Mr. Waffle

France II – Île de Ré to Arcachon

29 September, 2025
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Thursday August 28, 2025

My late mother-in-law, of whom I was very fond, was very excited when the new Luas (tram service) arrived in Dublin. Despite having a commuter rail service which went to her house, she would often try to develop plans which involved getting the Luas to Sandyford which was the nearest point to her house to which the Luas went but, you know, not very near and not at all as convenient as the existing rail service. Whenever an arrangement is overly complex we describe it as being like the Luas to Sandyford. In a Luas to Sandyford type arrangement we decided that we would charge the car at the Lidl outside St Martin de Ré. Mr. Waffle brought the car to the Lidl and made his own way home; then he and I both cycled to St Martin and had breakfast; then I cycled home while Mr. Waffle drove home (I get home first proving, yet again, the superiority of the bicycle); then we both drove back to Lidl; then Mr. Waffle cycled home and I drove home. Are you with me? On the way home google maps indicated to me that it would be 2 minutes faster to cut off the main road. I did. Google maps is not really set up for European arrangements, I think. It sent me along an unpaved dirt road along the side of a field and then up a sandy trail near the house where I thought I would get stuck. Google maps loves that sandy wooded incline as it had sent us there by bike earlier in the week. It is not suitable for bikes or cars and happily I did not get stuck but, seriously, look at this picture from inside the car.

Compare this to the comfort of travel by bike on the island. The house even came with bespoke bike parking inside the front door which compared well with the car parking around the corner.

In the afternoon, herself arrived! The island is really near the airport so we had her picked up and whisked to the house in no time. We went for dinner out to celebrate. Hurrah.

Friday August 29, 2025

I went out with herself in the morning for a bit of an adventure and to show her the island. We did some mild shopping. Such was the excellence of the whole bike riding situation on the island that even herself who is not normally a bike fan (possibly in part due to my slightly rabid advocacy) said that she enjoyed cycling.

In the afternoon my beloved middle child arrived having survived exam season, an uncle in residence and the painter. I have to say it was very nice to have all my chickadees together.

Poor Mr. Waffle was a bit under the weather but still took a bus to the Lidl car park (“this is where I live now, apparently”) to pick up the car which he was charging in anticipation of our drive south the following day.

Saturday August 30, 2025

We were up with the lark. “To improve their service” to me, our Airbnb hosts had given us the opportunity to hire our sheets and bedlinen. I was not delighted and honestly think that bedlinen could have been included in the cost, I would gladly have paid a bit extra to have the beds made and not to have created a loclinge account. I had to predict the two hour window when laundry should be collected. Check out from the house was at 10 so I felt laundry should be collected before we left. So I selected the 8-10 window. This meant we had to be up and showered by 8. Were people enthusiastic? They were not. Did loclinge even turn up before we checked out? Non.

We dropped herself to the station to get the train down to Arcachon as the car was a bit small and we felt it would not be conducive to good relations to put all the children in the back. The roads were quite busy on the way down but we stopped for a long lunch in a service station (as glamorous as you might imagine) to – you guessed it – charge the wretched car. Mr. Waffle was thrilled by the fast charger and he said gleefully (after an initial disappointment when all the charging stations were full, but mercifully someone left) “It’s like the early days of motoring.” Honestly, could do without it.

Herself arrived in Arcachon first and after some tension over which I will draw a veil, we managed to find the station, collect her and drive to the house. I really liked the house. The living quarters were upstairs and it felt like living in a tree house.

There was a nice heated pool out the front and I took myself for a swim while Mr. Waffle and herself went to the supermarket to lay in supplies. One of the features of the car was that it sometimes didn’t start for us; to be fair, I think this is a feature of automatic cars more generally that they won’t start if you don’t have your foot on the brake when you turn on the engine? Anyhow, Mr. Waffle and herself were stopped at the exit from the car park and, of course, couldn’t start the car engine. Almost immediately the woman from behind beeped them. When there was no progress she hopped out of her car and shouted at them “Il faut avancer!”. While they knew that they had to advance, they couldn’t seem to persuade the car to do so. “How long will this take?” huffed the irate French woman. “About 3 minutes,” said herself with a confidence born of nothing. Their progress was possibly further impeded by both of them becoming mildly hysterical with laughter something which I suspect did nothing to calm down Madame. Anyhow, they made it home safely.

We had take away pizza for dinner and recovered from our day of excitement.

Sunday August 31, 2025

Arcachon is a small place but we were a bit of a step from the centre in quite a suburban area. We walked to what we thought was a cafe but it turned out to just be a boulangerie and, I regret to say, not a very good one at that.

We continued on to 11.30 mass. We were quite early so made meandering progress stopping at a corner shop and a newsagent and dutifully admiring the local architecture (much more of which anon). Still, despite our efforts, at 11.20 we ended up sitting on a bench across the road from the v ugly church considering our entertainment options for the next 10 minutes. I double checked my phone and realised that mass was at 11. We galloped across the road. There was no mass. On the back of an envelope pinned to the church door there was a notice saying “No mass at 11; mass at 7 this evening instead”. Not a great system if you ask me. Michael, who had stayed in bed for the whole adventure was amused but the rest of us were less than entirely delighted.

Mr. Waffle and I drove to the centre of Arcachon and did some mild supermarket shopping; it was hard to find an open supermarket and while I really welcome this at a theoretical level, on a practical level, it has some drawbacks. It was absolutely lashing rain but I said that since we were in town we should have a poke around. Rain soaked; a real end of season feeling.

But there were signs that the weather may have been nicer in the past and that the people of Arcachon would prefer if you didn’t parade around the town in your swimsuit. It seemed a very improbable concern on that particular day.

Michael resolutely refused to go out in the driving rain but the other two were curious and we went into town for a look around.

Mr. Waffle didn’t come “I’m going to the Lidl car park – my new home in France,” said he. He managed to leave the car charging in Aldi overnight and got the bus back to the house. I’m not sure that we were experiencing all of the advantages of having a hired car. Herself observed that the electric car was like the B plot to the holiday.

Since the weather for the next day was scheduled to be dreadful again, we decided that we would drive into Bordeaux. We spent the evening hunting online for a car park in Bordeaux with a compatible charging station for our car. Fun times.

More excitement to follow. Stay tuned.

France I – Île de Ré

26 September, 2025
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Friday 22 August 2025

We arrived in La Rochelle – direct flight from Dublin and an absolutely tiny airport at the other end very close to the city – a recommended way to travel. Strongly against my advice, Mr. Waffle, stirred by the spirit of adventure, hired an electric car. We do not own an electric car at home. I felt the holiday would be exciting enough without adding in an electric car challenge but Mr. Waffle felt it would be an interesting experiment practically on home ground (we are very familiar with France and its ways but it is not, in fact, home ground). “Right,” I said, “I think this is crazy but if you really want to do it, you can, but you will be responsible for all of the charging and making sure it works.” These were conditions he blithely (and it will be no surprise to you to learn, ultimately foolishly) accepted.

When we took the car, we were hoping for some guidance on the electric angle but Messrs Thrifty said “There’s a charging cable in the boot, off you go.” They indicated that we might like to download an app to find out about charging locations. Ominous.

For this initial part of the holiday, only Michael was with us. We drove into La Rochelle – so far so good with the car – and took ourselves to the hotel where we were staying the first night. Michael was pleased to be alone in his hotel room.

I found La Rochelle to be delightful. Despite having been there previously a number of times, due to my remembering almost nothing, it all seemed quite novel to me. It’s an extremely bike and pedestrian friendly city and it was lovely to wander around and finally be on holidays.

We had dinner in the square opposite the town hall and began what was due to be an ongoing struggle namely, speaking in French to the French.

When we got back to the hotel that evening I discovered that despite bringing the largest bag ever on holidays I had forgotten to pack shorts, cleanser, socks and pyjamas. Oh well, as my mother used to say, we weren’t going to a desert island.

Saturday 23 August 2025

We had a lovely breakfast in a cafe in La Rochelle which Mr. Waffle found for us – credit where credit is due, it’s not all misguided electric car decisions. We then strolled around the town. We went to the market and visited the weird bunker museum where the Germans had been. Mildly interesting.

Have a look at some poorly photographed German propaganda.

I enjoyed the second paragraph of this poster announcing the liberation to the locals. “[The liberation] is due to the heroism of the fighters from our country or from our empire and the brave support of our great allies” (emphasis added). You’ve got to admire the French, I mean, they were occupied and, well, you know the Vichy regime; at best they were supporting the allies but they always bring a singular vision to this kind of thing.

There’s a lot of history available in La Rochelle. It used to be a big Protestant town and I think you know how that went down ultimately in France.

After lunch (a bit unsatisfactory, despite the range of great spots available due to hunger and timing we ended up in a fast food crêperie – least said soonest mended and all that) we went to the supermarket to stock up for our house on the island.

There’s a big bridge linking the island to the mainland but it is €16 over and back so you wouldn’t want to be going every day.

We stayed in a delightful little town called La Flotte. The airbnb was nice with a really lovely garden but slightly over-engineered (himself was very handy – lots of complex gimmicks). It also had fish, guinea pigs, two cats and chickens. On the plus side, this meant lots of fresh eggs but it was a lot of livestock to keep up with. “You chose to stay in a house with animals,” said Madame cheerfully. At one level this is true, the livestock were not a secret, but at another level, we booked late and took what we could get. Mr. Waffle yet again impressed me with his knowledge of weird French stuff by asking if Linky the cat was named after the electricity smart meter they use in France. He was not.

Sunday 24 August, 2025

Leaving Michael to bond with the house, Mr. Waffle and I strolled into town to look for breakfast stopping off to hire bikes on the way. We found a breakfast place on the seafront with a couple of punters sitting out front. “Could we have breakfast?” We could not “service terminé”. Honestly 9.30 seemed a little early to have finished the breakfast service. Was there anywhere else we could get breakfast? The waiter gave an irate shrug and gestured onwards. I was glad to see that the legendary French rudeness had not abated while I had been away. We went around the corner and found ourselves in the centre of the town (lots of breakfast options) which was built around a charming little harbour.

We went on to mass. Like all French masses, it was practically endless. I was struck, however, by how many children there were. In contrast to mass in Dublin where hair is grey, white and fair, there were dark heads everywhere and lots of the middle aged as well as children. Interesting. Like La Rochelle, the island had been a Protestant stronghold which (rather unwisely) got help from the English so was turned back to Catholicism with extreme prejudice as they say. There was a bell given to the church by Cardinal Richelieu to celebrate this turn of events.

After mass we went to the market which, in this touristy place, weirdly ran every day. We got some lovely fruit. Fruit is so much nicer in France than at home; I guess it has less far to travel. I remember having nectarines and peaches in France when we went on holidays there with my parents in the 70s and being amazed how delicious they were. I feel that there were no nectarines in Cork in the 70s but can that be right? And the difference between a hard peach in Cork and a soft, juicy one in France was vast. Despite the improvements in supply chain, it still feels that French fruit is much, much better.

I went to the butcher to get lunch and saw a large canvas on the wall. It featured Cork man Ronan O’Gara who is the coach for the La Rochelle rugby team (and if you haven’t seen this video of him exhorting his troops in…French, you haven’t lived) and a past pupil of the same school my father and brother attended. A home away from home. I had a brief chat about it with the man at the cash register – big fan – also getting an opportunity to explain that I was not in fact English (as George Bernard Shaw famously said when someone asked whether he was English “au contraire”). As we were to discover, Île de Ré seems to be extremely popular with the English middle classes and to the French eye, the Irish and the English are indistinguishable; an exhausting period of correction beckoned.

After lunch I had a swim in the glorified paddling pool in the back garden; not unpleasant, I must concede. Refreshed, we cycled back into town, Michael perched slightly precariously on my back carrier until we got to the bike hire place where we picked up a bike for him too. The island is the most cycling friendly place I have ever been on holidays and is criss-crossed with a huge network of segregated cycle lanes which were used by a range of people of absolutely all ages. The towns are set up around bikes and pedestrians and there is hardly any driving. I was really struck that the cars we did see were what I would consider normal sized cars not the ludicrously enormous SUVs which are so much a feature in Dublin (I speak as the owner of an enormous station wagon here so I understand that I am part of the problem).

We decided to cycle to St Martin de Ré. This was a terrible decision; yes, the cycling infrastructure was great but it was like cycling in an oven.

The town was really pretty but I was far too hot to appreciate it properly. We did wander the quaint streets of the old town and they were quaint but we had to stop more than once for a sustaining drink.

I made the guys climb up a tower. I love a tower with a view. I was not disappointed: great views.

I also took the opportunity to visit the pharmacy. I had a mosquito bite on my hand which had swollen up in an alarming manner. The island is basically one big marsh so mosquitos are inevitable. I am not sure that the pond in the back garden of the Airbnb was much of a help either. I was not the first mosquito bite that pharmacist had seen and almost before I had finished speaking she had slapped three items on the counter: a steroid cream; anti histamines and a homeopathic remedy. Had she pointed out to me that one of these items was homeopathic, I would have left it behind me but there you are. I would have thought they would have had pretty strong rules on this in France but, if so, they were observed in the breach.

Suitably recovered we braced ourselves for the homeward journey but we were pleasantly surprised to discover that it was only about 15 minutes back the house.

Monday 25 August, 2025

We went on the obligatory lighthouse visit. Although the lighthouse on the far north of the island was perfectly reachable by segregated bike lane, it was far and we were slightly scarred by our very toasty experience the previous day. It’s called Phare des Baleines (lighthouse of the whales) and in the tat shop outside there was a whale shaped butter dish that I came very close to buying. But I resisted on the grounds that I have two butter dishes already and how many does one person need but still I slightly lament it. It was nice in the standard lighthouse way.

It boasts a view of an older lighthouse which is novel.

We had lunch just beside the lighthouse. A touristy spot and rather slow but not unpleasant.

After a swing by the supermarket we went back to the house to find that there was a power cut which meant that we couldn’t put the blinds up. Sub optimal.

As we were sitting in the gloom, I managed to chip a tooth. Alas. However, due to my depressingly close involvement with my dentist, I had an appointment already booked for the week we returned. Nonetheless unsatisfactory.

I am pleased to report that the electricity came back reasonably quickly and we were able to get out again. We had a lovely cycle into town and a walk around. It was a really charming little town.

Oysters are big locally and are available 24 hours but I am not sure getting oysters from a dispenser can ever be a good idea.

We got slightly lost on the way home and enjoyed an exciting cycle through the forest. It’s all an adventure. I’m not sure whether it was there or elsewhere that a daring mosquito bit me just below my eyebrow. You have to take your chances, if you holiday in a marsh, I guess.

In other disappointing electricity news, our solar power app (very exciting material as you will know, if you have ever been bored by someone who has had solar panels installed) failed. We rang home where my brother and middle child were living together in a sort of odd couple arrangement but nothing untoward seemed to have happened (I can exclusively reveal that we rebooted the internet when we got home and it all worked fine again).

Tuesday August 26, 2025

This is the unwelcome sight that greeted your correspondent in the morning. Tactless members of the family said that they didn’t notice anything. I felt like Quasimodo (“I’m ugly, ugly“). It was quite sore too. Happily, I was in a location where wearing sunglasses was appropriate. In case you didn’t know (and why would you?), the symbol of the island is a donkey in trousers – traditionally, they put donkeys legs in trousers to stop them being bitten by mosquitos. I have to say that I shouldn’t have been surprised by my mosquito issues, the signs were there.

Mr. Waffle and I went out to breakfast overlooking the harbour which was very nice and I was able to observe the English middle classes at play from behind my dark glasses. Regular readers will know how much I like to complain so I enjoyed telling Mr. Waffle about my sore thumb until he observed that I was “the only person ever to have got gamer’s thumb from doing online Sudoku”. A very depressing and entirely accurate insight.

After lunch we cycled to Ste Marie de Ré and had a lovely swim at Montamer. The tide was extremely far out when we arrived but came in super quickly. I went in first and I came out and warned the others about the fast-advancing tide. The beach was kind of stony but Mr. Waffle parked his shoes on rocks a good way from the shore. Nevertheless when he emerged, a good Samaritan was holding them up in the air having rescued them from the advancing tide. Exciting stuff. We had a restorative cup of tea and ice cream in the town before heading back. The town was on the opposite wilder side of the island and I decided that all the nice towns were those facing the mainland built around harbours based on…nothing. Great was my rage later in the holiday when I discovered that one of the “plus beaux villages de France” was only a little way further up the coast. Next time.

We had dinner at home; something eggy for me. The hens were busy producing 2-3 delicious fresh eggs a day but I was the only one in the house who liked eggs. A challenging time. Have a view of the garden with the hen run in the distance.

Wednesday August 27, 2005

Michael peered at my eye in the morning and said, “If I saw this, I would never think it was a mosquito bite; I would think it was some kind of deformity.” Thank you, Michael, great news.

Another breakfast behind dark glasses in la Flotte before cycling to the ruined abbey. It was mercifully a bit overcast. The abbey was quite like a lot of abbeys we have at home but you know, grand.

We went on to the Fort de La Prée which, as a tourist offering I would say is still in development. Vauban who did the more impressive fortifications in St Martin apparently called it a “fort d’operette” which is perhaps a bit harsh but you get the picture.

Cycling around the island, it is really very beautiful and all of the buildings are tasteful and similarly decorated. It is apparently “hyper reglementé”. I noticed that there were no solar panels and apparently they have only very recently been permitted. Shutter shades are all the same. I saw this in the market showing the range of acceptable colours.

I am a bit ambivalent about this. On one level it is lovely and really delightful but it feels a bit constrained and unreal. Weirdly, it reminded me of the Lake District in England where strong planning rules are also a feature. I mean, what we have in Ireland (bungalow blitz anyone?) is not good but I am not sure that this is the solution either.

Michael and I had a quiet afternoon at the house while Mr. Waffle spent two hours looking for a place to charge for the car. The Lidl had two slots but one was full and one broken; the Intermarché’s slots were broken (he asked inside, do you know how desperate he must have been to actually ask?) and the chargers in the Leclerc wouldn’t fit the car. He signed up to the Chargemap app. They took €14 from him and gave him the unwelcome information that the physical card was now on its way to Dublin. He came home muttering furiously that maybe another app was the solution. Disturbing all round.

The child in Dublin repeating an exam under sub-optimal conditions (Uncle – agent of chaos in the house, painter in the house, parents away) did fine. Relief all round.

Mr. Waffle disappeared for another 2 hours. He had a new app and he found somewhere to charge it but the car charged very slowly; only a couple of percent over 30 minutes. Honestly it was not going well.

Stay tuned for further updates.

Weekend Round Up

18 August, 2025
Posted in: Family, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess

Friday, August 15

My weekends now start on Fridays thanks to my four day week. Am I pleased? You betcha.

Herself was home for a couple of weeks (rejoice!). On Friday (before she headed off to Paris on Saturday), she and I went for a day out in Howth. We parked at the Summit car park and walked down towards the lighthouse. It had been a bit overcast earlier but the sun came out and it was beautiful.

In a way that is not at all obvious, you can access a beach from a set of steep slightly makeshift steps set into the cliff. And down we went.

By Irish standards the water was delightfully warm. We had a lovely swim. You often see seals swimming a bit out to sea from this beach. However, very excitingly there was a baby seal sunning itself on the beach. Lads, the thrill.

After our excitement on the beach, we went back up to the car (slightly more tiring than going down).

As regular readers will be aware, I am a big fan of the bike and public transport and it is not so often that herself gets to have an outing in the car. As we drove back into the village, she announced defiantly, “I love the car, I love it.” However, parking was a bit of a nightmare and after 15 minutes of circling the town looking for parking, she was less sure. We eventually parked in a loading bay (judge away, I was operating in the belief that it is only a loading bay in hours of loading, no hours of loading were specified so really who was I fooling?) and went for a lovely lunch on the pier, slightly marred by my fear that I would get clamped.

After lunch we got two 99s and walked back to the car. I finished mine before we got there. “What’s your plan for my ice cream?” she asked. I was genuinely baffled. “I mean, I haven’t finished it,” she clarified. “Well, you can finish it in the car,” I said. “In the car?!” she exclaimed. It is true that the children were never allowed to eat ice cream in the car for reasons which should be obvious. “Yes, you’re 22, you can eat ice cream in the car,” I said. She was awe-struck and delighted. It was kind of hilarious but maybe you had to be there. But guess what, we were not clamped so a very successful day all round.

Saturday, August 16

Mr. Waffle’s sister and her family are in Dublin for a couple of weeks and last weekend we had them and Mr. Waffle’s brother and his wife around for tea. A good time was had by all etc – relatively low labour from our point of view. This weekend Mr. Waffle’s brother and his wife had us all around for lunch and also his elderly aunt and uncle, their son and their grandson. I must say it was a big crowd and I am lost in admiration at my sister-in-law’s ability to cater for large numbers. It was quite exciting to meet Mr. Waffle’s first cousin and his son who live in Spain (first cousin’s wife is Spanish). We last saw the son when he was about 4 and he is now 12 and very tall and very pale for a Spaniard (still tall for an Irish person and quite tanned). My niece and brother-in-law played and sang (very reluctantly) and I have to say they were absolutely amazing; he is a very good pianist and she is a professionally trained singer. Mind you, what would I know, he finished up laughing saying “went into F there” – what does that mean? A mystery. Sounded fine to me and I thought my niece sang absolutely beautifully. A little thrill.

Sunday, August 17

It’s heritage week. Mr. Waffle and I thought we might try Leixlip castle which is quite near Dublin. It’s not open to the public very often which is possibly why when I rang the phone number they gave out on the website, a rather harassed though very pleasant woman told me they were chock a block. She felt perhaps she could fit one but, alas, we were two. I’m willing to bet my bottom dollar that the person I spoke to was the chatelaine which makes me more curious than ever to visit. Maybe next year.

Today we went to Tullynally Castle instead, ancestral home of the Packenhams. The house tour was mildly interesting although the castle itself, Gothicked by Francis Johnston in the early 1800s is not to my mind particularly beautiful. But my goodness, it’s big and the family still live there – it’s clearly very lived in and I would say it is baltic in winter. The gardens are the big draw and they are delightful.

Herself pointed out to me that it is only in Ireland that crisps are served unironically as a salad accompaniment to sandwiches. Sandwiches tend to be described as ” served with salad and crisps” and have a token bit of green to help them live up to that billing. Today’s example is a good one. My smoked salmon came with a side salad.

A Day Out Like No Other

8 August, 2025
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

The title of this post is the tag line for the horse show at the RDS (RDS stands for the Royal Dublin Society which owns the exhibition space and grounds I think it might have started out as some kind of body to promote science and culture in the 1700s ). On the tag line, I would have to disagree on a range of levels.

Firstly, it reminded me of lots of other days out at the RDS (the young scientist, the craft fair, the ideal home exhibition, even the Bruce Springsteen concert). It also reminded me a bit of the gardening show in the Phoenix Park (Bloom). The big difference between a good day and a bad day at any of these events I am beginning to realise is whether you were comped your tickets or not. If you have to fork out for your tickets your expectations are a lot higher.

Secondly, the clear implication is that you will have a good time. I did not have a good time.

The horse show is a bit of an institution (150 years old this year according to frequent announcements). When I was a child I would spend hours lying on the sofa watching the show jumping with my mother (in case you were wondering, as I was, Eddie Macken the undoubted star of those years is still alive – good for Eddie). Mr. Waffle and I have never been before because we usually take our holidays in the first three weeks of August. In a deeply regretted decision we are not taking our summer holidays until end August/start September this year so we decided to go and check out the horse show.

We arrived and forked out €65 for the pair of us to get in. Already I was not enthused. We were greeted by an information desk. Did they have a map of the area? No they were out, but I could take a picture of the A4 page on the desk. Did they have a schedule of events? No, they were out, but I could take a picture of the A4 page on the desk. Handier than downloading the pdf from the useless website but I felt strongly that I was not getting value for my €65. Was there anything going on today that the information desk man would recommend? “Well, the Aga Khan trophy is on in the afternoon.” I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing live what I watched from the sofa for years. How exciting; what a happy coincidence.

We wandered around the stalls. It’s a huge fair type thing really with lots of opportunities to buy horsey kit. Your horse blanket needs are met as are any requirements you may have for feed, horsey antiques, tweed, tack, saddles and so on. I was taken by a woman who had printed on her gilet (gilet sales also huge) an advertisement for hot and cold remedial horseshoeing; there’s a whole world out there. There were also an extraordinary number of stalls selling fedoras and panama hats and I have never seen so much hat wearing before; the horse enthusiasts are also hat enthusiasts. I thought some of them looked very dapper. It makes a change from the ubiquitous baseball cap. Somewhat to my surprise, the crowd was quite a bit younger than the Bruce Springsteen crowd though the hat wearers generally were not teenage girls who were very well represented.

I was keen to see actual horses and we wandered around and there were horses, I’m sure excellent horses, but they were doing nothing interesting, they were being shown. Men in bowler hats were jogging around fields with them. It was a bit dull if you know nothing about horses and I thought fondly of the excitement of the (free) polo match I went to see a couple of weeks ago. The greatest excitement was when the winner of the Irish draught stallions (section B), lost his sash and his man in a bowler hat tried to put it back on; an act the stallion regarded as clearly dangerous to his wellbeing as he reared up in indignation. Bowler hat prevailed in the end but it was a rare moment of entertainment in a dull day. Have a picture of the runner up of the draught stallion (section B) competition (referred to as the reserve champion- in case something happens to the actual champion?).

We went for lunch. The RDS map was pitifully inadequate and we ended up settling for the carvery option having tried and failed to find the sit down restaurant. I went for the vegetarian moussaka which even as I queued up with my tray, I felt was a mistake. It was a mistake. The moussaka contained one sad slice of aubergine and otherwise was composed entirely of potato with a layer of tomato sauce on top and three microscopic cubes of feta. It came with roast potato, turnip and carrot; not a combination I imagine that the Greeks envisaged when putting the dish together. It was not nice at all. Mr. Waffle had the salmon. Also not nice. I suppose if you go the carvery (at the horse show which is full of people who love a carvery) and have something else you only have yourself to blame. It was €49. So far we had paid over €100 between us to browse horse tat and see horses walking around fields. Was I downhearted? I was not because we would see the exciting horse jumping for the Aga Khan trophy.

Guess what? It turns out that to sit down and watch the horse jumping you need to have bought tickets. Further tickets on top of the €32.50 per ticket you had already paid to gain admittance. I don’t know how much they cost because they were sold out. There was, we discovered after much wandering about and elbowing through dense crowds, a place where you could stand to watch the horse jumping on our peasants’ tickets. However, it was full and closed. There were big screens but honestly you might as well have been at home on your sofa. Of course you could hear the excited roar of the crowd inside. “Is there anywhere,” I despairingly asked a man wearing an RDS t-shirt and denying entry to crowds of irate attendees, “we can see some horse jumping? It doesn’t have to be international standard.” “There’s going to be a horse race just behind the stand,” said he. “A horse race? Horses running? In that tiny field?” I asked incredulously. “Yes!” he said. We went. Were there horses running in the small field? What do you think? Ladies and gentlemen there were not.

I stomped to the exit, filled with rage. Mr. Waffle followed, honestly a bit afraid that he might be caught up in my general rage. “It’s not you, it’s the Aga Khan,” I said crossly. “But the Aga Khan isn’t here and I am,” he said nervously. We stopped again one last time at the information desk. “Is there anyone, anywhere doing anything interesting that we could see – dressage; jumping anything?” I asked. “Yes,” said the young woman on the desk brightly, “See here on the programme in this ring, it’s horse jumping.” I was already pretty familiar with the programme at this point and said coldly, “It’s not, it’s 148cm 6&7 year old ponies and they will be walking them around the ring to award a rosette to the best looking one.” “Oh right,” said she, “I actually don’t know anything about horses.”

There you have it. A big part of the problem I think is that most of the punters knew a lot about horses and horse related things and none of the staff seemed to know anything. The website was abysmal, if you wanted to find out how anything worked (a huge part of it is given over to FAQs for stallholders and participants who are surely minority players). If you were just a casual visitor who thought that it might be fun to check out, then disappointment was your lot. If you were horsey and knew from experience how it worked, I can see that it might have been fun. If you came in cold, it was no fun at all, it was like being mugged for your cash and your only reward was an opportunity to spend more cash on a panama hat you didn’t like. I cannot recommend.

Happy Anniversary

28 July, 2025
Posted in: Mr. Waffle

Mr Waffle and I were married 24 years ago today. Still pretty pleased with that decision even though, sadly, neither of us remembered the significance of the date until mid-afternoon when the reminder Mr Waffle had prudently put in our shared calendar popped up. I’ve booked dinner for Friday night. I think we may need to do better for 25 years next summer (assuming , of course, that things continue to go well).

Surprising

27 July, 2025
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

Mr. Waffle and I had a great time in the Phoenix park today where we went to watch a polo match. Have you ever been? I can totally recommend. The rules are immensely complex and involve, inter alia, handicapping each player (you start at -2 and work your way up with +1 generally being international standard and 8-10 people in the world at +10); the direction of play reversing after every goal; and a lot about the line of play which I can’t say I totally understood. All of this (and more) was explained to me by a friendly Australian who was unfortunate enough to be sitting beside me. The commentator knew many of his audience were pretty ignorant and spent some time explaining the five kinds of foul in polo; to be honest not really time well-spent as far as I was concerned, I remain pretty confused on this point.

I have no idea what the standard of play was but it was extremely exciting as the horses and riders went tearing up and down the, I want to say, pitch. During the break all of the spectators went out and stamped the divots back in place which I found kind of hilarious. I will certainly be back with my new found polo knowledge. It is free to attend and numbers are low so they need all the support they can get.