Travel

Random St Patrick’s Week Round Up

14 March, 2023
Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins

I have had a busy week. I was in Kildare Village during the week. I find this very difficult. It’s an out of town shopping centre in thrall to the car. A completely privatised space with the shopping area unrelated to Ireland and more American architecturally than anything else. It reminds me most of Disneyland Paris. You could be anywhere really. However, it is spotless and it has a Villeroy and Boch shop. And it is handy. I bought new luggage. And while I sneered, I also loved the pristine streets – there was a woman walking around with a dustpan and brush even though smoking is prohibited so less of a problem with the ubiquitous cigarette butts than on the public street – and the “public” toilets were spotless. I bought a jacket. Made in North Macedonia. Surprising.

I was amused by their choice of poetry in the flowerbeds. It just seemed an odd choice for somewhere so privatised and controlled. Kind of the opposite of woodland paths.

The play area had signs in a combination of languages I have not previously seen together.

Mr. Waffle was away during the week so the children and I had to struggle on alone. On seeing the table laid for dinner for three, Daniel commented, “It’s fewer all the time, someday it will just be for one, huh?”. Thank you Daniel. The fact that this thought had already occurred to me did not make his remarks any more welcome.

On Wednesday afternoon every socket in the house went. I consulted the internet, I rang Mr. Waffle abroad, I put a pathetic message out on the neighbourhood whatsapp group and I called three electricians to no avail. The fridge was gone, the heating was gone, the internet was gone. I was slightly despairing. Then I rang my sister who is handy. She suggested a number of solutions and we tried them all. Ultimately, we were able to get the downstairs sockets and the heating working. I have never been so grateful to her in my life. Then an electrician rang back and agreed to come the next day.

When the electrician arrived he discovered that the problem was the immersion. I didn’t even know the immersion switch existed (we have a boiler and I have poked at its control panel but I didn’t really know we had an immersion). “How long has this been on for?” the electrician asked sternly. I had to confess that since I had never known of its existence, possibly since we moved into the house 10 years ago. “Have you never heard of turning off the immersion?” he asked sternly. I have, of course I have, I just didn’t understand we had one. The immersion has a totemic importance in Irish lives and if you have no idea what I am talking about, I suggest that you watch this comedy routine through to the end to see what I mean. Now reflect on the fact that our immersion has been on for 10 years.

The electrician doesn’t even reckon we need it with the boiler. He left with the sockets restored, â‚¬140 and my conviction that he inadvertently took my phone charger as well (he denies same but where is it otherwise?). The savings we will make on our electricity bill, particularly in the current climate, will more than pay for a new charger, I suppose.

I have learnt all Duolingo has to teach me in Ukrainian, so I had a first lesson. Much work to be done.

I heard a funny story that tells you a bit about Ireland. Because of the way entry to our higher education system works, in the past, certainly, and possibly still today, many high achievers put both medicine and law on their application forms. The logic was that you didn’t want to let your “points” for university entrance go to waste. Medicine was always – and remains – the hardest course to get into and law was the next hardest (though I think this is now less true than it used to be). Although these are very different disciplines, I suppose they do have in common that they are the gateways to the traditional professions. Anyway, this story is about a woman who was managing partner in a big law firm and went home to the west of Ireland for a funeral. One of the elderly mourners met her and trying to place her asked, “Are you the girl who didnâ€™t get into medicine?” She was.

Herself is in Sofia. I am still scarred by my last time in Sofia but she was not deterred. She has confirmed that she is alive and it is snowing.

At mass this morning, the parish priest in his sermon said that after escaping from slavery in Ireland and before coming back to convert us all, St. Patrick went to Tours. Surprising. Apparently he was a first cousin of St Martin of Tours on his mother’s side (this is what the priest said). Can this be true? Having been to both Tours (you will recall herself spent some time there a number of years ago) and the St. Patrick museum in Downpatrick, I cannot say that I am familiar with this story. We live and learn.

My sister and her partner are coming to visit us this afternoon. I was beyond appalled to get this message from her.

Herself had expressed an interest in a small, uncomfortable (though not unattractive) sofa which used to belong to my parents. I thought confidently that it could stay in my sister’s house until herself was ready to take it into her own home (ten years? never? who knows?). I reckoned without my sister. It is on its way. I suppose it can go into the Princess’s bedroom which is already host to two armchairs and a gossip chair and is rapidly turning into a lumber room. Sigh.

In any event, a very happy St. Patrick’s Day to you.

Up, Up and Away

6 March, 2023
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Mr. Waffle and I were in Northern Ireland for the weekend and we had an excellent time. I had already drafted an exciting post on this which wordpress in its wisdom made disappear completely. If my tone is less effusive than you might expect then attribute it to this very annoying technical glitch. On the other hand there was someone (Evelyn Waugh? Henry James?) who used to improve his writing by tearing up his first draft and throwing it in the bin and then re-writing from scratch. I suppose I can only be grateful to wordpress for giving me the opportunity to test this myself. However, if the post turns up again (as they sometimes do – technology, a mystery), I will be incandescent.

Friday, March 3

We left after lunch leaving the guys home alone for the first time ever. You might say that they are 17 but we felt quite daring. As we were leaving, Dan was going into town to meet a friend and Michael was disporting himself home alone. The journey up was quite short and uneventful. We stopped for a cup of tea in Hillsborough which was about 15 minutes from our destination. There continues to be a significant dearth of nice places to get a cup of tea at 4 in the afternoon, North and South. Sadly, Hillsborough is no exception to this general rule though a pretty little spot. I always find it slightly strange to see school children in Northern Ireland. Whereas school uniforms in the South are now mostly slightly vile nylon tracksuity things, the school blazer is very much alive and well in the North and in Hillsborough I saw boys in short pants which, honestly, I thought had disappeared in the 60s.

The place we were staying – which I would truly recommend – was delightful. It’s a bit in the middle of nowhere but everywhere is pretty close in Northern Ireland, so I wouldn’t let that put you off. It’s a country house and the owner does the cooking himself. The food was really superb and the place was lovely. We had booked in for two dinners which I had had some reservations about but I needn’t have worried. Breakfast was amazing also. The place was full of Dubliners cackling with glee at the great value they had unearthed. It compares extremely favourably with the South and, honestly, the food was as good as I’ve had anywhere.

Dinner was not, however, the unmitigated delight we had expected. Michael was home alone at 9, no sign of Dan and Michael was waiting for him to order pizza. I immediately began to picture him dead on the roads (default mode) but honestly he had met his friend at 2, why wasn’t he home by 9? In fact, he had been home and gone out again. I had completely forgotten that he had GAA training later and that was where he was. Everyone was a bit grumpy on the home front.

Saturday, March 4

We were up with the lark. After a very hefty and delicious breakfast, we took ourselves to Carrickfergus where we inspected the impressive Norman castle. It’s, I think, the best preserved Norman castle in Ireland and has a dramatic setting right on the sea.

We went for the guided tour. It was not great, I honestly didn’t know a lot more about the history of the castle after than before. There was a bit of generic stuff about how people lived in a castle in the middle ages but nothing more really. I am not one to praise the OPW (which inter alia manages national monuments in the South) unneccesarily, however, their guides are truly excellent. There seems to be a culture of local experts taking on the roles as seasonal jobs and they know the history of the monuments inside out and you always get the sense when you ask them a question that in giving the tour you are only skimming the surface of their detailed knowledge. This is not the case for Carrickfergus. It would probably have been grand for a school group or if there were kids on the tour, in fairness. But as the only people on the tour were four grown-up southerners standing freezing in the keep, I thought it wasn’t optimal.

Mr. Waffle has a colleague who is married to someone from Carrickfergus and he asked him for lunch tips but the bleak reply came back, “There is nowhere.” Slightly disheartening.

We pushed on to the Gobbins cliff walk which I booked ages ago. I don’t want to diss the Gobbins but it is a bit “health and safety gone mad”. It is a walk along the cliffs which you might easily do unaccompanied in about an hour. We were fitted with helmets, told not to bring rucksacks, only allowed to go out in walking boots and ushered very slowly along the walk. In fairness the guide was good and there was one exciting tunnel but it felt like complete overkill. It was designed by a railway engineer in 1902 as a tourist attraction and the shop is full of pictures of Edwardian ladies in long skirts trotting happily along the path (not wearing hiking shoes or helmets – although I think the helmets are to deal with frequent rock falls so, maybe a good idea). I had thought it was bolted on to the cliffs and there are bits where that is the case but mostly it’s just along the side of the cliffs. I mean absolutely fine but did it need 3 hours? That’s a firm no. In fairness, the slightly dawdling pace might have been better if it had been a bit less chilly.

I suggested that we stop in Carrickfergus on the way back so that I could buy socks (packing catastrophe). We drove into the centre of town but everything seemed to be closed at 4.40 on a Saturday which seemed extraordinary. We parked back in the harbour and began explorations on foot. There was an absolutely enormous Tesco but I have rarely met an approach quite so pedestrian hostile. I was genuinely unnerved by the murals on the way. I have spent quite a bit of time in Northern Ireland but I have never before felt nervous or unwelcome but I could not in all conscience recommend Carrickfergus which is a real shame. The castle is superb and the town itself could be lovely – some great buildings, a pedestrianised centre and only 10 miles from Belfast but the atmosphere is very unnerving. I must say the planning genius who put the main road between the town and the sea front didn’t help matters either. We pushed on back to lovely Moira which is definitely where we should have gone to buy socks. When we told our hosts about our trip, they all said variants of “Carrickfergus, Carrickfergus, you idiot Southerners, thank God you made it out alive.” It was more coded than that, “Oh Carrickfergus, that is a very…strange place.”

Anyway, dinner was again, a triumph but also yet again, slightly plagued by difficulties on the domestic front.

You will be pleased to hear that the house did not go up in flames though the soft fwump from inside the Aga gave everyone pause.

Sunday, March 5

Another superb breakfast and we waddled to the car and headed home. We stopped off in Strandfield outside Carlingford for lunch on the way home (recommended). I bought yet more flowers to supplement my very inadequate home grown spring flower showing. I said to Mr. Waffle, “I think I know what I would do differently next time we go up North”. “Well, we’d better get a move on to sort it out before it’s too late, we’re already so old that we are spending our Sunday afternoons in the garden centre,” he said gloomily. My garden centre attendance was definitely taken out of context but yet.

For your information, here is our “before” pots picture:

And now look!

I trust your own weekend was satisfactory.

Updated to add: filled with rage as former draft of this post has reappeared in my drafts looking like butter wouldnâ€™t melt in its mouth. If youâ€™re curious, yes, this version is better.

I Gambled and Won

2 March, 2023
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

My brother invited me out to visit him in Annecy. After some humming and hawing I decided to go – my main concern was whether his flat would be habitable by someone with my high standards.

Thursday, 16 February

My v saintly husband drove me to the airport at 5 in the morning and I flew into Geneva at the crack of dawn (OK about 10 local time).

I had decided to spend the day in Geneva. I have been to Geneva before for work but never really explored it as a tourist. When I arrived in the city, it struck me how clean the air seemed. No wonder they sent invalids to Swiss sanatoria.

The first thing I saw was the Jet d’Eau and I know that they’re very proud of it but I’m sorry Geneva, it is the world’s most boring city landmark.

I followed my guidebook to the centre of the old town. The weather was absolutely beautiful. I had my lunch outdoors on the square. I had tartiflette – getting into the spirit of my Alpine adventure – and I was delighted with myself.

The old town was almost entirely car free with many cyclists. Pleasing. It didn’t seem to be touristy at all really although there were many shops selling tourist tat near the station – perhaps a Thursday in February is not peak tourist time. The old town was reasonably quiet and I was able to walk in the footsteps of Calvin (very big man locally) pretty much on my own.

The cathedral is very plain in a manner that is quite strange if you’re used to Catholic churches. That’s the altar:

They had Calvin’s chair as well. Suitably plain.

They had a monument to the Dukes of Rohan as well which I really liked but all I could think was “the riders of Rohan going to the aid of Gondor”. Different family.

Overall, it was very plain but whoever decorated the side chapel – the chapel of the Maccabees – did not get the memo and that is quite the sight particularly after the main cathedral.

Calvin feels very present in Geneva.

So, mind you, does Jean Jacques Rousseau who also seems to be something of a local hero.

There were posters everywhere for local referenda. Michael says “I told you they operated by direct democracy voting on every issue and you didn’t believe me”. I believe him now.

I went to the musÃ©e des beaux arts which is a big building with a slightly eclectic collection. Some nice pictures. I enjoyed this one by Hoppner of Lady Stafford as Hebe.

And also this one by Rigaud of the snappily tilted Elisabeth Charlotte of Bavaria, Duchess of OrlÃ©ans and Princess of the Palatine. Wikipedia says that she “gained literary and historical importance primarily through preservation of her correspondence, which is of great cultural and historical value due to her sometimes very blunt descriptions of French court life”. I am not surprised.

In some ways this was probably the most interesting picture. It sets the biblical scene in Geneva and you can see all kinds of contemporary local colour in the background including soldiers, farmers and houses on stilts in the mud (some of the stilts are preserved in the city museum, honestly, not fascinating).

The museum had a couple of rooms which were transported from a castle or big house, alas I forget where (wainscotting, old furniture, you know the kind of thing). Outside these rooms, a young Indian woman was hovering. She approached me, “Do you speak English?” She asked whether I would mind going around the rooms with her as she was afraid to do so as they were very creepy and there was no one else around. I found it a bit odd but I was happy to oblige. She was from Delhi and had just arrived in Geneva to study. I said that my sister had lived in Delhi. She asked where I was from and then told me that her sister had been working as an actuary in Dublin for the past seven years. Small world and all that.

For the record, the rooms were not at all creepy but I am middle aged and clearly not as imaginative as she was.

I also took in the city museum. I always enjoy a city museum. The contents can be so…varied. This was my first guillotine.

I found the basket to catch the severed heads singularly unnerving. Maybe I am more imaginative than I thought.

There was a really excellent audio visual display where they projected old maps on to a relief on the floor showing how the city had grown. Possibly I have been influenced by nearly 22 years of marriage to my map loving husband.

Then I headed off to the bus station which was quite grim. There was a bus there from Kosovo (Pristina to Geneva direct). Imagine all that distance and you couldn’t even afford a cup of tea at the end of it (making assumptions about income levels in Kosovo but honestly I paid â‚¬4.50 for a cup of tea in a transport caf type place across the road from the station, dear for anyone for God’s sake).

The bus ride to Annecy (difficult to pronounce, I assure you) was uneventful other than my role as an interpreter between the bus driver and a young Japanese woman (he was keen to explain to her how to get a â‚¬10 refund and it was complicated).

It was about an hour to Annecy and Dan was waiting for me. His flat was actually very clean and comfortable. I was delighted. And, you know, relieved.

Friday, 17 February

My brother had taken the day off work and he drove us up to the 3 VallÃ©es. I’m only used to the kind of ski holiday where you stay in the resort so it was pretty weird to be driving up but Dan was really familiar with everything and dropped me at a ski hire place right beside the lift where I could also get a ski pass. It took about five minutes and was super handy. I was, honestly for the first time ever, very impressed by my brother’s organisational skills. Also the guy in the ski hire place had spent six months in Cork in 1993 and he gave me a 25% reduction and a free helmet for the day. What’s not to love?

I haven’t been skiing since 2019 and I was pretty nervous especially since I had hurt my knee. I haven’t been skiing with my brother in more than 20 years when I was much better than him but he’s been practicing in the interim and my limited prowess has lessened. He spent a season in Chamonix a couple of years ago skiing every day and he’s really good now (at least compared to me). I went very slowly down some blues and greens and he was super patient.

We had a lovely lunch up the mountain. He seriously suggested that we could get sandwiches from the Spar in the town and eat them in the gondola going up. The horror. He still has some things to learn. We had to queue a little bit to get in and people with reservations were slipping past including some famous English actor – unknown to me but the English man behind and Daniel were suitably impressed. Apparently he was in a number of shows none of which I had seen. Low levels of thrills, frankly. Which is not what could be said for the tartiflette which was, frankly, superior to the offering in Geneva. What? I was in the mountains.

Having had a pretty successful day until about 3, things started to go downhill (hah!) and much of the last run of the day I spent on my bottom. I didn’t injure myself as I was proceeding very slowly but it was icy and when I went over I was stuck like a beetle on my back (technically on my side). The skiing world chamionships were on and that must be why a woman labelled National Team of Haiti was around to come to my aid. I mean I don’t think she was on the team – more part of a supporting cast but I feel that as an Irish person I should be at least as good at skiing as someone from Haiti. Definitely, definitely not so.

Dan was an absolute hero nursing me down the slopes but I felt a bit foolish and disgruntled. I have never been a brilliant skier but I was fine on blue and green and could do a red on a good day but look at me now.

Saturday, 18 February

My sister was coming in via Chicago where she had been for work. My brother went off to the airport to collect her (I was very relaxed about getting the bus until I discovered that literally every other person who has visited him has got a lift, however, I was so pleased with him after the previous day that I couldn’t be annoyed).

I spent the morning exploring Annecy and reading the local paper. I read a horrendous story of some misfortunate skier who had an accident on the slopes and was being skied back to safety by someone pushing a stretcher. You know the kind of thing. Anyway as he was being taken down the mountain a skier (or possibly snowboarder) took out the guy pushing the stretcher and the stretcher went flying down the mountain where it was finally stopped by some trees but having started with a simple broken leg the skier had much more serious injuries after this. And obviously trussed up like a chicken there was absolutely nothing he could do in his stretcher to halt its breakneck progress. How singularly unfortunate was this guy? I mean did I feel lucky now? Oh yes I did.

Annecy is absolutely beautiful and quite charming. The bishop of Geneva hung out there when Calvinism was having its moment and it was the catholic counterweight to Calvinist Geneva. Be that as it may it doesn’t seem to have done the local churches much good when the revolution came and they were used as stables. Poor old Jeanne de Chantal was dug up.

The Alps are visible from many of the roads in the town. They provide a spectacular but, alas, increasingly unsnowy backdrop to the town.

The town has a river and a number of canals and like many another spot (Bruges, Ghent, Cork) calls itself the Venice of the North.

I was shocked (SHOCKED) to see this sign outside the Monoprix.

I had a bit of a wander around the shops. I am pleased to report that in Annecy they will let you speak French and will not insist on speaking English to you. The traditional quintessential Annecy thing is a child chimney sweep. In the mountains the population was poor and things were tough. Rather than having an extra mouth to feed in winter parents would send off children as young as six with what I think we would now call a gangmaster and have them sweep chimneys for the winter. As Mr. Waffle said, they seem surprisingly proud of their history of child labour. Actually, the enthusiasm seems to be dying out a bit and there were relatively few child chimney sweeps about.

I was extremely impressed by the tourist office where I went to pick up a map – truly excellent advice on what to do and where to eat. I couldn’t help comparing it with Rye in England (a beautiful place to visit but one where you have to pay for the tourist map of the town and the tourist office is underwhelming, public private partnership gone too far).

When my sister got in she was tired having flown from Chicago via Heathrow. My brother and I let her have a nap and went up to a small resort near the city – Semnoz – (just a couple of lifts and a pub really) for a drink and a look at the views. The views were spectacular but there is no doubt that snow was in short supply. It hadn’t snowed since mid-January and we had our drinks outside in a sea of mud (which in happier times would have been snow).

The sunset was spectacular but it is hard to do it justice with a photo.

I’m sure there will be snow again but the trend is not cheering. In the car we listened to an article about future proofing ski resorts. Apparently the 3 VallÃ©es can cover 65 square kilometres with artificial snow at the touch of a button but the smaller and lower resorts seem doomed. One of the people interviewed said that perhaps in 50 years people will come to the resort just to see snow as there won’t be any elsewhere. Honestly I did feel a bit that I was fiddling while Rome burned.

My sister having somewhat recovered from the rigours of her flight felt able to dine out so we did. Satisfactory.

Sunday, 19 February

We cycled around the lake, a distance of 38 kms. My longest ever cycle and it was amazing. Here is your intrepid reporter wearing the ski jacket that she bought for her first ski trip in 1990. Vintage. Honestly it must have been enormous when I bought it in Modena where I was studying at the time as it is still a little baggy.

It was almost all on segregated cycle paths and the views were superb.

We stopped for lunch in a delightful little town (the venue was recommended by the tourist office and the woman also recommended that we book – two excellent pieces of advice). It was quite lovely.

The chemist Berthollet is from there for those of you interested in chemists.

My sister still recovering from her trip found it a bit more trying than my brother and me but she had hired an electric bike so it was less exhausting for her. Although she was the only one in the group suffering from jet lag

Our afternoon stop was near the end but I became tense that we might not get the bikes back in time. In fact there was no need to worry. A truly excellent day and unlike my skiing day, at no point did I fall or feel like I might die amid a happy bunch of five year olds (this is who you ski with on the green slope) and better again I wasn’t at all stiff or sore afterwards. A strong contrast with my post ski experience.

Monday, 20 February

My sister was staying in a hotel in town having (probably correctly) deemed my brother’s flat too small for all of us. I walked into town and we met for breakfast and explored the joys of the bus station (much nicer than Geneva) from whence we would both be going back to the airport in due course.

She was still a bit under the weather so went back to bed. Meanwhile I had a nice lunch and a boat trip on the lake which I would highly recommend. I tried to tempt my sister out but she couldn’t face it as she had been extravagantly ill on her most recent boat trip. And although she conceded that the lake in Annecy was unlikely to present the same challenges as the ferry to Skellig Michael she was steadfast in refusing to go.

It was a shame because I think she might have liked it. It was interesting to see from the lake the places we had explored on shore the previous day on our cycle ride.

When I got back to land, my sister had been consulting guides and offered the glad tidings that the castle was open on Mondays. An extremely unlikely development designed to trap the unwary. We had an enjoyable poke around.

There were some nice paintings of the local area. It was a lot more snowy in the 1800s.

There was a chimney sweep. Naturally.

And a pleasing wooden statue of Saint Hubert (patron saint of hunters, in case you were wondering).

Tuesday, 21 February

The three of us met for breakfast and then my sister took the bus back to Geneva (the only other guest my brother has had to explore the joy of the bus).

My brother and I drove up to a slightly nearer resort called La Clusaz. This seemed to be almost entirely full of French families whereas the 3 VallÃ©es had a lot of English and Irish groups. It’s a smaller resort but still plenty big enough for me. I thought the snow was a bit worse but there were some lovely long easy trails through the forest which I enjoyed although the workmen shovelling snow from the sides on to the piste were a bit unnerving.

I fell over because my skis stopped suddenly on grass. Easy enough to get up I suppose but unpleasant. I really had a complete failure of nerve and refused point blank to go up to the top of the mountain and ski down a red with my brother. We had lunch up the mountain in a less lovely self service restaurant (I took my eye off the ball there) and then skied slowly down to the bottom. I sent my brother off up the mountain and took the button lift up and down the nursery slope. Humiliating? Well yes. Enjoyable? Also yes.

I finished up and went into town where everyone was dressed up for mardi gras. Asterix was the theme in the cafe where I went for a restorative vin chaud.

My brother made it safely off the mountain and we went into town where we had a booking at a lovely restaurant. I’d got him a voucher for there for Christmas so it seemed a bit unfair that I should get to benefit but he didn’t seem to mind and we both really enjoyed our dinner.

Wednesday, 22 February

Up at the crack of dawn to get my flight home. I have to say my brother was a brilliant host. He went to loads of trouble and I had an excellent time. Who would have thought it?

My kind husband collected me from the airport and after some confusion we managed to find each other. This enabled me to forgive him when I found that he had turned off the Aga. It was considerably colder in Dublin than in Annecy so it went straight back on again. The bill is truly terrifying and probably not great for the future of snow either but there it is.

The blossoms were out on next door’s plum tree and spring was a lot further along than when I left it. All in all nice to be home. I want Mr. Waffle to contemplate a spring break in Annecy next year though. We will see. Meanwhile, I have bought myself a Christmas table cloth as a souvenir. Mr. Waffle got a chimney sweep fridge magnet. Delighted.

News from 2023

9 January, 2023
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Ok, so far, I have to concede, not very different from 2022.

January 2

Herself came back from her new year’s extravaganza with friends in Scotland. I rejoiced.

For the first time in a very long time, I booked no family theatre outing in the run up to Christmas. The palpable lack of enthusiasm doesn’t usually put me off but this year, somehow, it did. Mr. Waffle and I went to “The Sound of Music” in the concert hall. Music for middle brows, pretty enjoyable for this middle brow. The woman who was the Mother Superior was superb. How much did I enjoy “Climb every mountain”? Oh very much.

We finished the Christmas jigsaw. Apparently Michael gave it to me for Christmas last year and I never made it as he informed me reproachfully on Christmas day. Herself, adding to the gaiety of nations, said, “Oh yes, and remember the other day you said, where did this jigsaw still in its cellophane wrapping come from? Maybe I could give it away as a present.” Anyway, it was surprisingly difficult, I can tell you. However, “Mischief managed” as Mr. Waffle said.

January 3

Mr. Waffle went back to work. Did I go back to work? I did not. Hah.

January 4

The boys and I went for a walk around the National Museum. Not entirely satisfactory but not altogether unsatisfactory either. Daniel’s face does rather sum up his mood though.

I personally was very taken with this shoe relic storage system.

We then went out for a very satisfactory lunch en famille in town. Our neighbour from up the road came over to our table as we were finishing up. I had not seen her but she and her family were sitting just behind us. We passed our lunch time conversation under rapid review but all seemed broadly well – I reiterate that Ireland is too small.

Daniel went to the library to get out the Ladybird book of quantum mechanics. He has read it already but apparently it is so good he wants us all to read it. He might be a bit optimistic there.

January 5

Herself and myself went on a day trip to Belfast. She came downstairs looking extremely dressed up. I was in my jeans. “It looks like we are going to different events but it’s fine,” she said.

The cross-border enterprise is the only train in the country which still has a catering service so we went all out and ordered a cooked breakfast. It was good in fairness but served in a polystyrene box with two wooden forks (they were out of knives) so presentation not what it might be.

The only cultural element of our outing was to see a lovely John Lavery painting in a church. I really like it. Herself was a bit more dubious.

Other than that we just went to the shops and enjoyed the novelty of being, um, not exactly abroad but not at home either. I thought Belfast was pretty quiet. Good for us as shoppers but a bit grim for retail in the city generally. The market was sadly closed and lunch was fine but nothing to write home about. Food is just not great in Ireland unless you know where you are going. We did not know where we were going. Overall though a pretty successful outing.

January 6 Epiphany

I offered to drive herself to her friend’s house in Kildare for a Women’s Christmas dinner. Due to my general meanness I did not want to pay the motorway toll. I definitely regretted this and we ended up on a 3 county epic trek.

I arrived home a shadow of my former self. Just as well Mr. Waffle had cooked dinner and washed up afterwards.

January 7

Our local Eastern European shop was open notwithstanding it being Orthodox Christmas but a big group of Romanians in traditional dress carrying a pole with a tinsel picture attached were singing away which was rather nice.

Daniel went to visit a friend in Cavan. I mean why can’t my children have more friends in the city of 1.5 million people where we live. He took the bus in fairness.

Mr. Waffle and I spent the day taking down Christmas decorations which is a bit of a melancholy activity. The children took away the Christmas tree. They were thrilled to have the opportunity to help.

We wound up all the lights carefully but everybody knows that they will all be knotted up again by next Christmas.

We all went out for a departure dinner for herself which was very nice. I was pleased. Later herself went out for drinks with friends and like the absolutely saintly mother I am, I collected her and another child at midnight and drove them home.

January 8

Further melancholy, herself went off back to England. It is miserable seeing a child off at the airport. However, on the plus side, she loves it there and she has to look after her own transport needs when she goes out in the evenings. She would tell you that she is perfectly prepared to do this at home also but when I know she is out, I can’t stand the tension of worrying about when and how she might get home and might as well collect her for added peace of mind. On her flight she was sitting beside a man from Tipperary who turned out to be a nephew of the people who live across the road (see above re size of Ireland). Talking to my neighbour he said that his nephew is a pilot with British Airways so perhaps not entirely surprising that he should be flying back to work.

Mr. Waffle and I picked up a coffee table from friends who wanted to get rid of it. I am pleased. It does not go with the sofas at all so perhaps it may speed up their departure (how I loathe them, big mistake and they are very comfortable which makes other family members keen to keep them, alas, and they were expensive, God they were expensive, double alas).

January 9

The physio has inspected my knee and discharged me. It really is nearly better. Gratifying. And tonight is book club. Hurrah.

I trust your own January is going as well as can be expected.

Christmas Round Up

31 December, 2022
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Christmas Eve

We went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve (9 o’clock, midnight isn’t what it once was, inflation etc.) which was nice and the choir were in great voice. Herself and Daniel got trapped by the elderly priest who mans the side door.

Him: I haven’t seen you for a long time.

Her: I’m in England [as she explained she wanted him to understand that she was abroad and not like the other two pagans she was with].

Him: There are great Catholics in England. Look at Cardinal Newman, you can be like him.

Big ask.

Anyway, when we got home, the children disappeared up to bed and Santa got to work. At 11.30 herself arrived down looking for a snack in the kitchen which was Santa’s centre of operations. Who comes down hungry at 11.30 on Christmas Eve? Anyhow, Santa finished the present wrapping and brought herself out a snack to boot. What a saint.

I cracked open the After Eights at 11.55 and who could blame me?

Christmas Day

Santa was very tense this year but in fact, did a very good job, the children were broadly pleased.

Herself made brunch for us all. It was excellent.

We visited Mr. Waffle’s mother in the nursing home and then had a brief – though pleasant – walk.

Then we went home to make our very complex dinner. I had put the turkey in the oven before we went out. In fairness, the aga came into its own and overall dinner was v elaborate and v successful [my next door neighbour cooked for 18 and they had to drive to her daughter’s place to do some of the food as her oven was not big enough – the stress!]. However, our turkey was, alas, like ashes. To paraphrase Paul Hollywood, “very dry in the mouth.” But is that not what gravy and cranberry sauce are there for?

I spoke to my brother in France. Over the course of Christmas Eve the gas in his airbnb had got feebler and feebler. It ran out about 7 which was not a great time to ring the owner and explain the problem. Himself and his friend S were looking at charcuterie and cheese for their Christmas day lunch. However, they went for a walk around the town and found an open restaurant with a festive menu. My brother wanted to see what other options there were (this is so typical of him) but S insisted that they go there (my brother always characterises S as his pleasant but slightly dim friend from college but my sister says this is not so, it is just what my brother believes and S’s PhD from Cambridge and post-doc from MIT are strong arguments for S’s smarts but nothing has been as convincing as his bundling my brother into the restaurant there and then). Apparently dinner was delicious.

St. Stephen’s Day

The washing machine broke down again. We went to visit the cousins for lunch bringing with us a full load of damp laundry from the machine (happy Christmas!). The children were glad to see their cousins and lunch was delicious including very good turkey. If I ever have to cook Christmas dinner again and, honestly, my aim is not to, I will ask my sister-in-law for tips.

Daniel made Cajun turkey pizza for dinner which he said was a real success. The rest of us had our leftovers in other forms.

December 27 – 30

We went down to my sister in Cork for a few days. It’s amazing how good the road is now. Just over 3 hours each way which compares very favourably to the five hour trek which was a feature of my youth.

My sister and I did a tour of our relatives in North Cork and Limerick which was broadly successful – though God it is impossible to visit my Limerick relatives at any time of day without getting a full three course meal – v nice in fairness but it does make me think that they must regard my hospitality as well below par. We talked a lot about my father and my sister talked about the day he died. I think, it was a surprise to everyone but my sister felt particularly sorry for the junior doctor in charge.

The boys spent most of their time playing Magic with my sister’s partner. She says he enjoys it. I hope so for his sake.

Herself and myself went out for breakfast in Cork (difficult, many places closed, queues everywhere and the indignity of a queuing app nearly broke me). We had an unsatisfactory breakfast but a good trip to the Crawford gallery.

Then the boys joined us in town and we went up on the Ferris wheel. Mr. Waffle had met a friend for lunch but we met him in Waterstone’s after where as a Christmas treat he bought each child a book and then we went for tea and a bun. Where will it all end?

I thought my 93 year old aunt was in good nick. I got her a book of poems about cats (you’d be very surprised how many poets have penned cat verses) for Christmas and she was delighted. Honestly, I think it was the most popular Christmas present I gave anyone this year.

After our disastrous effort earlier in the week, I booked breakfast for myself, Mr. Waffle and herself (no one else wanted to come). Options were few. I booked Sophie’s at the Dean for 9 in the morning which was earlier than I would have liked but beggars can’t be choosers etc. The Dean is a new hotel beside the station part of the ubiquitous Press Up group which is basically a Dublin franchise. I see they are doing what they can to ingratiate themselves with the locals.

The views were really good but the food was only alright. The decor was odd, ski chalet meets marble palazzo. I remain on the hunt for a good Cork breakfast venue.

Herself expressed interest in a very nice but profoundly uncomfortable antique sofa and armchairs my mother bought at auction sometime in the 60s (the sofa is very like this but with fewer legs – it’s a two seater rather than a three seater). My sister was going to get rid of them and I was resigned (because although nice they are, see above, uncomfortable). I was delighted when herself said she wanted them (she said that if you weigh less – like her – they are less uncomfortable). But now I realise that I will move them to Dublin and by the time she comes to have her own flat, she won’t like them any more and I will have them forever. I am not sure that I am as pleased as I thought I was.

New Year’s Eve

Notwithstanding the thrills of Cork, it was nice to be home. The boys filled in their CAO forms today – a procedure which is more open to error than you might think. However, having seen how the English system operates, courtesy of herself, it could be a lot worse.

Herself went to Scotland to stay with a friend for new year’s. I spent the day doing jigsaws and eating stem ginger.

The new washing machine arrived at 8 in the morning and the men said we hadn’t paid for installation (no, but we would have, we would have, if we had known this was optional) and left us to our own devices. Mr. Waffle spent a happy time wrestling with it but it is now working, we are pleased. Michael audibly gasped when he saw it in all its glory when he came down for breakfast.

Lads, we are 2023 ready. May I join in the already deafening whatsapp chorus from the people on the road and wish you a very happy new year?

It Begins

7 December, 2022
Posted in: Belgium, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

I am returned from visiting herself in England. A triumphant foreign tour due in no small part to the detailed schedule that herself put in place including making bookings and suggesting outings for her guests. A truly successful formula. As my sister said while we were eating in the v nice restaurant herself had booked us in to – “Finally all those notions you gave her are coming in useful.”

I got back late on December 1 and decided to bow to the inevitable and put up some of the Christmas decorations the following day. In a definite #mymiddleclasshell moment, I couldn’t find the Christmas aga covers which I bought last year but, I am sure you will be delighted to hear, Mr. Waffle found them where I had carefully stowed them away for safekeeping. This is actually very unusual for me. I think possibly due to my poor memory/my parents’ predilection for keeping things in random places (you choose), I am actually very organised with stuff and the sellotape, the keys, the measuring tape, the Christmas decorations, whatever you’re having yourself are always in the same location and findable. But even Homer nods.

Speaking of the aga, the combination of the mild winter and this truly terrifying graphic in a leaflet from the Government that came through the door, has meant that we haven’t turned it on yet.

However, I had a triumph with my â‚¬60 phone bill which, you may recall, was charged following not using it all on the ferry. I wrote a letter and vodafone refunded. To be fair, I think it is more sharp practice by the ferries than vodafone but I was glad to get the â‚¬60 back all the same. The additional money in our pockets and the arrival of the cold weather mean that I plan to fire up the aga this weekend. Anyone who thinks that â‚¬60 will go near paying for the aga is very wrong. As a friend of mine says, “You might as well open the oven door and shovel in fivers.” Look, it’s cosy.

Also I have a narky letter with the bank which charged me â‚¬60 for three transactions where I tried to pay money out and the recipient couldn’t accept so it bounced back to my account. I mean, firstly, â‚¬20 a pop, are you kidding me? Secondly, I already pay pretty hefty annual fees which are to cover all of my transactions. Thirdly, we all hate the banks since they nearly bankrupted the country in 2008. No reply so far, I am even now composing my grumpy follow-up (I at least expected the courtesy of a reply, can I have a copy of your complaints procedure etc? Mr. Waffle said he once sent one of those and was horrified to actually get a copy of the complaints procedure rather than the refund he had been angling for). While we’re on letters, I had a letter in the paper. I’m trying out a pseudonym (my married name which I never use) as I felt the letter was a bit notiony but now I am crushed that no one except Mr. Waffle has noticed my letter and texted me. Mr. Waffle is at an advantage as, obviously, he knows my married name. Also he is used to pseudonyms as his mother used to write to the papers under her maiden name purporting to be from a (completely made up) organisation monitoring local litter levels. This makes her sound crazy and I want to emphasise that this was not the case at all. But still.

In other Christmas prep, I have ordered a turkey. 5 kilos was the smallest available, that’s a kilo of turkey for each family member. An unnerving prospect. We had our Monday night Christmas book club which was absolutely lovely. I think the book club having lasted 20 odd years has survived Covid though it was touch and go there for a while. On December 6, Saint Nicolas, providing the kind of customer service the banks would do well to emulate, turned up for the boys 14 years after they left Belgium.

I spent today in town Christmas shopping. I am exhausted. My break from work means I am stepping up in the challenging Christmas shopping arena (previously Mr. Waffle’s domain). I am not hugely enjoying it, I will say that.

And tomorrow is December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and the traditional start of the Christmas shopping season in this jurisdiction. I will be celebrating it by ordering the remainder of my shopping online.

Also, you will be pleased to hear that my knee is recovering. Is your own Christmas prep up and running?