. I wish I had brought suncream, though, as now my face is like a tomato. Alas.

We went on our longest walk yet. Three hours. Snigger not, hikers. The first half of the circuit was delightful. Warm, but not too hot, downhill to a lake with mountains on either side and not a soul there but ourselves. We saw loads of deer. The undergrowth was full of bluebells. God was in his heaven all was right with the world. We forgot the camera but here are some internet pictures.

The way back was uphill and hot and we got lost and we trekked for miles. To our intense surprise we emerged just by where we had parked the car. We left a small sacrifice to the god of lost hikers and high tailed it to Hunter’s for afternoon tea in the garden before coming home.

Lovely. And I managed to finish the weekend papers too.

Grave Concerns


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

I never told you about the Sunday that I made everyone go to the museum in the cemetery. Here is an extract from the museum guide to “Ireland’s Necropolis”:

“The glazed Prospect Gallery offers a breathtaking panorama of the cemetery, along with information on its marvellous array of historic graves.”

I bet you wish that you’d come too.

Much as I love cemeteries and tea rooms, I am not sure that I would have had the audacity to combine the two. This is what the brochure has to say: “As part of the visitor experience Glasnevin Museum has provided a 70 seat cafe for your enjoyment. Serving morning coffee, lunch and afternoon tea, this is the perfect place to meet your friends or take the family.”

To clarify, the cafe is in the cemetery. You can see people being buried from the window as you eat your chocolate muffin. It is mildly unsettling. I am not sure that I would call it the perfect place to bring the family.

Though I am being sarcastic at their expense, it was all mildly entertaining (15 euros to get in, mind you) and the cafe was pleasant with futuristic bathrooms which the children enjoyed.

I thought you should know, in case you ever find yourself at a loose end in Dublin.

Weekend Round-up or the Concerns of the Middle Aged


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins

I spent a very happy afternoon on Saturday in the back garden digging up things and poking at things I had planted. I was slightly appalled by this but as a friend of my mother’s whom I met for lunch today said “you have to grow up some time.”

On Saturday night I attended a joint 40th birthday party and dissipated all of my zen happiness by encouraging a friend to tell me all about her beautifully renovated large house. Envy is such a corrosive emotion. Was slightly soothed by getting a lift home from another friend in his porsche which he (hilariously) enjoys driving around underground car parks at speed. I think that Mr. Waffle who was sitting in the front, enjoyed it a lot less. On a negative note, while the 911 is built for speed, it is not built for back seat passengers and getting in and out was not a dignified exercise.

I then brought our lovely, but slightly neurotic and highly strung, French babysitter home and said that she looked tired. She is very confiding and told me a long and complex tale about her boyfriend’s perfidy, intertwined with her difficulties in getting a summer placement for her course. I sympathised as effectively as I could. I was somewhat hampered by the fact that all of this was confided to me in French and I wasn’t entirely clear what the perfidy was.

On Sunday at mass, the children got given plastic rosary beads and miraculous medals. Daniel insisted on wearing his blue beads around his neck all day and, combined with his peaked cap and baggy tracksuit, he looked like a little wannabe rapper. The Princess ate her miraculous medal.

In the afternoon we went to Dollymount beach which could be pretty but suffers from the following, not insignificant, drawbacks:

a) it is smelly;
b) it is rough;
c) there are horse races with little buggy things;
d) large ships pass nearby;
e) it was low tide (not a permanent drawback, I concede);
f) a large husky kept escaping from his very tattooed masters and barking at the small children;
g) the car park is on the beach – yes on the sand – I am not making this up;
h) motor bikes drive up and down the beach.

Despite the above, the beach has beautiful golden sand which kept the children amused for several hours when they were not cowering behind rocks in fear due to c), e) and h) above. It also has beautiful views of the Dublin mountains which are lovely so long as you keep your line of sight above the industrial buildings that litter the coastline.

Small World or I am allowed to be as pretentious as I like here


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

Sometimes at lunch time I go to the National Gallery. It’s peaceful there. Following my trip to Paris and my new found love for Largillière, I have been working my way around the two (very small) French rooms. I looked at the picture of Richard Wall by Van Loo. It’s a good picture and I spent a while imaging Mr. Wall, who has a face made for meetings, chairing a very dull modern committee without a wig or a skirted coat. He was described as Spanish Ambassador to England and I thought that was a little odd and perhaps it should be the other way around. Wikipedia, as ever, was my friend. Richard Wall was indeed Spanish Ambassador to England although he was more commonly known as Ricardo Wall. But he was of Irish origin, in fact his people came from Kilmallock in Co. Limerick (where, as it happens, my mother grew up and my cousins still live). Wouldn’t it be worth mentioning this in the description and perhaps even moving Ambassador Wall to the fledgling Irish portrait gallery on the ground floor?

Post-feminist volcano


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Travel

My loving husband was in Luxembourg (glamourous foreign destination revealed) for work. Ireland continues to be cut off from the rest of the world by the machinations of the unpronounceable Icelandic volcano. So, my loving husband flew to London from Luxembourg this afternoon, is currently standing on a train from London to Wales and later tonight will be getting the night boat which will bring him into Dublin at 6.55 fresh as a daisy. Irish airspace will reopen at 4.00 am.

The reason for the planes, boats and automobiles extravaganza is that the children are off school this week and I minded them today and yesterday and it is Mr. Waffle’s job to mind them on Thursday and Friday while I return to work. I pointed out that he would be in no condition to mind them tomorrow morning and I am putting off my return to the afternoon. I asked him with some asperity whether it would not have been better to stay in Luxembourg rather than martyr himself in this way. He pointed out straight back that he rang me this morning when the decision had to be made and I didn’t answer my phone. This is, alas, my “especial foible” so I retired in disorder.

There is a point to this narrative so bear with me. It illustrates my husband’s highly developed sense of duty. This sense of duty combined with an excellent upbringing and, I am sure, his own innate virtue, means that my husband and I share all domestic tasks: child minding, cooking, cleaning, laundry, bill paying, you name it, we share it. I have absolutely no complaints. But here’s the thing. We’re both stretched and exhausted. Yes, I am sure that it would be worse for me, if my husband were useless, but it’s no bed of roses either. I say this in some distress for I often see things to the effect that when men do their share, it will be all better. Well, based on my experience, it won’t be as much better as people seem to think. I suppose you can dispose of those tedious arguments people seem to have about laundry and hoovering and use the extra time to watch BBC 4. The traditional model works well for the working spouse (almost always the husband). The two parents working model where all the work is shared is exhausting for both parents. I can’t tell you how much it annoys me to have to concede this but there it is.

And today, the children and I went to the newly re-opened Natural History Museum which we all enjoyed very much. I thought you would like to know. If you ever find yourself at a loose end in Dublin with small children, I recommend it.