Siblings

Putting the Fun in Funeral: December Round Up – Part 1

4 January, 2025
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Siblings

Friday, November 29

Several men came and scalped the garden front and back. Overall I am delighted as it was getting out of control, although some precious plants were lost in the take no prisoners approach adopted. This before and after picture in no way conveys the extent of the haircut. I appreciate this is technically not December but look, close enough.

Friday, December 6

Faithful old Saint Nicholas delivered chocolate to Ireland and England as part of his lifelong obligation to those born in Belgium. The now adults in question are very firm on their understanding of St. Nicholas’s obligations in this regard.

That evening Mr. Waffle and I went to Cork for the funeral of my friend’s mother (our families were friends and I have known her and her parents my whole life). Her mother had died in England (where she had lived for many years) and it took – I kid you not – nearly three weeks to get the body back to Ireland for the funeral. My friend – who is an only child- said that she was inundated with texts from people saying “I totally understand if you have chosen to celebrate her life privately in your own way” basically a “you never told me about the funeral” message because no one could believe it would take so long. I myself was on constant refresh on rip.ie. It’s not all just glamour. Regular readers will be interested to hear that rip.ie has been bought by the Irish Times and from January 1, 2025 putting a death notice up on the site will cost €100 (cost to date – zero). The nation is up in arms. Honestly though it will just turn up on the undertaker’s bill, be paid for from the estate and on the scale of things, it won’t really stand out but still and all.

Anyway, Mr. Waffle and I decided to go to Cork for the weekend. He booked the Imperial on the South Mall which was once the height of glamour (it’s where Grace Kelly stayed when she came to Cork, it’s where Michael Collins stayed the night before he was shot and it’s where my great uncle Jack and great aunt Cecilia stayed – for three months (!) in the 60s while getting work done on their house – when they retired back to Cork after years in England). I was quite excited, I can tell you. We took our bikes on the train. We actually met my brother on the train who was returning from Dublin, also with his bike in the guard’s van. When we were chatting he said that he would come to the funeral also. This was great and everything but I had specifically asked my sister to put me and Mr. Waffle on her car insurance so that we could drive down in her car. She was away but had said we could borrow her car drive to Clonakilty where the funeral was. My brother is already a named driver on her policy and was planning to drive her car down so that was €80 well spent. Sigh. As I say to my children about their Uncle’s unpredictability “He’s not a tame uncle, you know.” (Small prize if you know the literary reference I am making).

The Dublin to Cork train service is fantastic but on this occasion it was not fantastic and we arrived 55 minutes late (more than an hour they refund you half your ticket value – not bitter at all). Mr. Waffle enjoyed the hilarious series of messages on the way down including the, honestly desperate sounding one, “If there’s a train engineer on board can he or she please get out on to the platform” and the not reassuring, “there’s a problem with the engine but she’s still going and we’ll do the best we can.” Percy French eat your heart out etc.

I had booked us dinner at the last sitting of Jacob’s on the Mall and when I rang to see whether they could accommodate us later than 9.30 it was with regret but no surprise that I discovered that they could not. Our train pulled into the station at 9.35.

I mean was I delighted to hop on my bike as Storm Darragh was raging? Not really, I have to concede. My smugness did not keep me dry (don’t worry, my rain gear did). When we got to the hotel, despite Mr. Waffle having checked, they were not, in fact, set up for bikes. However, after thinking it over for a bit a nice Polish man (in Cork 20 years) decided that they could be stored in the boardroom. Mr. Waffle brought his own up the carpeted stairs but the nice Polish man took my dripping bike up at speed. They looked very comfortable there leaning nonchalantly against the book shelves but I’m not sure that you could say that it was, strictly speaking, designated bike parking.

At this stage it was nearly 10 and the hotel was not serving food. Mr. Waffle who, I sometimes think does not value his life, suggested we could go to “Fast Al’s pizza”. We went across the road to a bar/tapas place that didn’t start serving food until 10.45. Just that little bit too authentic. I asked them if they could recommend anywhere and they said that there was a new taco place at the end of the street. We splashed down the road to this establishment and it’s bright fluorescent interior. This was my dinner:

Here is what I missed:

Any port in a storm, I guess. And, in fairness the staff were very nice but it wasn’t really what I was hoping for.

We rang home to make sure that someone had fed the cat and then rang back to check that the children had eaten themselves. Yes on both counts.

Our bedroom in the hotel was fine and not very expensive but it compared unfavourably with the public spaces. The hotel is undergoing a renovation and it is probably timely.

Not my best day.

Saturday, December 7

Next morning, once Mr. Waffle had picked up a new shirt (a packing malfunction), it was up on the bikes again (rescued from their boardroom haven by our Polish friend) and out to my brother’s house in the lashing rain to drive together to Clonakilty. He had offered to pick us up at our hotel but I was so concerned that he would be late that I had insisted on going to him. His attitude is that it doesn’t matter if you are late for the mass, the important thing is that you are there to sympathise afterwards and go for lunch. I do not subscribe to this view and having gone to the trouble of coming to Cork the night before I was not going to be late for the funeral. I was totally vindicated in my approach in that my brother was still in bed when we arrived at his house. He was partially vindicated in that we arrived half an hour early for the mass which even I would concede was a bit early.

I was really pleased to be at the funeral and see my friend and I think she was glad to see us including in particular my wayward brother. There were lots of people I knew at the funeral, mutual friends and relations and, indeed, the undertaker who is now pretty familiar to me. The rain held off at the cemetery and that was something. It was a particular mercy for my friend’s English cousins who were on their first visit to Ireland and had the previous evening had their flight diverted from Cork to Dublin, driven down from Dublin to Clonakilty through the storm and arrived in the early hours of the morning. God love them, they definitely needed a break from the weather.

At lunch I was seated near a very nice priest who was a friend of the deceased. He was a fellow Corkonian and I enjoyed our conversation wherein we placed each other on the social scale (he came to rest just above me). He attended the school in Cork where traditionally all the sons of the merchant princes went; my father attended the school where the boys at the next rung of the ladder went – “two households both alike in dignity” etc. While the results achieved by the boys attending the former were generally mediocre – they had family businesses to go into – the latter school was known for its excellent academic results. I commented to my new friend that the results in the former school had improved immensely (really quite extraordinary it has some of the best results in the country). My husband who had, crucially, not been following the conversation in detail said, “Isn’t that where you say that all the rich but thick boys used to go?” My new friend took it in good part but also took the opportunity to point out to me that the former president of his past pupils’ union was sitting opposite.

He (the priest) had done his PhD in Germany under none other than Cardinal Ratzinger of whom he seemed very fond. Typical of his schooling that he would get to work with the big names, of course.

Sitting opposite me was a man from Clonakilty who was a cousin of the deceased. He was so interesting. He was, I think retired but while working had been involved with a furniture factory. This had seen him working in Northern Ireland during the troubles and in China in the 80s, I think, when it was even further away than it is now. He described how once when he was staying in Carrickfergus – a very loyalist town outside Belfast – he asked to get a taxi into St Gall’s GAA club in the city. Apparently reception told him that no one from Carrickfergus would take a taxi to West Belfast. I see. His best story, however, involved a statue to Michael Collins. Although Michael Collins was from Clonakilty for a very long time there was no statue to him as it was a bit politically contentious and unclear who would unveil it. However, after the Liam Neeson film a statue went up and Liam Neeson himself, very decently, came to unveil it dealing with any political issues. Our friend was at the reception for the great and the good at which Liam Neeson was the guest of honour. Much drink was taken and a select group of half a dozen, including our friend and Mr. Neeson, went out to the town looking for further refreshment. A car drew up beside them. “Liam, get in” said a voice from within. He resisted. The voice insisted pretty firmly. Eventually he got in. We were agog, who was it? His Hollywood bodyguard? His minder? His agent? Apparently it was his mother. I love an Irish Mammy story.

We drove back up to the city and, acting on an excellent tip from my brother, went to Orso for dinner. They only take walk ins and this was a godsend when everywhere except the taco place was fully booked for a Saturday night in December. We went for a stroll around town and took a turn on the big wheel while waiting for our table to come free but it was a bit cold and damp.

We found ourselves at a bit of a loose end after our early dinner so went to see “Conclave“. I wouldn’t entirely recommend but it does look beautiful. It’s about electing a pope and Ralph Fiennes is terrific in it. I am still finding it a bit strange to be in Cork without my parents which I know is faintly ridiculous but there we are.

We got a message from the children that another spatula arrived with the shopping delivery. We lost one a couple of weeks ago and due to some errors in the purchasing department we are now the owners of three shiny new ones. Spatulas for everyone for Christmas.

Sunday, December 8

We headed back to Dublin on the train. “Wasn’t it great how easy it was to bring the bikes on the train?” I said to Mr. Waffle. He conceded that it was but then asked the killer question, “But did we need the bikes?” On reflection, I regret to inform you that, on balance, it would probably have been more convenient not to have had the bikes in Cork. Bitter.

More December thrills to come. Stay with us as Ira Glass would say.

Home Again, Home Again

10 November, 2024
Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Siblings, Travel

And I’m back from the fleshpots of Cork.

I had an exciting day. I went to the Glucksman for my breakfast (a gallery cafe – not bad but not at all as good as the old Crawford Gallery cafe for which I will probably grieve forever). They only had seats outside where I went with some trepidation but despite slight drizzle towards the end of breakfast, it was actually fine even though there were no outdoor heaters.

Thrillingly, the Christmas craft fair was on in the Glucksman. I mean, I love any old craft fair but this one is really good. All the people manning the stalls had made the stuff themselves, which I really enjoy. I bought a Christmas decoration from a potter and a tea towel from a lovely man who draws lighthouses. We had a little chat, he’s originally from Antwerp. Not so many lighthouses in that neck of the woods. Honestly, I could have stayed for hours but I did not because I was already running late for my next event.

My sister had a spare ticket to an interview with some director from Cork I’d never heard of and I agreed to go with her. It was in the Triskel, Cork’s premier arts venue once a church and, still boasting the slightly uncomfortable benches which are part of any church experience. There were about 50 people there.

The director appeared, a guy called John Crowley. He was really interesting, a genuinely fascinating man; he was about the same age as me and a year behind me in college (I learn from Wikipedia but this is not quite how it describes his college career) and a stalwart of the Dramat but I can’t say I remember any productions in which he was involved. He talked about the films he had made (loads) and then I realised he was the director of Brooklyn and the Goldfinch (as he said, “one of those much more successful than the other, kind of you not to mention it”) and Life After Life and the second season of True Detective and tons and tons of stuff. He was super-understated and just very pleasant as well as knowledgeable. It was a revelation, he has a new film out which screened as part of the Cork film festival (We Live in Time) which I will definitely be going to see when it comes out. It struck me that if he were from Dublin I would definitely have read about him in the Irish Times and indeed this event but the Irish Times does have a tendency to gloss over people who don’t live in or come from Dublin. Is it any wonder Cork people are, I don’t want to say bitter, but bitter adjacent.

And one final, thing as Columbo would say, a very famous chipper in Cork called Jackie Lennox’s closed down. It was such big news that it was even covered in the Irish Times. My brother queued for about three hours for fish and chips on its last day of operation.

Anyhow, when I was visiting my parents’ cemetery on Tory Top road (Cork word for a pine cone, unknown anywhere else), I passed the establishment in the photograph below. It has (you will have to take my word for it) the same lettering as the closed down chipper. It has obviously been here for some time. What is going on? A real mystery.

Proustian

9 November, 2024
Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Siblings

I’m in Cork for the weekend for my sister’s birthday. I haven’t been down since the summer. I went to inspect my parents’ gravestone; newly inscribed. It was a bit damp and gloomy, perfect cemetery weather.

And I inspected the work my sister has done in her attic. It’s all thrills.

I went for a walk around the Honan Chapel and thought about how my family history intersected with this Celtic revival church.

Because I don’t live here or even visit very often now, Cork has become a place of memory and reminders of the past for me. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Baltics II – Klaipeda, Lithuania to Kuldiga, Latvia

22 September, 2024
Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Siblings, Travel

Tuesday, August 6, 2024

The purpose of our trip to Klalipeda was to give us a chance to visit the Cuoronian spit. This was a geographic feature of which I had previously been ignorant. But it’s a 100km long narrow sandy spit. 50kms are owned by the Lithuanians and 50kms by the Russians (Kaliningrad). It’s one of the few places where you can look south to Russia.

We took the very regular car ferry across to the Spit. The Spit itself is a national park and you have to pay to get in (unclear what happens at night when the booths are deserted – and people do live and stay on the Spit – presumably some guest tax covers it). There is one main road through the middle of the Spit (not very main, just one lane each way) and the rest is pretty much all cycle and walking paths. As is often the way when we go on an outing, it takes us so long to get out of the house that almost the first thing we have to do when we arrive is find somewhere for lunch.

We had lunch in Juodkranté and very nice it was too – both the lunch and Juodkranté which is a smallish holiday resort.

I was very taken by the weather vanes which are a feature of the Spit (each town has its own design) but they were a bit large to buy. If you ask me, they are missing a trick by not turning them into miniature Christmas tree ornaments for the discerning tourist. Do I have a photograph? I do not.

We then went on down the Spit to Nida. What an absolutely charming little town it is. We hired bikes to avail of the fantastic infrastructure and went to the beach. Sadly, not all of us love a beach but those who do really liked it.

We then cycled along the cycle path towards Russia. There is a “nature reserve” along the border so we were stopped from seeing it. Possibly for the best.

We then cycled up to the big dune. The Spit is just basically one big sand dune. When they cut down the trees for shipbuilding in the 18th century, the sands began to shift and whole villages were engulfed. It’s quite woody now for obvious reasons.

The big dune gives a great view into Russia.

Great views all round in fact.

Sartre was here on his holidays, I think, and there is a sculpture to celebrate. I can’t say it looks like he had a fantastic time.

We went back into Nida.

Such a pretty little place. There were lots of older German tourists but otherwise not so many visitors.

We gave the bicycles back and had dinner outside.

On the way home, we stopped again at Juodkranté to go to the cemetery at Mr. Waffle’s request (I am normally the cemetery enthusiast but it has clearly rubbed off on him over the years). It’s full of graves with German inscriptions. What a complicated part of the world this is.

We drove to the (very regular) ferry at a sedate pace within the speed limit and were passed by a number of speeding Lithuanians. Lithuanian driving is adventurous. When we arrived at the port, we were literally the last people on the ferry, we made it with one minute to spare. No wonder they were speeding past me. But, you know, there was another one along in 20 minutes.

I must say the Spit was a highlight of our trip and I would love to go back and cycle the length of it (maybe even into Russia after the war?). Apparently you can fly direct to Palanga (nearby, more anon) from London. It is definitely on my list for a return visit.

Wednesday August 7, 2024

In the morning we left Michael in the flat and Mr. Waffle, Daniel and I went for breakfast. We found a trendy cafe a bit like the trendy cafes everywhere else. Grand but not exactly local. We explored the small market in the square. Klaipeda was known as Memel back when it was East Prussia and there’s a balcony in the square where apparently Hitler addressed the locals; it seems a surprisingly small and intimate venue. Following World War I, the French were briefly in charge in Memel which is why there is a building that used to be a French prefecture in the main square, honestly, weird man.

In the market there were two women speaking to each other in what sounded like French with American accents so I asked whether they were French Canadians. Mr. Waffle explained to me that this was a rather 70s expression and I certainly felt a chill when they replied, “Nous sommes Québécoises”. We live and learn. However, a black woman beside me also looking at goods turned around to them and started speaking to them in French explaining that she was from Haiti. They all seemed delighted with themselves; I did feel under the eye of the all-powerful Francophonie with this all happening within view of the former prefecture and everyone, one way or another, a long way from France. The tourists had come from a Baltic cruise boat. Mr. Waffle muttered that if he were going on a cruise, he would certainly not come to the Baltics on his holidays. A certain amount of cognitive dissonance there.

The town was a bit run down and not as nice as the places on the Spit. But grand. There was a nice area by the river.

There was the obligatory Irish pub. Named after Rory Gallagher – a bit of a deep cut as herself would say but nice to see a Cork reference. It had closed down though.

If I were to come back and I think I might, I would definitely base myself on the Spit and I would book good and early.

Anyhow, clutching our touristic purchases from the market – including a shawl for me, it’s time – we said goodbye to Klaipeda and went on our way. We stopped in Palanga for lunch. It’s a huge tourist resort and I thought it was loathsome. Not recommended. Good lunch though once we avoided the pizza restaurant by day discotheque by night venue.

And then it was on to Latvia.

In my experience Latvia has the most exciting driving in the Baltics (and that is saying something) and the worst roads. We began our trip on a dirt road, the kind of thing you might get at home for 500 metres, if there were roadworks. It went on for 17 kms. I could have done with a warning from Google maps. Saintly Mr. Waffle was driving but it was like Mad Max Fury Road. The photos really don’t convey the white knuckled horror of it all.

Anyway as we are going through this definitely inhospitable territory, my phone rings. “I have to take this,” I say to Mr. Waffle. “It’s the man about the engraving on my parents’ gravestone.” In retrospect, did I, did I have to take this call? Relaxed Cork voice rolls into the car saying, “I’m in the cemetery now, in front of the grave, I’ll just facetime you.” It is odd to be driving down a dirt road in Latvia with your parents’ grave in the car with you and your husband’s eyebrows up around his hairline. Anyway we agreed on what was needed, eventually, he was in no rush. And then he called me back again because he’d forgotten some detail, very relaxed indeed on his part. God in heaven, it was stressful. I still haven’t seen the gravestone in the flesh, as it were, I’ll keep you posted. It cost us a fortune and probably shortened my own life.

Anyhow, miraculously enough, we arrived in Kuldiga uninjured. We stopped at a supermarket on the outskirts of town and it had an extremely soviet feel. It reminded me a bit of the supermarkets in Bosnia in the 90s.

The Airbnb was nice and bigger than Klaipeda – which would not be hard – but it still only had 2 bedrooms so the guys had to share a room which they were very good about to be fair. I finally cracked and cooked dinner. A regret.

Daniel went for a run and said that people looked at him like he was crazy. Were they wrong? Surely this whole running enthusiasm must be close to, forgive the pun, running its course. Maybe it wasn’t the running but the fact that there was a tourist in town that turned heads. Kuldiga may be on the UNESCO world heritage site list but tourists are few and far between.

The rest of us went for a wander around Kuldiga after dinner while Michael dealt with the disturbing news that two friends of his are engaged. There’ll be more of that in his future.

Kuldiga was very, very quiet and a bit run down but clean with lots of interesting wooden buildings. It felt a bit like a town in a Western.

The town has depopulated slowly since the 1990s. It felt like somewhere that had once been prosperous but now was on its uppers. But still immaculate. I was very struck by how clean everywhere is in the Baltics compared to extremely grimy Ireland, Dublin in particular looks filthy compared to the Baltic capitals.

My brother rang to say that he had missed his train to Dublin, where our cat was anxiously awaiting his arrival. The neighbours fed the cat and my brother told us about his trip to the Olympics. He saw the pole vaulting world record and he met some Canadian Olympic rowers in a bar (that’s my brother). One of the rowers let him hold her medal though in the pictures he sent, he is holding one side and she is holding the other very firmly. Wise.

We spent the evening wondering why we thought it was a good idea to spend two nights in Kuldiga. More thrilling content soon. Something to look forward to.

Re-entry

1 September, 2024
Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Work

We came back last weekend and then I put in a full week in work Monday to Friday. The longest week I have ever put in. It is scarcely believable that I have to go back tomorrow. A former colleague once advised me to never start work after holidays on a Monday. Advice which I frankly would have done very well to follow.

At mass last weekend I met the granny of one of Michael’s school mates who informed me that Michael was a charming child and that she had a lovely chat with him at the bus stop. She is originally from Bere Island so we have our Cork identity in common and my sister’s partner’s parents have a house on Bere island only up the road from her family home so, you know, small world and all that. I came home and told Michael I had met his former school mate’s granny and that she had said how much she had enjoyed chatting to him at the bus stop. “Ah,” said he, “was that who she was? I thought she was just a random old lady.”

Since our return home, many of our spare moments have been spent wrestling with the garden which was almost entirely out of control and still teeters on the brink. It is apple jelly season with a vengeance, however, Falling Fruit who have come and stripped my apple trees in the past have promised that they will come in late September. That could be too late, I could be buried in apple jelly by then.

Myself and Daniel went to see the film “Kneecap“. It’s about a rap band from Belfast. I thought it was funny but probably not ideal for parent child viewing. I read some reviews afterwards and I quite enjoyed the Guardian one where it referred to one of the characters – known as mo chara – as “Chara” throughout as though it’s some kind of surname. Mo chara is the Irish for my friend and cara is the root word which only takes a “h” because of the mo/my. Look, we Irish speakers have to get our kicks where we can.

No sooner had she arrived home than herself went to Wales for a 21st. Sooner her than me. Coincidentally, my sister and her partner are in Wales also for a family wedding on his side. If there are any disasters in Wales, we are extremely exposed this weekend.

Mr. Waffle and I went on a tour of the former military school in the Phoenix Park this morning (now a geriatric hospital). Good chapel work (one of each obviously, though the Protestant one converted to Catholic at some point which seems slight overkill and now both are closed to the public and one surrounded by slightly menacing deer) but overall a bit dull.

They had an old phone booth which the guide told us they had had to lock as tourists kept going in to take selfies. I am surprised by this as it is a bit off the beaten track and seems a relatively harmless use of outdated infrastructure in any event, but there you are. As I peered in, I was reminded of how when someone picked up the phone you had to press button B so that the money would go in or else you would be cut off. I remember a girl in school said that she enjoyed ringing Australian numbers and hearing confused Australians pick up (in the middle of the night, I assume) before they were cut off as, obviously, she never pressed button B. What a time to be alive. As I say to the children, when I was young we had to make our own fun.

Full details on our Baltic holiday odyssey to follow. Something for you to look forward to.

Things

21 July, 2024
Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Family, Michael, Princess, Siblings

My sister has been cleaning out the attic of my parents’ house. A vast undertaking. My experience in the house where I grew up has made me very wary of acquiring too many things in my own. My mother always said that she was not part of the throwaway generation (note the old implied insult there, I loved my mother but she was still my mother, if you know what I mean). She meant it. They kept everything, the useful mixed in with the emphatically useless: carpet cut offs; boxes of paperbacks; silverware; children’s toys; old photos; my grandmothers’ hats and kid gloves; pots and pans; broken furniture; old correspondence; copybooks from the 30s, and 40s; you name it, it was there. To be fair to my parents, they did grow up at a time when Ireland was poor and people did keep things which we would not today. But even allowing for this, I think they were big keepers. I suppose they weren’t helped either by moving from a very large house to an Edwardian semi-D.

I feel my sister is so much more cheerful now that she has sorted through this mountain of things and – epic achievement – emptied the attic. I, unlike my parents, am always giving things away and encouraging my children to do likewise. I have discovered through Olio, that there appears to be someone who wants everything, although the effort required to get it to them can be considerable. Daniel and Michael spent a weekend in Cork helping their aunt with the attic clearance and I was gratified to hear Daniel say that I was quite right to be constantly disposing of stuff. He was horrified by the volume of things.

The most impressive thing that I ever encountered was an English woman I met in Brussels who was moving home to London. Her flat in Brussels had been large and her flat in London was much smaller. Instead of trying to repurpose her Belgian furniture and possessions, she sold or gave them all away (I still have two of her prints framed on my landing) and just kept a couple of souvenir items. “It’s a different place, it needs different things,” she explained. While I don’t know that I could ever do that, I think it is an admirable attitude. I gave my daughter some of my mother’s rings. Seeing the Princess wear them and remembering my mother wearing them makes me very happy and brings me more joy than all of the contents of the attic. I suppose I must caveat this by saying I have no idea what all the contents of the attic are.

The older I get the more I think people can be weighed down by things. My sister says that she heard an older woman say to a young woman in a shop once that there is a time for acquiring and a time for disposing and perhaps this is also true. I like to think that I was always restrained in my acquiring and by nature a disposer but how then to explain my posters of Venice from the 90s which my sister found in the attic?

P.S. Happy Belgian National Day