My father’s first cousin died a couple of weeks ago. She was always very beautiful and quite exotic boasting a tan when everyone else in Ireland was ghostly white. She married a rich man and they seemed to lead extraordinarily glamorous lives even though they lived in Kerry which does not lend itself to glamour. My brother and sister dutifully went to the funeral and met lots of my father’s cousins and reminisced and brought back useful quantities of family gossip. It wasn’t a shock (in fact about a year ago, I had firmly and definitively told my aunt that this woman was dead despite her distinct – and, as it turns out, correct – doubts on that point, so, you know, definitely not a shock) but I do feel that I am certainly edging closer to the front of the church.
Ireland
#Andshecycles
The other morning I was cycling in to work and I saw a schoolgirl cycling in front of me. I was delighted as you so rarely see schoolgirls cycling. The Princess’s friend E from primary school is one of the only girls, aside from herself, I know who cycles to school. I peered more closely at the child ahead of me and when I arrived at the lights, I confirmed that it was indeed E on the bike. She’s in her last year of secondary school now and while waiting for the lights to change we covered a variety of topics including how her parents and sisters were; what subjects she was studying for the Leaving Certificate and what she was hoping to study in college. I felt it was poor form of me to put off one of the few girls who cycle by introducing the additional danger of being interrogated by her friend’s mother to the already considerable dangers for cyclists on Dublin streets but what can I do, I am a middle aged mother of three and I live to torture teenagers with hard questions about their lives.
A Litany of Disasters
The weekend before last, I drove to Cork with the boys. On the motorway outside Cashel (2 hours from Dublin, an hour from Cork, not handy for either), the car died. We pulled over to the hard shoulder and contemplated our options. The AA will let you join from the side of the road (important information) and they were very helpful but the woman said I was probably better off getting a tow truck and she gave me the number of a local. I called him and he came promptly enough. The boys and I were delighted to get off the hard shoulder.
The tow truck man suggested we go to a local motorway service station but I thought we might be better off going into Cashel and getting dinner while we waited for my saintly sister to drive up from Cork to collect us. It was a bit out of the way for the tow truck man but he was very obliging and we had a grand old chat on the way. He knew the (deceased) father of a former colleague of mine and it’s always nice to have an acquaintance in common so we discussed the extended family at length.
We got to Cashel and took out our bags. I also had four litres of milk as the boys get through a lot of milk and the shopping (14 litres) had just arrived the previous day and I thought it would be as handy to take some of the milk to Cork. This was a decision I regretted as we wandered around the town with our luggage and four litres of milk. We went to a restaurant where we have often been before (home of the bacon salad) and settled down to dinner in front of the fire while my poor sister drove up from Cork to collect us.
The problem with the car was failure of the fuel injectors and, on Monday, the tow truck man took it to the Peugeot dealer in Clonmel (still very far from Dublin) who gave us new fuel injectors, probably for less than we would have paid in Dublin but, you know, €1,600 is still €1,600. It took a while. We were carless for ten days which I thought would be fine as I maintain we never use the car during the week. It turns out we do use the car during the week. One morning it was lashing rain. Could we drive the children in? We could not, they got sodden on their bikes. I was on the baptism roster on Wednesday night but I forgot as did my partner. Could I get a lift to the church? I could not. Were 10 people including a week old baby and the parish priest (who was filling in on an emergency basis) waiting anxiously for my arrival? They were, but they were very kind about having to hang around for my arrival (except for the baby who slept throughout which I suppose was her own way of being kind). I really miss the days when there were armies of knowledgeable people with no day jobs to do this kind of thing and they didn’t have to rely on the likes of me.
Mr. Waffle signed us up to the Dublin car sharing scheme (no joining fee!) and it is quite handy but it’s €11 an hour which means that it probably would have been cheaper to have got a taxi to take Daniel to training but we felt it was a bit ludicrous. We also had a family weekend away (more of which anon) and we had to hire a car for that so all in all it ended up being a pricy adventure.
Mr. Waffle being noble said he would collect the car. He had to get the bus to Clonmel (a good two hours) and then walk a mile and a half to the Peugeot dealership. But he got it and he’s still alive.
My bike meanwhile had two punctures in rapid succession. The first, I got near home and Mr. Waffle fixed (what a man, I hear you say), the second was right beside the office. It was flat as a pancake and there was no way I was going to wheel it to the distant bike shop so I left it in the office all week until the car returned to us and I could shove it in the boot and take it to the bike shop.
I think I will be less smug about my urban car free life in future.
Miscellaneous Cultural Adventures
We went out on the town on Culture Night. It was only somewhat successful. We visited the Mansion House and the Royal Irish Academy which were both fine in their way – beautiful buildings with interesting contents – but as we’ve been to both of them before, we were resolutely underwhelmed. I dare say there are fresh things to see on every visit but we did not appreciate them as we ought.
Probably a highlight of the evening was meeting a misfortunate teacher from the children’s school who was out with her fiancé and not entirely delighted to meet students and their parents in the wild. She left after a quick hello hauling her young man behind her at speed. Who would be a teacher?
It was also the theatre festival and the Dublin fringe festival. We went to see the comedian Alison Spittle in the Fringe. I was unamused but the venue was Dublin Castle chapel royal which was nice to be inside, so there was that.
We went with my in-laws and their friends from London to one of the worst plays I have seen in years. It was called “The Bluffer’s Guide to Suburbia” and the premise was musician who fails in London moves back to Dublin suburbia. Promising I felt. It resolutely failed to live up to the promise of the billing and although I fell asleep half way through and was spared some of the worst, I was quite mortified to have brought everyone there. The English visitors were very nice about it (there was no question but that it was dreadful
The following evening we had tickets for a play called “The Alternative”. The theatre festival is a cruel mistress. We were bringing the children and I was afraid. The premise of the play was that Ireland had never split from the UK and we were now having a present day independence referendum like the one they had in Scotland a couple of years ago. It was so good. We all loved it. It was clever and funny and inventive. The best thing I have seen in years. The children noticed the new deputy principal in the audience but we not to frighten another member of staff at a cultural event and nodded from a distance rather than approaching more closely.
In the visual arts, I forked out €15 to see the Sorolla exhibition in the National Gallery. I had never heard of him before; he’s a Spanish impressionist. I mean, fine, but I was not overly impressed, some nice interesting paintings but overall, I didn’t feel excited or delighted to have visited. In contrast the free Bauhaus exhibition in the print gallery upstairs is outstanding and well worth your time. I was also pretty impressed by the finalists in the National portrait competition which are on temporary exhibition at the moment. The Crawford in Cork is showing an exhibition about children called “Seen not Heard” around the theme of childhood and that’s pretty good. A smaller exhibition upstairs of the works that the Gibson bequest committee bought during the Emergency (known as World War II elsewhere) I found less impressive. One or two things I quite liked but overall, not the finest moment in Cork art collecting.
Herself meanwhile had been invited by a friend to hear Oscar Wilde’s grandson reading his poetry at the Abbey but had to turn down the invitation as she had too much homework. Alas.
The Perils of New Technology
Between her very demanding social life and the number of essays a cruel and unyielding school system makes her produce every weekend these days, herself hasn’t been on very many weekend outings with us of late. I think she regards this as the silver lining to the essay cloud.
A couple of Sundays ago, the boys, Mr. Waffle and I climbed the Sugar Loaf (the boys were up and down in about 45 minutes and I panted up and down gracelessly in about an hour and a half, alas – you may insert your own ‘unfit parent’ quip here). Herself was at home. We enjoyed the view and then headed back to the car to get the obligatory cup of tea.
On our way back in to Enniskerry, I noticed I still had the Princess’s spotify app on my phone (briefly installed in a moment of crisis). “Let’s put on the family playlist,” I said gleefully. No sooner did I have it on than my phone started ringing but due to the mountains, reception was poor. It was some time before herself got through to convey this somewhat irate message, “Spotify plays on all devices simultaneously and I am going to take that app off your phone when you get home!” Apparently she was blamelessly doing her essays when a variety of family favourites started blaring out from her phone. Not delighted.
Where to Begin?
It’s been a busy time. The boys turned 14 on September 27. That’s a lot of candles.
Birthday posts will follow describing them at 14. Something for you to look forward to. We took them and five of their friends to Kildare (for which we had to hire a spare car, I couldn’t quite face the bus with seven teenagers) to play a game where they run around and pretend to shoot each other.
When we got to Kildare, all of them went into what was basically an enormous shed. There were lots of men of all ages sitting inside, dressed in military clothing. I thought they looked a bit daft but, I suppose if they’re enjoying themselves, what harm? And all to the good for the boys’ friend’s uncles who run the place.
We were encouraged to leave and go to Kildare village (outlet shopping about which I have mixed views) but when we got there, it was absolutely heaving so we went to the Japanese Gardens and National Stud instead. I had previously believed these to be two different attractions but in fact the man who left the Stud to a grateful nation also had an interest in gardening and brought in a man from Japan to lay out the garden. Surprising.
So it was, as Johnson said about the Giant’s Causeway apparently, worth seeing but not worth going to see. I mean it was a nice way for us to while away an afternoon but I’m not sure I would have been delighted to have driven down from Dublin specially. The stud features a (very mildly) interesting museum including Arkle’s skeleton:
Somewhat surprising. We got to wander around and look at the horses. Most expensive was Invincible Spirit. It costs €120,000 to have your mare covered by him and he looked suitably pleased with himself hanging around the fence with his coat on:
It was more fun going around and looking at the younger horses who came up and had a good look at us, let us give them a rub and then kicked up their heels and galloped around the field.
The Japanese Gardens were also appealing in a not-extensive kind of way.
Then we just had time for a nice cup of tea before going back to rescue the boys. The place was full of young families and I felt a bit old and more than a bit smug as I strolled around unencumbered by prams or tantrums.
The boys had had a great time shooting at each other and they were sweaty but cheerful as we drove them back to Dublin. A great success all round. I have to tell you, I am loving the teenage years.