Travel

Ennis Book Festival

13 April, 2026
Posted in: Ireland, Travel

I went to Ennis book festival with my Sunday book club last month. It’s a book festival aimed at book clubs. They know what side their bread is buttered on.

Friday March 6, 2026

I had a cold all week and woke up on Friday morning, sick as a dog. A wiser person would have cancelled at that point. Am I a wiser person? I think we both know the answer to that. I took the train down, snuffling the while. Ennis is in Co. Clare and, if you knew the geography of Ireland at all, you probably wouldn’t go there via Co. Galway but that was the train route that was available at the time I wanted and I took it. It was long. As we were outside Athenry, I saw this from the train window.

The “Fields of Athenry” were not quite what I was expecting.

The train journey was uneventful except for my belief that I might die. I went through several packets of tissues. It was awful. Not helped at all by a group of women up the train who, in contrast to everyone else in the carriage , were having a grand loud chat, had lots of opinions (not all of which I agreed with, is Malta really only for pensioners?) and generally drove me bananas.

I had a surreptitious look at them when we were changing trains – they looked like me and my friends. Do you know how the people you dislike the most are the ones who other people might think are like you but you know are very, very different. The narcissism of small difference is the expression I’m reaching for. I found it ominous that they too were going to Ennis.

I was amused to see this poster at the entrance to the railway station when I arrived. I’m not sure I would be bigging up my links to the West Clare Railway.

Ennis itself is really delightful. It’s like some kind of platonic ideal of an Irish market town. The centre is largely car free though this does lead to the outskirts of the town being basically several big car parks. Public transport in Co. Clare doesn’t seem to be what it might be.

I crawled into bed when I got to the hotel. For reasons that were unclear to me, I was upgraded to a suite in the slightly old-fashioned but perfectly acceptable hotel. Just as well because (spoiler alert), that was mostly where I was going to be for the weekend.

The others arrived and the whatsapp was full of discussions of dinner in the bar – one of our number had just arrived from Luxembourg and I was keen to hear her news – but I knew my limitations and ordered room service. Ominously, although the steak sandwich was excellent, I didn’t fancy eating it and only had a couple of mouthfuls before retiring again. I then spent the night throwing up. Between the cold and the food poisoning (or could it have been norovirus, if so I am very sorry for the mostly elderly people on the train whom I may have taken out), I thought my final hour had come. It was unbelievably miserable.

Saturday March 7, 2026

I got up and had a shower. Something of a triumph. I went downstairs for breakfast and had some unbuttered toast and tea forswearing the delights of the breakfast buffet.

We had a book quiz to partake in as part of the festivities. I was disgusted but unsurprised to see my nemeses from the train at another table. This, however, only added to my delight when we won the quiz (€25 book voucher each) though. And I didn’t throw up. I was thrilled but still a bit delicate and constantly blowing my nose. We had a terrible team name (forgotten) and when explaining this subequently to my loving family they suggested we should have been called “Pride and haven’t read this” and I respectfully submit this to you in case it might be of use to you some day.

We went to a session with Cecilia Ahern and Bryan Dobson where each of them recommended and spoke about five recommended books. I really took to Cecilia Ahern (none of whose books I have yet read but I might) but that view was not universal in the group. Anyhow, if you’re interested, these are their recommended books.

We all went for lunch but that was a mistake on my part and having thrown up my lunch I left the group and went back to bed while they went off to explore the town. I regretted the necessity of skipping this adventure but I just had to go back to my sick bed.

Revived by an afternoon in bed I went to a session in the hotel on historical fiction with Andrew Miller, Sarah Waters and Nuala O’Connor which was interesting and quite enjoyable and, best of all, I started to feel a little hungry.

We had booked dinner in a nice restaurant – the Old Town Hall – should you fancy a nice dinner in Ennis, I can recommend. Most of the speakers seemed to be staying in the hotel upstairs and, indeed, Andrew Miller was peacefully eating and reading his book at the table behind us. I ate an entire dinner, I didn’t throw up. Sadly, I still felt a bit under the weather and retired early leaving the others happily chatting over dessert. Truly the lot of the invalid is not a happy one.

Sunday 8 March

I woke up feeling, to be honest for the first time since the previous Monday, really quite a bit better. Unlike my travelling companions I was still unable to face the full Irish breakfast but I had toast with butter and marmalade which represented a real improvement.

The last thing I went to see was a live recording of the radio show Sunday Miscellany. Many, many people are Sunday Miscellany fans and it sounds like the kind of thing I would like but it’s not. I’m not really a big listener to live radio and somehow it only really fits on a Sunday morning – it’s a bit of new writing read aloud and some music – generally pretty soothing but not for me. I only went along because some of the others were going. I don’t know whether it was my rapidly advancing recovery or the impact of live music and live reading (I am generally not a huge fan of live music though, I know myself to be a philistine* in this regard) but I found it absolutely enthralling, it was my highlight of the weekend. If you wish you may listen back here and here (they divided it into 2 shows). I expect it is not as good to listen back to as it was to listen to in person but there it is.

I then took the train back to Dublin by the more direct route. Should I have gone? On balance, I think probably not. Will I remember this conclusion another time? I doubt it. Would I go to the Ennis book festival again? Certainly.

*Do you ever think about the Philistines and the unfairness of how they are remembered?

I am 102

10 February, 2026
Posted in: Travel, Work

I was having a cup of tea with some much younger colleagues the other day and one of them said, “Look at this lovely old music book my grandparents brought me at the weekend.” I had a look at the photo, “Oh Moore’s Melodies, how nice,” I said. “Who?” said the young people. “The Last Rose of Summer, Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms, The harp that once through Tara’s Hall?” I asked in growing alarm. Nothing. They hadn’t heard of Percy French either (for reasons I cannot explain – possibly because my mother used to sing both a bit – Thomas Moore’s work and Percy French’s sit in the same cabinet inside my head). I regarded the group aghast. A philosophical young man at the table pointed out it was horses for courses and said, “Anne, Wu Tang…?” “Clan,” I said proudly but given that they were formed in 1992, that is not quite the achievement it might have been. Had he chosen to mention any band at all formed after the children were born, it would have been a different story.

Anyway, my horror was as nothing compared to the security guard’s at the airport the weekend before last. As I went through the scanner she said to me, pointing at her younger colleague, “He’s never heard of John Wayne, tell him that’s crazy.” I obliged but I could tell that he thought we were crazy. Truly, it’s like being the elves going into the West.

Plumbing the Depths

7 February, 2026
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

The washing machine broke a week ago last Tuesday. Bosch said it would take a week to send out a repairman. How could we last a week? We rang the plumber who said he could come the next day. He came. He said it would need a Bosch technician to repair it. He looked at our kitchen taps. A deeply unsatisfactory situation arose when the last plumber (now no longer on our books) came to look at the water pressure, broke the hot tap and replaced it with one that, ok, worked, but did not match the cold tap. A delightfully eclectic look. The new plumber said he could re-affix the old tap. Could he? Reader he could not. He said he would take it away with him and see if he could replace some element. He then replaced the non matching tap. For this, not entirely perfect, service he charged us €135.

I rang Bosch. They confirmed what was on the website, a technician could only be with us the following Tuesday. We washed by hand. Mr. Waffle, the youngest child and I went off for the bank holiday weekend (you will recall our new bank holiday on February 1 in honour of St. Bridget, a post-Covid reward for the people of Ireland) to set him up in university abroad where he will be spending a term under the Erasmus scheme. We left poor old middle child to fend without a dishwasher.

I must say, when we came back the house was spick and span but middle child had chosen to have six people around to dinner while we were away. That’s a lot of washing up to do by hand. The task was not rendered any easier by the replaced tap coming off (before it didn’t look great but at least it worked). Enterprising middle child had a pliers by the sink which was being used to turn on and off the hot tap. Again, I question our €135 expenditure on this.

The Bosch repair man came on Tuesday morning. He replaced a broken part and charged us €103 (labour and call out) plus €9 (parts). It works, I rejoice. This weekend Mr. Waffle and I are going to the plumbing shop to buy an entirely new kitchen tap set up. I can’t wait. You come here for the fascinating domestic logistics, I’m sure.

Wardrobe Choices

19 January, 2026
Posted in: Middle Child, Travel, Twins

Middle child spent last week in Krakow on a college society trip. Banach was from there. You haven’t heard of Banach spaces? Nope, me neither. Anyway it was all a pretext for entertainment. They flew Ryanair (of course) and so luggage size was an important consideration.

Middle child: Will I be ok with just the jeans I’m wearing?

Me: Yeah, if you’re careful. It should be fine.

It was when I got a picture of this child lying down in a park in Krakow making a snow angel that I did wonder whether I am entirely right in my motherly assessment that my children are all geniuses.

In a related adventure, I hauled out my ancient ski jacket (purchased in Modena where I was on my Erasmus adventure in 1990) from what I thought might be its final resting place and said, “You might want to wear this in Krakow, it’s very warm.” The great news is that it is now very trendy (Sergio Tacchini waiting his time in the long grass) and all the young people think I am cool. The jacket has now been put in regular rotation and went into college this morning. I am extremely pleased with myself. A slight dent in my exhilaration occurred when I said, “The only problem is that there’s no hood.” Child felt the collar and said, “Is there not one in here?” There was one in there but I never knew and it remained pristine in its hiding place for 31 years until discovered by middle child. Perhaps my children are geniuses after all.

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.

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.