Over the summer, two rowers from west Cork won silver medals at the Olympics. The nation went crazy. I did not as I was on my summer holidays in Brittany and was not swept up in the madness.
I was on the phone to my sister who told me all about it.
Me (as the tale concluded): V. exciting. Do we know them at all as they are from Cork and we are honour bound to have a connection to all Cork people?
Her: Well, no, but their aunt is in my pilates class.
Some kind of point proved here, I feel.
This time of year is a complete nightmare for the culturally aware. When we come back from holidays in August, there is Heritage Week, then in early September there is the Fringe Theatre Festival, then Culture Night, then the Dublin Theatre Festival, (History Festival is a new thing which, in my view unwisely, has pitched itself between mid-September and October) then Open House, Dublin. We always get something out of going to these kinds of events but I wish that they were not all so hot on each other’s heels and coinciding with a time of year when we are already up to our oxters with back to school and everything else.
Happily, Heritage Week has now passed. Due to my efforts (on holidays, in France: culture never sleeps) we were booked in to see an event in the National History Museum about a traveller across Africa and had even lined up some friends of the children to attend also. As it happened, I had to go to Cork that weekend and Mr. Waffle was home with the children. I sent him a series of messages reminding him about it. Through sheer force of will and from a distance of 250kms, I persuaded and cajoled four very reluctant people into going to that session. When we were on holidays, one day, herself said, “What do you want to do Mum; we might as well know as we usually end up doing that.” She may have meant it as an insult but I definitely took it as a compliment.
Anyway, when I asked for an update after the heritage week event, this is the message I got: “The museum thing was actually a success.” The “actually” was perhaps harsh. Apparently it was fascinating and I was sorry to miss it myself. So, on the back of that slender success, I am about to turn my attention to theatre festival booking. Wish me luck.
A couple of years ago, we took the children on a walk out to Poolbeg lighthouse. It was a bit far and they were tired and cranky. They’ve remembered it as a low point ever since. As the pigeon house towers which are a bit of a Dublin landmark and can be seen from all over the city dominate the walk, they were regularly reminded of it and each time they saw the towers, they said, never again.
One Sunday lunch time, we found ourselves wondering what to do on a sunny afternoon. Various suggestions were put forward – Botanic Gardens, play on the x-box – but none was finding favour with the group. I found my eye drawn to Daniel’s t-shirt, a present from his grandfather featuring a notable Dublin landmark. “NO!” he said, clutching his chest. Like a Mexican wave of fear, the children around the table started shouting “NO” while their father looked on bewildered and their mother became hysterical with laughter.
Mr. Waffle and I overcame all resistance and took them off to the Lighthouse. They were amazed how short the walk seemed; they were a lot smaller last time. It was even, they conceded, not the worst outing ever.
All of the regular readers at mass have been taken out by the summer holidays and we have total control of the second reading and the prayers of the faithful. We became so confident that we even had the cousins (who were staying) do some of the prayers of the faithful with our lot. Our hegemony is coming to an end as we go off on our own summer holidays and I was talking to the sacristan about logistics and handing over the baton. As we were chatting, I asked her whether she would be going away herself. “I’ll probably get a couple of days surfing alright,” said she. The surfing sacristan; we are amazingly with it in our parish.
I took a week off work in July and brought the children to Cork. This was largely successful although Herself came down with a cold which dogged her for the next fortnight. Happily she does not seem to have passed it on to any of her elderly relatives.
We did the usual things. We went to Charles Fort. It lashed rain on us. The walk out was very damp.
But happily, on arrival at the fort, the sun came out.
We had lunch in the Bulman.
We dropped round to see an old friend of mine and her family. She emigrated to America years ago. She and her husband bought a house in Kinsale and now visit regularly with their four American children. We don’t meet very often due to geography but it is delightful to see the children of friends growing up in leaps and bounds. We had dinner with them; found out about each others lives; reintroduced the children to each other and admired the beautiful view from their house.
We went to Shandon.
And rang the bells.
And visited the church (under some mild protest).
My sister and brother were very kind to them and doled out treats which they very much enjoyed. This, in part made up for the pain of having to visit the Crawford Gallery.
Herself was rather taken with this figure in Daniel Maclise’s “Francois 1 and Diane de Poitiers”. She feels it would make an excellent internet meme. Who am I to quibble with a digital native?
Probably a highlight for Herself was another raid on my parents’ attic. They are, of course, only too delighted to let her take stuff from there. As she had done an impressively massive root and branch clean out and re-organisation of her bedroom in Dublin, I could only concede that she now had room to accommodate a number of miscellaneous items which had taken her fancy. I rescued some things myself including a number of china jugs which had been wrapped in newspaper and, for reasons which are now lost in the mists of time, stored securely in an old wicker wastepaper basket.
On our return to Dublin, I ticked off the remaining item from our standard summer schedule and brought them to St Michan’s to see the crusader. You are no longer allowed to shake the mummified hand which, I suppose, is really for the best all things considered. The literature makes it seem like this was a 19th century thing but I know for a fact that it was standard practice in recent years, including last year. I said to the boys, “How exciting, you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you shook the mummy’s hand when you were 9 and when you came back the following year, you realised that that was the last opportunity ever!” They were not excited.
Finally, I might mention that I was rather taken with this junction box in Cork; alas, not an aspiration likely to be realised.
Herself has returned from France. Hurrah. We missed her. She had a good time in parts but I think it was a long time for her to be away eating salad regularly.
This afternoon we decided to cycle to a new crêperie. We went out to the shed only to discover that the Princess’s bike had been nicked during the week. To be fair to us, we noticed that the shed door had been forced but we couldn’t see that anything was missing. Observant, that’s us.
We bought her a new one today anyhow and she has pronounced herself pleased.
We have now added a new bolt to the shed door. Insert your own proverb related joke here.