Princess

London

19 December, 2025
Posted in: Princess, Reading etc., Travel

Friday December 12

I went to London to see herself. Despite flying Ryanair, always a high risk option from the point of view of failing to meet baggage or other criteria, all went well and I landed safely in Gatwick without disgorging an extra cent. Gratifying.

I stayed in a rather pricey B&B in Chelsea where herself is temporarily resident (Chelsea rather than the B&B). I found Chelsea delightful but I do see that it is a bit old and expensive for a younger demographic. Her flat is lovely but she is moving on to somewhere that is probably more affordable.

Herself came and rescued me from the B&B and we walked down the charming streets of Chelsea to her flat.

We were going to the theatre that evening so I went back to my place to change (unnecessary, I had not understood the nature of the audience in the National Theatre) and we met in Sloane Square which confusingly seems to be sponsored by Ralph Lauren for Christmas.

Due to some timing issues we were dining after the theatre so I purchased a Marmite and cheese bun to keep the wolf from the door. Not as unpleasant as it sounds but wouldn’t rush back for another.

We were going to see Ballet Shoes. I had reread the Noel Streatfeild book in preparation (a particular delight in a year where I feel I have read too many new books and not reread enough old ones). The night before I had been for dinner with two friends from college one of whom was extremely familiar with the text and one of whom had never heard of it. The latter began to become concerned we had joined a cult as the former and I discussed the plot in granular detail. I digress slightly but we went to a fancy new rooftop restaurant on top of the old central bank building and it felt very swanky. It’s called Díon which is the Irish for roof which is kind of clever. One of my college friends said that her friend has given each of her four (!) children €70,000 to buy a house; as my other friend commented acerbically, “What are the rest of us who don’t have €70,000 to give to our children going to do?” What indeed? Is it any wonder my beloved first born thinks she has a better chance of getting a house in London. Sigh.

Anyway, back to Ballet Shoes. Obviously, I know it’s a children’s book. I don’t know why I didn’t think it would be a production broadly aimed at children. And so it was. The sets and costumes were really good. Some of the actors were outstanding but some were not. Posy Fossil was pretty mediocre. She was a good ballet dancer and I can see why they needed someone who could dance but there is a lot of acting as well. Theo Dane – a bit part in the book but somewhat expanded here – was very good.

There was a lot of dancing which I enjoyed but the children are the heart of the book. The actress who played Pauline was good but the one who played Petrova was only alright and the actress who played Posy was just not great. And they were all adults. I can’t help feeling I’d have been more forgiving on the acting front had they not all been in their 20s.

The audience demographics were interesting also. Despite it being a children’s Christmas treat there were almost no children there. In fact they were pretty much all old people (a good deal older than me, I would say). I found this a bit puzzling. Had they no grandchildren? I can’t help feeling that if herself had been 15 years younger we might both have enjoyed it a great deal more. So, I suppose, recommended, if you have children to accompany you.

Saturday December 13

We had a pricey but pleasant breakfast in Daylesford organic (a sort of Pain Quotidien equivalent).

We wandered around Chelsea for a bit. A previously unknown part of London for me but, I think it’s fair to say, a not completely unknown destination. I did like it very much. It feels weirdly suburban though for somewhere quite central.

I enjoyed this example of English humour.

We went in to the National Portrait Gallery and saw the Cecil Beaton exhibition which I enjoyed very much.

For the first time, I thought there might be something to abstract expressionism but, on balance, I still think not. It’s just Cecil Beaton’s genius made it seem momentarily appealing.

Given that he was so much a society photographer, there were lots of familiar faces. I was surprised though to see Hazel Lavery who looks like she does in her husband’s pictures but also less attractive. I understand that she was very beautiful but this picture does her no favours.

After our dose of culture we went for a cup of tea in a spot called 26 grains which I am pleased to approve. It was in a nice little courtyard slightly away from the main drag. The main drag was Covent Garden and it was very Christmassy and pretty but heaving.

We didn’t stay long. We hopped on a bus (upstairs, lovely views) to North London where Mr. Waffle’s sister, N, was singing in a Christmas concert and had procured tickets for us. We arrived a bit early and wandered around the streets of Islington. Herself was ecstatic and even ran into a friend from college. I thought it was nice and everything but not as lovely as Chelsea. I suppose these things may be age dependent.

The Christmas concert was a delight even though it featured several songs I had never heard. As you know, I am generally not a fan of this approach. However, I really, really liked four of the unknown numbers- so much so that I insisted on playing them for the troops when I got home, they were less keen; perhaps you had to be there. I thought it was really lovely anyway and I definitely wiped away una furtiva lacrima (surely, I am allowed to be pretentious here in the privacy of my own blog?).

After the concert, herself, myself and N went to the local Ottolenghi. I had never been before and was curious. It was very nice but more snacky than I expected. Strong on salads. I had the fish though and it was excellent.

Sunday December 14

After some reflection we went back to Daylesford for breakfast. My flight was at lunchtime and I didn’t have loads of time and it was handy. She’s obviously never darkened the door herself as she is living on shoestring. Mind you this shoestring is in part necessary because she’s just back from a fortnight in Japan with friends, so, you know, not all bad.

The main reason I left so early was so that I could get to my annual book club Christmas afternoon tea. I should really have just accepted that I was going to miss it this year. I was exhausted. I mean it was grand but I am just not the kind of person who can swan from plane to anything other than a quiet evening at home.

I trust your own Christmas preparations continue apace. I finally got my tree up and decorated the house this afternoon. I still have some Christmas cards to write and if you are one of the people who has not yet received one, I am very sorry but now I am off to the airport to collect herself so who knows when they will issue. Hurrah for the return of the firstborn though!

Have a picture of the tree in the upper courtyard of Dublin Castle which like mine (as of this afternoon) is up and decorated.

Saint Nicolas

6 December, 2025
Posted in: Belgium, Family, Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

He came – after all these years. As I write one of the Dublin based children is still in bed, so possibly excitement levels are not what they once were. But look, it’s the thought that counts!

I guess it’s a long time since 2006.

Old News from England

29 November, 2025
Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

Did I tell you about when Mr. Waffle and I went to Cambridge to visit herself earlier in the year? I did not. Well now, here’s something for you to look forward to. It was in March but look, we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel here content wise (I can hear my father spinning in his grave at this terrible construction but here we are).

Friday, 14 March 2025

There was rugby in Rome the weekend we were travelling. At the airport Mr. Waffle and I ran into not one, not two, but three people we knew: one off to the rugby; one going to a party in Cornwall; and one, like us, going to London. This last was the son of my mother’s friend from college and he was always a bit charming and feckless. This may have been why he and his wife were on stand by for the flight they were taking with their two teenagers. It all worked out in the end. It always does for the charming but feckless in my experience.

Mr. Waffle and I traveled with laptops and had to do a bit of work when we arrived. Were we pleased? We were not.

There was a formal dinner arranged in the Princess’s college for Patrick’s day and I was filled with pride when she got up at the drinks at start of the evening and read – in Irish – the poem that begins “Anois Teacht an Earraigh”; it’s a poem I love and her grandmother loved it too. She explained to the audience about wandering bards and how this poem would have been recited all over Ireland and now, she said, it’s come to Cambridge. My mother would have been delighted.

Herself had become great buddies with a guy from Cork and on chatting to him I discovered that he had gone to the primary school where my cousin had been headmaster for many years. Rather charmingly when we established this link, he said in awe struck tones “You know Mr. K?”. He obviously felt unable, even at that distance, to bandy around Mr. K’s first name as I had been doing so recklessly.

Look at me filled with delight dining with my firstborn (I am wearing my sail – our hotel offered bikes for guests and they were handy but I did worry slightly that I might take flight on my way to dinner).

Saturday 15, March 2025

We went on a punt. It was shockingly expensive and the young woman powering the punt, though very strong given her willowy frame, was distressingly ignorant about the sights. We were able to get the gist from other guides on nearby punts but not as good somehow.

We went to Fitzbillies, a popular Cambridge tea room. Fine but nothing to write home about in my view. There is a really lovely cafe where I always went for breakfast with herself on my visits and we definitely graced that with our presence at some point but, sadly, if you were thinking of visiting yourself, I cannot now summon its name to mind.*

Herself knowing my love of a good cemetery took us to a lovely one.

One of the Edgeworths is buried there (a sister of the better known Maria). A long way from home.

We checked out the Princess’s room. She did a great job of decorating it notwithstanding some challenges, the most serious of which was the quantity of furniture (particularly tables) which the university authorities provided with the room and which could not be removed for complex and doubtless administratively understandable reasons.

Sunday 16 March, 2025

Herself took us to Mass. It was very long and enthusiastic. There was an excellent sermon on a papal encyclical sent to America in which, to quote from Wikipedia “the pope addressed a heresy that he called Americanism and expressed his concern that the Catholic Church in the United States should guard against American values of liberalism and pluralism undermining the doctrine of the Church”. I mean, some of us felt that the topic choice was a bit tactless given that next up was some innocent young American woman telling us about the church’s charity work but ok.

After lunch we walked to Grantchester. My mother-in-law used to enjoy quoting the last couplet from Rupert Brooke’s The Old Vicarage, Grantchester “Stands the Church clock at ten to three?/And is there honey still for tea?” When we got there the clock did indeed stand at ten to three which was very gratifying.

I only took a picture after our cup of tea and the clock stands at five past four and I seem to have included some large bins in shot. Somehow, life never is as romantic as poetry. I mean, look, apparently Jeffrey Archer lives in the old vicarage now. Incidentally, whoever wrote the Wikipedia entry on Jeffrey Archer really hates him.

We all had dinner together on Sunday night and then Mr. Waffle and I headed home on Monday morning. A good time had by all etc.

Tomorrow is November 30. Are we all heaving a sigh of relief?

*Updated to add: Mr Waffle made it his mission to find out the cafe’s name. He did. It was Cafe Foy apparently.

Cultural Update

12 November, 2025
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc.

I went to the French evening at the national gallery a couple of months ago. There was a French man who was particularly passionate about Caillebotte. I mean, I don’t mind him myself but I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm this man demonstrated particularly for the very underwhelming picture we have in the National Gallery in Dublin. But still, interesting overall.

On the same evening we went to what was billed as a duet if memory serves. The ubiquitous Olwen Fouéré (interesting back story) was onstage with a man whose name I have forgotten. She is quite a stiking presence but the material was underwhelming and when it ended with both participants walking down the aisle shouting loudly (part of the performance not a disagreement), I was delighted it was over. So was everyone else I’d say as there was only a solitary standing ovation in a city where this has become entirely standard.

I saw Dara Ó Briain’s stand up about finding his father which was one of the best things I’ve seen all year. Recommended.

Mr. Waffle and I went on a walking tour beginning at the tenement museum in Henrietta Street. We were the only people on the tour and, to be fair to the guide, he quickly realised we were the honours class and covered lots of new material of which we were not previously aware. Before retiring and beginning his new role of leading tourists around the place, the guide had, for many years, worked closely with former Irish president Paddy Hillery who told him this story. When he (Dr. Hillery) was Minister for Education (before ascending to the heights of the Presidency, obviously) he went up into a very rural part of Clare (where he was the local member of Parliament – TD). He went into the classroom of this small one teacher school and the young woman who was teaching there jumped up in alarm and then relaxed saying, “Oh, it’s yourself, Dr. Paddy, I thought it was the school inspector”.

I riposted with my own Paddy Hillery story, possibly apocryphal serving to demonstrate the expectations that the electorate have of their politicians. One Christmas day a man came round to Dr. Hillery’s house (he was a medical doctor) and banged anxiously on the door. Dr. Hillery by then the local TD rose from his Christmas dinner to see what was the matter. The man said, “You must come quickly, my wife is in labour.” “But why haven’t you gone to your own GP?” asked Dr. Hillery reaching for his coat. “Oh, I didn’t like to disturb him on Christmas day,” said the constituent.

I have a friend with whom I do cultural things. She got tickets for “An evening of Nature and Birdsong”. I went along but I did not expect to enjoy it. However, I did. Firstly, I discovered that they have quite the auditorium in the Royal Irish Academy of Music on Westland Row; and secondly I found the two young men who were speaking about nature hugely engaging. Especially the man from Cork, obviously but the young man from Northern Ireland was pretty good too. They were really interesting and I never thought I would find recorded birdsong quite so interesting.

Herself, Mr. Waffle and I visited Emo Court over the summer. It’s only just reopened and is worth a look. Amusingly, the last resident, a Major Cholmeley Harrison, acquired an extensive art collection and the attributions are…optimistic. “Is that really by [insert name of famous artist here]?” I asked in astonishment again and again and the OPW guide said each time “No, that’s just the label the Major put on it.” Dubious attributions notwithstanding it’s well worth visiting.

We went to see The Naked Gun in the cinema with a selection of the children. Not culture, you say. Well, you might be right. A couple of years ago my new year’s resolution was to go to the cinema more often and it was great for a while but I have fallen off the wagon; this is a reminder that I need to get back in the saddle (do you like my mixed metaphor?). Oh the film? It was terrible.

Mr. Waffle and I went back to Henrietta street for a tea time talk about the local school which we really enjoyed. There were lots of older (and some younger) people there who had attended the school and they really added to the event. I also got hold of this map of Dublin which is really interesting and I share here as an act of public service. See the way the birth place of Edmund Burke is down there on Arran Quay? Well, his mother was a Nagle and she was a cousin of Nano Nagle who was the founder of the Presentation order and the school we were looking at was a Presentation school just up the road attached to which was a very early Presentation convent (I think maybe the second one after Cork where HQ was, though I’m not sure). I do wonder was Burke baptised as persistent rumour has it? I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Wikipedia tells me his sister was brought up and remained a Roman Catholic. Doubtless much ink has been spilt on this question.

We went to see a comedian called Holly Hughes in the Dublin Fringe Festival on how she became Karen. Like the curate’s egg, good in places.

We saw David Sedaris in the cavernous Bord Gáis energy theatre. We saw him a while ago in the National Concert Hall and that was hilarious but that was a small venue which allowed banter with the audience and where he wasn’t overwhelmed by the size of the stage. The huge venue was full (normally does West End block busters on their Irish tour) so the fans are out there and he is very funny but a reading, even a very funny reading, just didn’t work in this venue. Disappointing.

We saw a new play based on Oedipus Rex “The Boy” at the Abbey theatre. I’m honestly still not the better of it. That is a very harrowing play. What the ancient Greeks thought when they were seeing it for the first time, I can only imagine (possibly that Sophocles should be locked up). I thought it was a really great production. Incidentally, featured Olwen Fouéré in a supporting role. Highly recommended.

We went to a talk on Great Irish Wives which was an interview with the author of a book of the same name. Mildly interesting.

I went to the Picasso exhibition in the National Gallery. I don’t like Picasso much but, despite myself, I was impressed by his extraordinary vigour, right into his 90s. Apparently when he died he left 45,000 different pieces of art in his various studios and, obviously, that doesn’t include the stuff he sold to fund his lavish lifestyle. His personal life left a lot to be desired in my view. He left a slew of disappointed (all younger, often much younger) women in his wake. Our guide told us that he loved animals and once won a goat which he brought home and had living in the house along with his partner and two small children. This was too much for madame who got rid of the goat and there was a huge row. Apparently, his new partner when she was moved in gave him a present of a goat.

Old goat.

Any cultural news from your end?

La Serenissima

8 November, 2025
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

Am I seriously telling you that I have been putting up content on electric toothbrushes when I was in Venice in October? Yes, yes, I am but I wanted to do it justice. Choice of the date was very challenging and in fact we had booked everything for the weekend before when we discovered that Mr. Waffle couldn’t make it and we had to rebook everything. It was stressful but, you will be pleased to hear, Venice was worth it.

Day 1 – Friday, October 17

Mr. Waffle and I left Dublin at a civilised hour on Friday morning and flew (direct!) to Venice, hopped into a taxi at Marco Polo airport and were at the city in no time.

I’ve been to Venice a couple of times before but only on day trips: once for the carnival when I was an Erasmus student in Modena in 1990 and once with my family in 1980. In fact, because I remember nothing, my brother had to point out to me that we went back on a family holiday in 1987 which I had forgotten. I retained quite a vivid memory of us each being allowed to take home a present from Venice: I got a golden necklace with blue stones; my sister got a rocking gondola and my brother got a… flick knife. I remember being outraged at the time. “What,” I said to him recently “were the parents thinking buying a seven year old a flick knife?” It was then that it emerged we had gone there again when he was 14. I mean, is that better? So, I had been to Venice but I wasn’t super familiar with its ways. Even when I went in the 80s and 90s, it was very busy, hence our decision to go in October when it might be a bit quieter.

Our neighbours have been to Venice a lot and gave us many excellent tips. The first being that we should stay in Dorsoduro which is where I found our Airbnb. The whole city is really compact and everywhere is walkable. In fact walking and boat are what is available, nothing on wheels of any kind is allowed: no bikes, no cars, no scooters, no buses, no trams. It’s even quite tough for people in wheelchairs as there are bridges with steps every couple of metres. Our taxi tossed us out at Piazzale Roma which is where the bridge to the mainland is and the only place on the island with car access. To Mr. Waffle’s intense delight, we got a boat to near our destination. He loves a public transport system and one with boats? Well, as I say, he was delighted.

I quite liked the Airbnb but Mr. Waffle and the Princess were less enthused. Over the weekend though, I found the hosts exceptionally…communicative and when we left they sent me a long questionnaire which was separate from the Airbnb questionnaire so that was a bit tiring.

Herself was joining Mr. Waffle and me as she was in Italy for a friend’s party in Rome the following weekend and had decided to spend the week in Italy travelling down from Venice . I think it’s fair to say that she may not have loved the Airbnb but it represented a luxurious high point in her journey through Italy which was, elsewhere, hostel based.

She was already ensconced when we arrived and we all went out for a drink, a tramezzino or two (basically a sandwich) and a walk. Venice is beautiful from every angle. The weather was perfect. Sunny and 18 degrees. While tourists were very numerous around Piazza San Marco, they were not particularly so elsewhere. It seemed like a perfect time to visit

Same view with tourists:

Everywhere looks like a postcard. It has no bad angles.

We went in to the Piazza San Marco for a look around and a ludicrously expensive cup of tea. I think it was on this first day that we passed a huge demonstration about Giorgia Meloni’s appointees to La Fenice (the opera house – which we never actually saw, next time). Glad to see that the political demonstration is alive and well. Apparently La Fenice is not for sale. By the time we got to Piazza San Marco it was evening and the crowds had thinned and it was beautiful even though there was some scaffolding (into every life some scaffolding must fall).

We went for dinner in a hotel recommended by a colleague of mine. I regret to say that it was not fantastic. Actually, I thought the food generally was only alright especially given the standard of Italian food normally; maybe we didn’t quite find the right places.

I studied Italian in college and lived in Italy for more than a year in my 20s but I haven’t visited Italy in about ten years so it would be fair to say that my Italian is rusty. I was keen to try to revive it but at every turn I was frustrated by Italians who wanted to speak English. The waiters in the hotel were no different. Poor Mr. Waffle drove me crazy by using his very limited Italian quite dexterously (his vocabulary is terrible but his accent is excellent thanks to his francophone background) and actually sometimes getting to speak more Italian than me. He was unwise enough to correct me (correctly damn it) on one occasion. The unkindest cut of all was later in the trip when we went into a tobacconist to get stamps. The Italian word for a stamp is a term of art and I knew Mr. Waffle wouldn’t know it. I was ready to roll out francobollo when the moment arrived. The people in front of us in the queue were French (Venice was full, full, full of French tourists) and like many another Venetian, the tobacconist spoke French (is is always full of French tourists?). When it came to our turn to be served I stepped up smartly only to hear Mr. Waffle say, “Vous parlez Français?” Words alone are insufficient to describe my full ire at being denied this vital chance to show off.

When we got back to the airbnb to plug in our exhausted phones, I found that I had packed an Argentinian adapter instead of a European one and herself had forgotten to pack one at all. So the poor old ant accompanied by his two grasshoppers let us use his.

Day 2 Saturday, October 18

We were staying quite near the Accademia. Fortified by a delicious – though pricey – outdoor breakfast we went to tackle it.

My memory from my art history diploma (1999 or 2000 but how much does history of art change?) was that the big arty draw in Venice is the Scuola di San Rocco but I was very glad we went to the Accademia. It has a beautiful Venetian collection and it is quite small and manageable, I would really recommend. On the steps on the way in, the security guard asked where we were from. “Irlanda” said I. “Viva la regina!” he said cheerfully. Consternation in our camp. When I was a child this kind of thing was commonplace but I really thought Ireland had been put on the map by our cultural exports. Apparently not. The guard took in our dismay and thought he knew the problem, “Viva il re!” he said triumphantly.

The gallery had lots of the big hitters – Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese and even Giorgione. None of these illustrated below just to keep you on your toes: we’ve got a love sick young man by Lorenzo Lotto; a truly fantastic rococo family group by someone called Alessandro Longhi, previously unknown to me; and a lovely genre painting by the reliably wonderful Pietro Longhi (some relation, we wonder?).

Afterwards we had lunch by a canal

and this guy just powered by.

Looking out on the water, I did wonder how the plumbing arrangements in Venice worked and found this rather fascinating article. I was surprised to see that the article began: Sewage treatment is one of those subjects that visitors in Venice inquire most about. I mean, really?

Anyway turning our minds from the gatoli, everywhere you look is just picture perfect. No artifice is required to get a nice shot, everything is nice.

Our neighbours had recommended that we go up the tower of San Giorgio on a small island across the bay from Piazza San Marco. That was excellent advice (side note to say how much fun Mr. Waffle was getting from his Venezia Unica public transport card – he bought one for everyone in the family – going by boat is so much more fun than by bus even if it is just public transport).

The view from San Giorgio is spectacular and also there is a lift to the top. Did I like that? Oh yes, I did.

After the strain of travelling up and down by lift we had a restorative cup of tea on the tiny island and decided on our next move. Our neighbour had recommended the cemetery island (San Michele) so we decided that would be next. It was a bit of a trek on the vaporetto (hark at me) but, as I say, it’s a boat.

I had to buy new sunglasses in Venice as I hadn’t brought my own, who knew it would be so sunny in October. Not me or my firstborn. Our ant had his sunglasses alright. And I sent herself off on her trip to Rome with the €8 pair I got but I enjoyed my Iris Apfel weekend.

Disaster: when we got to San Michele, it was closed so we stayed on the boat and went on to Murano. It was evening and most things were closing but it was not unpleasant. It’s very different from the main island where there are many tourists and “every prospect pleases”. I’m sure there are tourists earlier in the day but in early evening in October it seemed to be all working class Venetians and it felt perhaps more real than Venice proper. We also got an ice cream in a workman’s cafe which was full of Halloween decorations – several cultures collide. We didn’t buy any glass though; somehow nothing really appealed.

And then we got the boat home ducking under the Rialto bridge on the way.

We had dinner in a small restaurant near the flat which was grand. Herself was a bit mortified as she had had lunch there on Friday before we arrived (cheapest item on the menu) and spent a couple of hours there on her laptop and she was greeted by cries of “Carissima” from the staff on her return but I thought it was rather endearing.

Day 3 – Sunday, October 19

Our neighbours had recommended 10 o’clock mass at San Marco. Off we went at speed in the morning.

When we got to the front of the church, people were being turned away but fortified by my neighbour’s advice and in my best Italian I asked where to go for mass at 10 and was respectfully sent around the corner. What a church. What a mass. The singing was incredible, the church was incredible and I really felt “Well now, this our faith and we are proud to profess it.” Mass lasted an hour and a half – and you know how I feel about a long mass – but I didn’t care. It was by some distance the best mass I have ever attended. I dutifully paid particular attention to the sermon in Italian so that I could explain it to herself and Mr. Waffle afterwards and, honestly, great was my ire when the priest proceeded to give the exact same sermon in English when he had finished in Italian. The church was full but the congregation were clearly all Catholic and knew the drill and mostly didn’t use their phones. In some ways it was a surprisingly normal congregation given the context but the second mass was over everyone (including, I regret to say your correspondent) got up and started taking pictures.

It was a truly extraordinary experience.

Immediately afterwards, unwisely perhaps, we forked out €30 a head to go into the Palazzo Ducale. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the Palazzo Ducale is huge and spectacular but it was perhaps the former element that we hadn’t entirely banked on. Just when we thought it was over we would turn into another even more extraordinary audience room with more gigantic paintings by Titian or Tintoretto. Even looking over the photos now makes me feel faintly exhausted. Our mistake may have been not having a cup of tea beforehand.

You go over the Bridge of Sighs towards the end. I definitely sighed.

But it was all spectacularly beautiful.

Even the views from the odd opened window as you go around.

We had lunch in the museum cafe afterwards and I have never been more grateful to sit down to a museum cafe lunch.

Reinvigorated by our lunch we decided to try to get to San Michele – the cemetery island – again. We walked across Venice. Delightful.

We passed the hospital. I enjoyed the ambulances.

This time we were successful in getting to San Michele and it was well worth the trip. It’s very peaceful and quite beautiful out there. Our neighbour said try to get to a funeral (apparently he has attended a few – he’s a dapper older gent in a suit, I guess he just blends in seamlessly) but we did not succeed. Still there were many graves of the famous to admire.

I had not previously been familiar with Princess Catherine Bagration but quite the character; that wikipedia link is well worth a read.

And it’s a beautiful cemetery.

It might perhaps have been wiser after our successful cemetery outing to have had a little rest but I was keen to take the vaporetto that basically does a tour of Venice via the Grand Canal (either the one or the two, come back to me if you need to know). So we did. The spirit was willing but the flesh was pretty weak at that point. Still I was sitting down and it was so spectacular to look at.

We got off at Santa Maria della Salute which I was really keen to see inside. It was closed and I was surprised how unsorry I was by this development. Next time.

We were on the wrong side of the canal to get home and we tried and failed to get a little traghetto across so back on the big vaporetto.

Herself was on a mission to get these Venetian slippers. She had got a pair about a year ago and I thought they were quite stupid and I mocked them. But we went to the home of the Venetian slipper and, despite myself, I was tempted so here we are, we both got a pair and I am wearing them as I type (pause to photograph). I feel quite fashion forward but also, how the mighty are fallen etc.

Herself chose a restaurant for dinner and it was our biggest dining success so a note for next time.

Day 4 – Monday, October 20

We rose with the lark (about 9.30) and the three of us went for breakfast together in a bar around the corner from the flat. Breakfast was definitely the best meal of the day in Venice – I found it uniformly good in the little bars and cafes and they always, always had freshly squeezed orange juice.

After breakfast, Mr. Waffle and I said goodbye to herself and began our long trip home. I love that she loves London and things are going her way but I wish I could see more of her and I am always so sad to say goodbye.

In an uncharacteristic burst of economising, I suggested to Mr. Waffle that we might get the bus from Piazzale Roma to the airport which we did and it was just fine – perhaps a note for me to reflect on. The trip home was uneventful although the airport was slow and the flight a little delayed so we only took off a lunchtime. It was supposed to be an earlier flight so perhaps they weren’t particularly set up for a lunchtime crowd. I was pleased to secure the last sandwich on the plane and the man beside me looked chagrined. Mr. Waffle asked him had he hoped to get the sandwich. He had. I did wonder what Mr. Waffle’s plan was there but he just said vaguely, “Oh right” and carried on happily while I ate my sandwich like a (hungry) criminal.

I must say there is a great deal to be said for a four day trip which allows you two full days in the middle. And I will certainly be back to Venice.

France III – Arcachon

11 October, 2025
Posted in: Family, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Monday September 1, 2025

At the crack of dawn, Mr Waffle took the bus to Lidl to pick up the car. On the way back (what a time to be alive, driving the car), he decided to drive to the Monoprix – a slightly more upmarket offering. Exceptionnelment, the Monoprix was not opening until 10. Well, of course. Then the car started flashing an alarming message on the roundabout that there was some kind of breakdown; though it was still going, so Mr. Waffle (rather gingerly) took it home.

“We’d better ring the car hire people,” said I. We did. They seemed indifferent to our plight. “Did you take a photo of the notice?” asked the bored young woman on the phone. “No because I was driving the car,” said Mr. Waffle. “Well, take a photo and send it to us next time,” she said. Not the kind of customer service I was hoping for from Thrifty. We delved deep into the bowels of reddit France and various threads seemed to indicate that this issue was not a fatal problem so, with some trepidation we packed everyone into the car to drive to Bordeaux.

Time was a bit tight because Herself was doing some tutoring and the last service for the restaurant she had found for us was 1.30 but we got there. The car park we had selected (round the block twice because we missed it the first time) did indeed have a charger but we couldn’t get it to work because there was no internet access down in the centre of the earth where our car was residing (Michael found the wifi code in the car park on our return, I don’t want to talk about it). We abandoned and trotted to the restaurant at speed. It was around then that I realised that I had left my glasses back at the house and Mr. Waffle would have to drive back again. A slightly inauspicious beginning to our Bordeaux adventure.

However, from there on out, things improved. Herself had found a nice middle eastern restaurant for us (Kedem, if you find yourself in Bordeaux, recommended) and we all relaxed over lunch. I learnt two unrelated factlets over lunch: (i) France has banned smoking on the beach and (ii) everyone of a certain age in England is on Ozempic or equivalent. I was quite shocked by the latter discovery. “But not everyone is obese,” I said in horror. “Obese is thinner than you think,” said herself in what I can only describe as a marked manner.

After lunch we went to the cathedral which was grand (big church, you know yourself) and also provided some shelter from the rain.

I have to relate that two of my three grown up children failed to bring anoraks to France. They were damp but they were cheerful.

They are very proud of their theatre in Bordeaux. Very nice from the outside but I cannot say what it is like inside as it is, alas, “fermé lundi”

We went for a fancy cup of tea in the Intercontinental to assuage our grief (also, it was there, it was raining again). All of us got lost in the extraordinarily labyrinthine route to the bathroom but other than that it was pretty satisfactory.

We went on to the Place de la Bourse which is very impressive.

Overall, weather notwithstanding, I found Bordeaux a delightful place to stroll around. It’s small but not too small and quite grand in places.

We went to the Musée des Beaux Arts. It was a lovely size and I really enjoyed wandering around. There were some very nice works which I had to peer at rather closely. I truly mourned my forgotten glasses. I always say of regional art galleries that they have first rate pictures by second rate artists and second rate pictures by first rate artists. That is a bit unfair but it’s not totally unfair. Often the better works, in my view are works by local artists you’ve never heard of rather than works by better known artists. Here are some things I enjoyed.

I like to change my whatsapp icon – drives the children crazy – and I found a picture which I regard as my best find to date for this purpose. Some sub-David artist (Pierre-Narcisse Guérin) who was previously unknown to me and, I’m going to call it, probably to lots of people but good fun all the same.

Honestly, it was an extremely successful day. Saintly Mr Waffle drove us home again and, after some difficulty, I picked up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. I left the others in the car and ran in, the man stacking shelves said, “Madame, I have no idea what you want.” This is trying when you quite fancy your abilities in French. The charcuterie guy was got out from the back and eventually produced a roast chicken already divided up – beggars can’t be choosers.

Tuesday September 2, 2025

Mr. Waffle went to charge the car. He’d downloaded a new app and was full of hope; there were electric charging stations in the campsite only a short walk from our house. The campsite, alas, were firm, charging was only open to campsite residents.

Mr. Waffle rang some app to see whether their car charging networks were operational in Arcachon. They were but the mobile app was only downloadable by residents of 6 countries (including New Zealand) but not, sadly, Ireland.

We took ourselves to the pool out front and spent a happy afternoon playing a game called Marco Polo which herself had introduced to us. This is the kind of cultural product from abroad that we need.

The house was in a pine forest. Most of Arcachon is in a pine forest planted in steep sand dunes. This was why they made a ski slope from pine needles near our house. Sadly, it closed in the 1970s but you have to admire human inventiveness. Can’t imagine it would have been very good for your skis.

A friend of Mr. Waffle’s sister in London is actually from Arcachon and also Scotland and she gave us a number of excellent recommendations. I enjoyed the pleasing phrasing of her messages. Would we be travelling to the “wee towns” around Arcachon? Anyway we took ourselves to one of her recommended restaurants and – get this – we had a great result for car charging. We found a parking place right by the restaurant, the app worked, the car charged and went from 54 to 86 % over dinner. Living the electric dream. Dinner was fine too, not that anyone really cared when we had successfully charged the car.

The faces of people who have triumphed in the car charging lottery.

Wednesday September 3, 2025

After our success on bikes in Île de Ré, I was desperate to get bikes again in Arcachon. This was unsuccessful despite reasonable cycle lanes. Firstly we rented bikes from the campsite up the road and unlike the bikes in Île de Ré, these were just absolutely terrible bikes poorly maintained and not great to start with; secondly, and perhaps more significantly, Arcachon is built on sand dunes and everywhere you went it was steeply uphill and steeply down. I honestly didn’t think you could build on sand (biblical sources indicate that it is problematic, you will recall), but you really can.

The whole town was built in the 19th century and the architecture is pretty consistent. It reminds me of a lot of other places with significant art nouveau housing stock like Brussels (Mr. Waffle observed that in the rain it was a bit like holidaying in Tervuren, a middle class suburb of Brussels) or Riga or the Grunewald in Berlin, the difference being that this was a whole town rather than parts of a larger city.

Anyhow, moving on from architecture, myself and two of the children had a very successful beach trip. Everyone was a bit grumpy on the 15 minute cycle there but when we got there, the Plage Pereire did not disappoint.

We had a lovely swim and we bonded over seeing a French man run along the (happily emptyish) beach at extraordinarily impressive speeds. He went from a standing start and managed to secure his escaping beach umbrella before it took anyone out.

We had lunch at a bar on the beach recommended by our Franco-Scot looking across the bay to Cap Ferrat. Was I winning at life? Oh yes I was.

We joined the other pair in town and, after a restorative drink and some shopping, went home.

I had a swim in the early evening and a mosquito bit me between the eyes. It gave a kind of weirdly Botox wrinkle removing effect but, on balance, I was against. Of course no one gets mosquito bites like herself and she spent the week swelling up like a balloon despite all modern medicine could do to help her.

After dinner we watched “Persuasion” with Dakota Johnson on Netflix. It’s the weirdest rendition I have ever seen but “Persuasion” is my least favourite Jane Austen novel so, whatever as they say, but worth watching for the sheer oddness of the experience. Not everyone is convinced.

Spending time with my children gave me a chance to try to find out about popular memes and what the young people are saying. Are you familiar with “No cap”? Apparently it means “really, no really, it’s true”. Various memes were explained to me – micro trend final boss anyone? My absolute favourite is “They don’t know I’m…” Basically it’s where someone is apart from the group and looking down on them – “There they all are chatting away but they don’t know I am [an expert in middle English/Superman/whatever you’re having yourself].” I see a lot of this in the wild. The children say I have not understood this properly so do not take me as your guide.

Thursday September 4, 2025

I took herself for breakfast in town and we found a man to fix her phone which had been presumed dead after a lengthy dip the previous day. We rejoiced. We went to the charcuterie in the market and bought a whole lasagna. A large very nice lasagna carefully wrapped and presented. It cost €72. I nearly died but was too embarrassed not to pay. It was nice and all but what? [I bought a rug recently – a terrible mistake, more anon possibly – it wasn’t super dear for a rug but it was €300 down the drain – “Only 4 and a bit lasagnas,” said middle child cheerfully.]

The biggest attraction locally is a big sand dune known as the Dune du Pilat. Don’t laugh, I have the fridge magnet to prove it. It was actually surprisingly impressive and, happily, not very hard to climb. Herself stayed at home but the others came and amused themselves by running up and down to the top while Mr. Waffle and I traipsed up the steps.

Despite the impression the artfully taken snaps above may give, the place was full of tourists. I am lost in awe for the marketing that made us all come out and look at a sand dune. A high sand dune but you know, a sand dune.

But on the plus side there was somewhere to get a cup of tea at the bottom which is definitely not a feature of every sand dune.

On the way home we tried to go for a swim but tensions were a bit high so we all just went home. Then myself and beach enthusiast middle child went to the beach for a swim. I regret to say that we took the car even though the bikes were right there and it was not far. There was something about those hills that was just quite off putting. Herself observed at one point as I was plugging the bikes “They’re like mechanical dogs that you have to take for a walk.” There was a lot of walking because those hills were steep. The local authorities seemed to be slightly anti-bike but the hills were honestly doing a lot of that work for them.

That evening we watched “Everything Everywhere All at Once” which is a confusing film. About half way through I got a call from my cousin that my aunt had died. She was in her 90s and had been in a nursing home for a number of years so it wasn’t exactly unexpected but I felt very sorry for my cousin who is one of the kindest, gentlest people I know. He’s a quintessential bachelor farmer and himself and his mother lived together almost all of his life. I went back to the film but it’s really not one to watch with something else on your mind.

I was on tenterhooks about the funeral arrangements. Surely it would be Monday (crucially the day after we returned from holidays). Saturday was too soon and they never hold funerals on a Sunday. I consulted with my sister who was in Munich for the weekend and she agreed they would never have it on the Sunday. They don’t do funerals on a Sunday.

Friday September 5, 2025

Mr. Waffle, herself and I went on a walking tour of Arcachon. The town was founded as a resort in the 19th century for people with various maladies (including TB) to convalesce. There are a lot of big grand houses in the Ville d’Hiver.

My idea was that our tour would take us around the houses and tell us about them. This was not the guide’s idea. We spent a long time in one place hearing a lot of local history and only saw three houses. The guide who was undoubtedly very expert was a bit of a comedian. It was tiresome and, overall, not a success.

The face of someone who has enjoyed three hours of our local guide.

We went into town for a late and grumpy lunch. The death notice for my aunt went up on RIP.ie (that invaluable social resource) and I discovered that my aunt’s funeral was on the Sunday. Whoever heard of a funeral on a Sunday? Much logistical discussion followed. I finally booked myself on to a flight from Bordeaux to Cork for the following day. My sister was arranging her flight home from Munich at the same time as I was organising mine home from Bordeaux. She was flying into Dublin and we agreed that I would drive her car from Cork to the funeral in Limerick. She then would hire a car from Dublin, drive down with my brother who was staying in my house in Dublin and then she and my brother between them would drive her car and the hire car to Cork, dropping me off on the train to Dublin on the way (Luas to Sandyford anyone?). My poor family would be left behind and make their way back to La Rochelle for their own flight on Sunday. My mood was not improved by my brother telling me that I was crazy to come. I still feel guilty for missing my uncle’s funeral in 2008 so probably best to make the effort, I feel.

I was pretty mournful about bailing on my holiday a day early (unworthy, but there it is). I took myself home for a last swim in the lovely pool. As I was floating looking up at the pines and the blue sky, I heard Mr. Waffle whistling from across the road. I hauled myself out of the pool and there he was waiting cheerfully at the bus stop across the road to get the bus to collect the electric car. The bus to the car was such an integral part of our lives at this point that we had really stopped noticing how unsatisfactory that arrangement was but I did feel very grateful as I hopped back into the pool.

We went for a last lovely dinner by the seafront. It was lovely even though I insisted on eating outside and we were almost kippered by French cigarette smoke.

Saturday September 6, 2025

Middle child and I went out for a long deferred breakfast together. Michael – at my request – had prepared a tour of Arcachon which was, and I cannot stress this enough, far, far better than the official tour.

It did finish in the same place though.

Afterwards Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk around the local cemetery because that’s what I enjoy. And then back to the house for a last chat.

How would they manage without me on the drive back to La Rochelle and the flight back to Dublin? Spoiler alert: reader, they were absolutely fine despite another electric motor collapse which we finally managed to get on camera.

Mr. Waffle gave me a lift to the station and from the moment of my getting on the train to getting to the airport, literally nothing went wrong (the train had announcements in French, English and Spanish which I found a bit peculiar but why not?). Every connection was seamless and I got the earlier bus to the airport with no difficulty.

The trouble with building in lots of margin – I blame my father who was a big fan of this approach – is that you are very early, if nothing goes wrong. I arrived at Bordeaux airport with three hours to spare which, even by my standards, is a bit early. When bag drop finally opened I was behind a Cork couple who had inadvertently gone through security with their luggage, got to the gate, realised their mistake and had to come back out again; a challenging process I gathered from their bitter argument.

I don’t know when I last flew into the airport in Cork. It was appropriately rainy but it’s a small airport near the city and I actually arrived at my brother’s place, where I was staying overnight, before the plane was due to land which must be some kind of record.

Sunday September 7, 2025 – Definitely not Arcachon

I drove my sister’s partner (who alas does not drive) to the funeral in Limerick in my sister’s car. There were some mild stresses on the way including a road closure which google maps had no knowledge of and where we were thrown back on our own resources for directions (hopping out of the car at a junction and asking the driver behind) but we got there. Given that I had come from France, I had hoped to be on time for the funeral mass but it was not to be. I also had to make do with the wardrobe I had so I wore converse runners to the funeral; not a choice I would normally have made.

My cousin – the lovely bachelor farmer who lived with his mother – came up to the altar for the eulogy. He’s so shy and gentle, I felt this would be the worst thing in the world for him, wasn’t it bad enough that he had to bury his mother? But he was absolutely amazing: funny and poignant by turns as they say and really confident and engaging. And I learnt a lot about my aunt that I had never known before; her father had been injured in the first world war and her mother was ill and from her early teens she was a carer for both parents and her brothers and sisters. People didn’t really talk about first world war veterans in Ireland until pretty recently; it was in opposition to the narrative about the War of Independence and these poor men almost had to hide that they had fought in the army so in a way I am not surprised I had never hear this before.

I was talking to one of my other cousins after the mass and said I was surprised that the family had decided that this particular cousin would do the eulogy and then I was surprised by what a superb job he had done. His brother said, “No surprise there, he was a star of the debating team in school.” Who knew? Though it did explain why he began his eulogy with the words “Reverend father, ladies and gentlemen…” which I thought was a bit unusual.

My brother and sister didn’t make the mass but they made it to the graveyard where my aunt was being interred in the family plot. In something I had never seen before (although my cousins assured me that I had and in this very graveyard), the family filled in the grave with all of the children and grandchildren working away. I had a chance to chat with my cousins’ children and was slightly surprised to hear that the theoretical physicist’s middle child has gone off to be an apprentice electrician and is having the time of his life. Different branches of the same tree, I guess. I was quite charmed by his youngest child who is delightful. Her older sister is a very successful sportswoman and she was very droll and self-deprecating about trailing in her sister’s wake.

It was strange to see my male cousins suddenly as grizzled old men with grey hair (somehow the women seem to have aged differently?). But then we would start talking and they would just be themselves again. Another batch of cousins had come home from holidays in Albania for the funeral (loving Albania, thanks for asking, they went back the following Tuesday).

As always when I go to a funeral after considerable effort, I am horrified at the prospect in advance but really pleased I went afterwards. I think my cousins were glad to see me and now funerals are the main events at which I see extended family. I did enjoy seeing my relatives and catching up at the lunch after the funeral. I dutifully replied to everyone’s favourite question for me “Are you still above in Dublin?” “Yes, yes, I am.” But I enjoy the way the question holds out hope that I might one day escape.

My cousin’s farm is very close to where the Ryder Cup is being held and, it turns out, he is sitting on a goldmine. Another cousin pointed out that someone (whom he knew, how could one bear the shame?) was offering his house for €40,000 – yes, you read that correctly, feast your eyes on these outrageous rates – for the week and it is much further from the action than my cousin’s place. I still don’t think he’ll be putting it up for rent even though I think he might be so close he’s within some kind of security radius. His cattle need him.

Another cousin has a summer house on an island in West Cork and I was surprised to learn that she drives there regularly in her electric car. How can this work? “Is it range anxiety you had?” she asked me sympathetically when I said that I would never hire an electric car again. Where to begin?

My brother dropped me to the train station in Charleville after the lunch (about 7 in the evening, long lunch). I would have to say that the station ambience compared unfavourably to Arcachon where I had been, incredibly, only the previous day. Perhaps, it was down to the weather.

I was glad to get home that evening notwithstanding the ongoing painter chaos. My brother had already given me the deeply unwelcome news that the painter still working away in our house in Dublin so it wasn’t exactly a surprise but it was nonetheless unwelcome.

The painter, a taciturn man by nature, said to me at one point, “I think your cat hates me.” I think that is probably true. But honestly, we were all glad when he eventually finished.

When I was reunited with my loving family, I asked them about their journey. “Was it tense?” “No”. “Was Daddy cross?” “No”. My middle child offered the insight that Mr. Waffle and I were only stressed when travelling together and that each of us was calm when travelling alone with the children or as it was it more succinctly put “You guys are like bleach and ammonia; together you make mustard gas.” I see.

Oh, and our electric car charging card from the French was sitting on the hall table among the other exciting letters which had arrived in our absence.