Travel

Mid-term Round-up

11 March, 2017
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

This is a bit belated but, you know, better late than never and so on.

Herself went on a school tour. Day 1 saw them assembling at Dublin airport at 4 in the morning; flying to Beauvais with Ryanair at 6; getting on a bus to Flanders and doing a tour of first world war sites ending with the last post at the Menin Gate at 7 that evening. The next day they got on the bus to Paris and then spent that day and the following day exploring all (and I mean all) that the French capital had to offer including Kentucky Fried Chicken. The last day was spent in Eurodisney. I had an animated discussion with her before she left on the importance of bringing a coat to Flanders in February; something she deemed unnecessary. It was, therefore, with some chagrin that I noted from a photo on the school’s twitter account (my source of all information and a fifth columnist as far as my daughter is concerned), that one of the happy group photographed outside the Eiffel tower was not wearing a coat. “It was fine,” said my frozen daughter, “my friend N was able to lend me a coat.” “Clearly she has a better mother,” I said. “It’s not a competition, Mum,” she said. “Everything’s a competition,” I replied. It’s a good job her father’s a hippy who seemed pretty relaxed about the whole coat thing. “She’ll know next time,” he said. I suppose that this approach has its merits.

While herself was off gallivanting, the boys and I went to Cork for a couple of days. We had our statutory trip to Charles Fort (I have a family heritage card and everyone must suffer) and the Bulman which passed off peacefully except for a terrifying half hour in which we thought Michael had lost one of the gloves he has had since we lived in Belgium (the world’s most nostalgic child was not pleased). Happily, it turned up in Dublin.

Michael, contemplating the prospect of the lost glove:

During the week Mr. Waffle and I also took the boys out to Dalkey castle (in Dublin). The castle do a really terrific tour with actors. We were the only people there so we got full value although, alas, I feel the boys are getting a bit old for it.

Though, arguably, you are never too old for stocks.

We also went to the (still newish) library in Dun Laoghaire – we were going to walk on the pier but it was lashing and this was plan B. The library is a beautiful, very big building with spectacular views over the harbour and loads of comfortable seats. Disappointingly though, it doesn’t seem to have more stock than our local (much less architecturally impressive) library. It has the same volume of books, just much, much more spread out. As Mr. Waffle said, it’s like a very expensive shoe shop. As he trekked around the shelves, Michael suggested that it might have been designed by people who were good at buildings but hadn’t spent all that much time browsing in libraries. It does have a very interesting local studies collection on the top floor and it was also sporting a very poorly advertised, small, though interesting, exhibition on visitors’ views on Ireland over the last couple of hundred years. So, using some of the space usefully, it must be conceded.

Mr. Waffle was home with the boys a bit and took them to IKEA to source a desk and bed for Michael. I emailed Mr. Waffle to ask how he was getting on. He replied:

We’re just finishing our lunch before we plunge into the MÃ¦lstrÃ¸m (designed to match the Ã…ngst).

In fairness, he’s hilarious.

The Garden of Ireland

20 February, 2017
Posted in: Family, Travel

It wasn’t possible to have a week in Kerry with the extended family last year so many months ago, we thought that we might try for a more modest overnight break near Dublin. The logistics of organising a date for this nearly sent Mr. Waffle to an early grave. We tried several dates but it was very difficult to get everyone together for just one night. Ironically, a week in Kerry was easier as people could dip in and out on different dates. However, we finally picked a night and it was last Friday. After some humming and hawing, I took a half day on Friday to facilitate our speedy arrival at our destination. This did not work well as by the time we had collected the boys from school, snacked and packed it was somehow 4.30 before we got on the road and the traffic was absolutely catastrophic. It took us about two hours to get to our, not very distant, Wicklow destination.

Also, in our leisurely packing for one night only we successfully forgot the following items:
– Coats for herself and Michael
– Change of top for me
– Toothpaste
– Calpol
– My walking boots

None of these was disastrous but the list is just to give you an idea of the slick operation you are dealing with here.

Things picked up when we actually arrived – sadly we failed to co-ordinate sufficiently with my sister-in-law in London and her husband and they weren’t able to come, but everyone else was in situ. London in-laws are having a baby in June and we inspected the premises to ensure that were they to come with their baby (insert much excitement here) another time, it would work for them.

We were very pleased with the place (no favours were given etc.). Mr. Waffle and I stayed there years ago and found it lovely and very good value. We were not disappointed on re-visiting with the wider family group including children. We stayed in Ballyknocken. The owner is a celebrity TV chef and I told the children this and they were utterly indifferent proving that another generation of Irish people is growing up who are keeping to the traditional values of ignoring any and all celebrity firepower. Our hostess, in fairness, was lovely. She greeted and chatted. She was terrific with the children who were put at a separate table from the adults and did their own ordering and had their own sophisticated conversation. The children themselves are reaching an age where they are quite self-sufficient and really need minimum effort. Very pleasing, I have to tell you.

Before dinner they played tip the can in the dark and slightly damp grounds with the aid of a head torch (reader, I married into a family where not one but two men came with head torches) and had a terrific time. Meanwhile the adults chatted in the drawing room in front of the fire and enjoyed, according to their tastes, tea, wine and sherry.

Dinner was excellent though there was a lot of it which, I suppose, is a good complaint. The children all slept well and, in the morning, experienced the joy of a good buffet breakfast. My brother-in-law and his wife went for an early morning run up a nearby mountain (head torches are the least of it really) and we all met at the breakfast table. Breakfast was amazingly good. Better than dinner I thought and, again, the staff were lovely.

Michael was rather gloomy as he had a bit of a cold and spent some time in the morning moping about our bedroom looking at the drizzle.

I took him for a walk around the grounds and he cheered up when we found a trampoline behind the rather mossy tennis court where his brother and cousin were kicking a football over and back across the net.

Sadly, my niece and, designated driver, her mother, had to speed back to Dublin as she (niece) is performing in a play and needed to be back for rehearsals. The rest of us went to Avondale, home of Charles Stewart Parnell. It was a bit damp and, as herself pointed out mournfully, the house and attached tea rooms were closed, but we had a mild walk and the children played in the playground. They were a bit doleful but perked up when we said we would take them to a pub for a healthy lunch consisting almost entirely of chips.

On the way back to the car, a woman with 5 children was experiencing difficulties. She had, I would say, a 1 year old, 3 two year olds and a six year old and all four of the younger ones wanted to be picked up and the poor six year old was lugging all the kit required for an expedition with four small children in a large Tesco bag for life. The woman was getting a bit tetchy, as well she might. I decided to offer to help although, in my own experience, this can be unwelcome, sometimes you just want people to ignore you and leave you to struggle in peace. However, she gratefully accepted my assistance and I took over the (actually quite heavy) bag from the six year old. “I assume that you are on some kind of outing and they are not all yours,” I said laughing. “Oh no, they are,” she said and seeing my raised eyebrows added, “Triplets; I should have known better than to take them all out on my own.” The mind absolutely boggles but I can tell you one thing, that six year old is a saint.

On to lunch in the pub which was very satisfactory and home by 4 in the afternoon. Frankly, a triumph. I think we might even try again when the weather improves.

Cork

3 November, 2016
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Travel

I took the children to Cork for the bank holiday weekend. We did the usual things: bonding with relatives, lots of TV, a trip to Charles Fort and the Bulman, the traditional photo by the “caution children” sign:

The trip down was rendered exciting by a largish piece of plastic from the underside of the car coming off on the motorway (happily it came off near the edge of the road – no damage done to anyone). Our car has been with us since 2005 and, perhaps, this is a sign that we need a change before the NCT later this month.

Herself spent a couple of hours with my 87 year old aunt Marie Kondoing her house. They found my aunt’s birth certificate. She was born in California but returned to Cork aged about 2 and has found it perfectly acceptable ever since and has never, to my knowledge, pined for sunnier climes. I suppose she got it out of her system early. They kept the birth certificate.

Later, when I came to see how they were getting on I heard her great niece addressing my aunt kindly but firmly, “Are you sure you want to keep the Meister Eckhart? Does it spark joy?” My aunt was unsure. I think Meister Eckhart was saved in the end but a vast number of other books (including a substantial collection of theological books which it turned out did not spark joy) and random items were not deemed worthy of keeping. The pair were delighted with themselves: four black bags of stuff for giving away and three full of rubbish. Then, my brother put his foot down and said that the rubbish bags couldn’t go in the bin as it was too full and would have to go after the next collection (my parents and my aunt live next door to each other and there is a complex bin sharing treaty in operation between the two households). They are stored temporarily in my aunt’s front room but I fear they may never leave. In my heart of hearts, I knew that nobody was ever going to bring the four bags for giving away to the charity shop so I hauled them into the car and brought them back to Dublin to give away. They’re gone now, I hope some of the Dublin locals enjoy reading about theology. I drew the line at bringing the bags of rubbish back to Dublin but even now, I am feeling mild regret as there is a real danger that they will never make it to the bin at all.

As though her work in her great aunt’s house was insufficient to meet her needs, herself begged to be allowed to make a pilgrimage to my parents’ attic. I permitted this, but only on the condition that she did not try to tidy it. You will be delighted to hear that “Star Trek Annual 1976” is even now upstairs in Dublin. She also found some material in a big trunk. She loves to sew and make costumes and was graciously permitted to help herself. When it came time to go back to Dublin, she and her brothers kindly packed the car for me. Once we were beyond Mitchelstown, she said, “Is it too late to go back to Cork?” “Yes,” I said. “Good,” she said, “because I brought more material than you might like.” When we unpacked the car, there were bolts and bolts of material. That night, when she dressed up for Halloween, I noted that the lace covering from my first communion dress, was getting another outing for the first time in 40 years.

Halloween passed off peacefully enough. The children went out on their own for the first time. They liked it. More particularly as they came home laden down with sweets. Not a solitary monkey nut this year.

In other Halloween news, the cat was puzzled, and not entirely pleased by the Halloween decorations:

Up Down

18 October, 2016
Posted in: Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Travel

Mr. Waffle and I had planned to go to Helsinki for a long weekend in September but, for a variety of reasons, it didn’t come off. Mostly because Mr. Waffle had put his back out again and couldn’t fly and partly because we were both very busy at work. My sister, however, was still booked to come and mind the children. So we decided to go on a more local break to Co. Down in Northern Ireland (yes, my love affair with Northern Ireland continues, thank you for asking).

On Saturday morning we drove up to Warrenpoint where it lashed rain. Due to Mr. Waffle’s bad back he spent all of the journey there lying horizontally in the front seat. I began to wonder was this the best idea we’d ever had. We had lunch in Warrenpoint which was fine but slow. Mr. Waffle had to keep getting up to walk around due to back pain so that was…unsettling.

View of the sea from Warrenpoint:

I am told that it is beautiful on a sunny day but your powers of imagination would want to be at full wattage to see that the day we were there.

The linguistic regime in the North is complicated. This was on the public toilets:

My friend from Belfast tells me that the only reason instructions were put on the toilets was so that the council could put it up in Irish as well as English. Who knows?

We went on to our guest house via the scenic route with the mountains of Mourne on the left and sparkling sea views on the right, or so the guidebook told us. In fact, we could see neither due to driving rain and heavy cloud and, as Mr. Waffle was horizontal, he would only have been able to enjoy any views with the aid of a periscope. Things picked up when we rolled into our destination.

We went for a walk on the private beach before dinner but it was only moderately successful. The beach was lovely but damp and the mountains were invisible.

Our host was a very nice man but felt like he came from another era entirely. I asked Mr. Waffle who had spoken to him on the phone whether he was Irish. “No, English,” he said. In fact when we met him, we found that he had grown up in the house but been sent to school in England. He sounded much more upper class English than anyone I have ever met or heard and I have heard the Queen of England on the TV. It was quite bizarre. He was the only local I met who didn’t say “wee” all the time. Possibly, beaten out of him when he was a wee lad. His partner was a very nice Scottish woman who was a great grand-niece of Alice Keppel and therefore somewhat distantly related to the English royal family and even she sounded much less upper-class English than he did (though not exactly Scottish, I concede – spent some time with her exploring what is the difference between a marquis and a marquess and how each is pronounced; am not very much the wiser on either count). He clearly represented the last hold out of big house unionism. He was inclined to regard the island of Ireland as a whole and had an encyclopedic knowledge of hunts and polo grounds across the country. “I had a friend who used to play polo, but his horse kept getting injured and he jacked it in,” I said. “Well,” said he, “that’s why most people have three or four horses.” Only in certain circles, I would suggest. He had his own polo grounds and about 30 horses which provides a full explanation, I imagine, of why he was taking in paying guests.

We had a lovely bedroom with a beautiful view across the grounds.

That night we went out for dinner to the Mourne seafood bar which was not entirely successful. Firstly, Mr. Waffle had to keep getting up and walking around because of his bad back and secondly, the food was only alright.

We went to bed in our beautiful bedroom, somewhat daunted but ready to face another day. The next day was Sunday. Despite our host’s advice we went into Downpatrick. The Protestant cathedral is delighful and has private boxes [not very common any more] and the graves of St. Patrick, St. Bridget and [possibly, I cannot quite remember], St. Columbanus.

The old part of the town is lovely with elegant Georgian streets. We went to the St. Patrick’s museum/experience which wasn’t bad but was perhaps a bit elaborate for our needs. But the gift shop did give us a further chance to enjoy Northern Ireland’s exciting linguistic regime.

The previous day we had passed the Schomberg Ulster-Scots centre in Kilkeel. You know where you stand when your centre is called after one of William of Orange’s generals. Northern Ireland, where, like the Balkans, they make more history than they can consume locally. Joke adapted from Saki, I think, who told it better.

Earlier that morning we had been to mass in a less appealing part of the town. The church had shutters which was something I have never seen before. The priest saying mass was on a mission from the South [hardly necessary one would have thought] and we didn’t take to him; by the look of the long suffering parish priest who was hosting him, he hadn’t taken to him either. It was quite a long mass and involved small children and modern hymns with actions [my progress towards old reactionary continues apace and I did not enjoy it]. At the end of mass we had blessing of the cars which sounds positively heathen to me. I was telling our hosts about it later and Mr. Waffle asked whether I was mocking my religion in front of non co-religionists and I felt a bit guilty but it did seem quite uncatholic to me and more the kind of thing our evangelical friends would go for. Anyhow, our host said he hadn’t been to a service since he buried his grandmother [neither today nor yesterday, I would say] and, trying to make conversation with the vicar afterwards, remarked that the vicar must be looking forward to having his children home for Christmas to which the vicar replied, “I prefer visiting the sick, really.” That finished our host which is a pity as he has a church at his gates. All 19th century mod cons.

One of the chief things I was really keen to do while in this part of the North was visit Mount Stewart. Between mass and St. Patrick we spent longer in Downpatrick than we should have and we were a bit short of time for our trip to Mount Stewart. We took the ferry up from Portaferry which was lovely but a bit time consuming.

The main reason I wanted to go to Mount Stewart was that I read a really fascinating biography on Castlereagh (which I am thinking of re-reading after my visit) and I wanted to see where he was from. It did not disappoint. The gardens were lovely even though you would not think that autumn would be their best time; the house was fascinating and the guides very knowledgeable. There is a superb collection of portraits in the house including a lovely small picture of Hazel Lavery. I had not known that Sir John and Lady Lavery had been friends of the family but they were and frequently stayed in Mount Stewart.

What is amazing is how almost entirely tourist free the whole area is; there were lots of locals out for the day but I could count on one hand the number of people from outside the area who were there and most of those were from the South so not very far outside.

We would have liked to stay longer but poor Mr. Waffle had a conference call at 6 and was beginning to get restive. We went back to our guest house and Mr. Waffle’s papers like the wind. Mr. Waffle’s phone had failed to charge and, with some reluctance, I gave him mine to make the call. I charged his a bit and went off for a solitary walk on the private beach. Mr. Waffle’s phone gave up as I tried to photograph the beautiful sunset over the Mourne mountains (visible at last). I was bitter and, as I pointed out to him, there was a rainbow too.

These photos are good but you should have seen it later as the sunset turned the sky pink. I will always have my memories as I, slightly huffily, informed my husband.

Dinner that evening in Dundrum in the Buck’s head was more successful than the previous evening’s offering and my mood gradually softened under the influence of the food and on the restoration to me of my beloved phone. Yes, I worry about me too, thanks for caring.

The next morning we visited Castle Ward which is quite weird. The husband and wife who built it couldn’t agree on an architectural style and it is Georgian on one side:

and gothic revival on the other:

Sadly, it was closed on the Monday and we couldn’t get in, but I understand that the interior architectural mixture of styles reflects the external diversity. Definitely one to revisit. The set for Winterfell from “Game of Thrones” was in the grounds but not super-interesting unless, I suppose you are a big GoT fan.

We then visited a very impressive De Courcy castle with lovely views in Dundrum. This we had entirely to ourselves.

Then, Newcastle (which ought to be twinned with Catania for looming mountains, if for nothing else) for lunch and back home to our loving family.

I intend to go back to Co. Down for another look although, I think, Fermanagh may be the next Northern county on my list. There’s a whole world up there.

Belfast

9 October, 2016
Posted in: Family, Ireland, Travel

We got a cheap family day return to Belfast on the train and, with some trepidation, we signed up for it. We were a bit worried that it was too far from Dublin for a day trip and, to be honest, it was.

We set off at nine in the morning. We got to Belfast about 11 and headed for the Titanic Quarter. Attentive readers will recall that we visited the Titanic exhibition over the summer. This time our destination was the W5 science museum. We spent about 45 minutes waiting in the station for the train to the Titanic Quarter. For some reason, I thought it was further away than it was. We could easily have walked it in less time. This led to certain low level tetchiness among the troops as we waited.

Things started to look up when we reached our destination. The local market was celebrating a year in operation and chose to do this by getting in people dressed as Storm Troopers. Whatever floats your boat, I guess. The children were charmed.

Mr. Waffle and I enjoyed seeing the Storm Troopers surround and take over a PSNI vechicle.

Two worlds collide.

The museum itself was pretty good and the children enjoyed it. There was plenty of science.

There was also a climbing space which the children enjoyed very much but was only linked tangentially to science. Overall, well worth a visit.

After spending the afternoon in the museum, we decided to go into the city centre for dinner before going home. Belfast is lovely and still pretty much tourist free so we quite enjoyed wandering around. Daniel commented on the quality of the cycling infrastructure; possibly we speak too much about this at home. “Look,” he said, “segregated cycling provision.” “Mmm yes,” said Mr. Waffle, “everything is segregated here.”

We went to Milano’s for dinner which was busy. The clientele seemed a little more upmarket than their equivalents in the South: more snazzily dressed couples, fewer frazzled families.

We got the late train home about 8 and everyone was pretty grumpy and tired by the time we actually got home. Nevertheless, we would all definitely go again. Not on a day trip though. Overall, I’m taking this as a win.

France – Part 2

8 September, 2016
Posted in: Family, Travel

Monday, 8 August

After a thrilling trip to Leclerc (this is not even slightly sarcastic, I do love a French supermarket) we took ourselves off to visit our first castle of the holidays. It was a place called TrÃ©varez and it was a really odd spot. The owner spent a fortune building it and it had all possible mod cons including en suite bathrooms which must have been uncommon enough in the 1890s. I thought it was pretty ugly and overblown from the outside but I presume the owner liked it so it was unfortunate that he died very shortly after it was completed. It fell into disrepair but has now moved into public ownership and is being restored. It’s much more attractive inside than out and enjoys lovely sweeping views.

There was an opportunity to insert yourself into a picture of an imagined TrÃ©varez in its heyday using an iPad which we all rather enjoyed:

Tuesday, 9 August

We took the children zip wiring again in the morning in the suburbs of Quimper. I crept off to a local antiques shop which was full of lovely, reasonably priced items. Regrettably, they were all quite large; although I did spend some time wondering whether I could fit a marble topped bedside table beside Michael in the boot, wiser counsels prevailed.

In the afternoon, I took the children to the art gallery because I felt that some culture was appropriate. They were resigned rather than mutinous. We did not, in fact, see the Mona Lisa, despite appearances to the contrary.

We had a wander around the town, to our great excitement, saw our water jug (shaped like a novelty duck and purchased in Normandy last year) in a bric a brac shop, had some pancakes and, after some difficulty, rescuing our car from a car park which took neither cards nor notes, headed home to recover from our exertions.

Wednesday, August 10

I have failed to mention to you that the song “Les Lacs du Connemara” had become our theme song for this holiday. I am not quite sure why. Possibly because herself had spent time in Paris with my friend who as a teenager had had an Irish exchange. This girl had been homesick and, in an effort to cheer her up, the family had played “Les Lacs du Connemara”. This was entirely unsuccessful as this famous French song is unknown in Ireland. Frankly, it appears that Michel Sardou was pretty ignorant about Ireland also and the lyrics are stage-Irish shameful. To start with, why would Maureen, a girl allegedly from Connemara get married in Limerick, secondly why would the wedding invitees come from Co. Galway to Co. Connemara when Connemara is in Co. Galway and there is no Co. Connemara. I could go on for quite a bit. Anyway, we all know it now. I can’t help feeling that the children could make a fortune performing for French people of a certain age.

So on Wednesday, Daniel and I went out for a spin on the bikes in the house and had a look at the municipal goats. The city of Quimper has a flood plain. The vegetation is kept at bay by ecologically sound municipal goats. No I am not making this up; is it any wonder I love the French?

In the afternoon, we went to an aquarium with a birds of prey show on the side. This was inspired by our hugely successful trip to Clare where we saw an amazing show with birds of prey. The aquarium was ok but the birds of prey was not a success. It was too hot and too crowded. As we were nearby, we went to the Pointe du Raz afterwards; famous for being pretty and westerly both of which it delivered on, to be fair. Only mild enthusiasm from the troops who had been there before and were underwhelmed by both its prettiness and its westerliness.

Thursday, 11 August

Building on our daring previous success, Mr. Waffle and I left the children at home again and went in to the MusÃ©e DÃ©partmentale unaccompanied. Over the holiday, Mr. Waffle had been reading this book which he found in the house -“Le Cheval D’Orgueil“; it’s “Peig” for Bretons. Originally published in Breton it is the autobiography of Pierre-Jakez HÃ©lias who had a traditional Breton upbringing. Mr. Waffle had been giving me edited highlights which, I suspect, is how it is best enjoyed. Anyhow, one of the items in the museum was HÃ©lias’s traditional Breton garb and it was surprisingly moving to see it, given how much I knew about him at that point.

I might note that our time torturing our children with information about basic Breton and its relation to Irish was not wasted as, only yesterday, herself ran into the principal in the school corridors and he asked her where she had been on holidays and when she said Brittany and he asked whether she knew any Breton and about its relationship to Irish she was, despite herself, ready.

That afternoon we went to what I confidently described to the children as a water park. It turned out to be a park filled with trampolines, pedalo opportunities and slides but not, in fact, a water park. This led to some mild disappointment as it was quite warm and water would have been welcome.

That night we again left our children in the hands of the rapacious babysitter and went for dinner in Quimper. Dinner was truly delicious. Our hostess was delighted when she discovered we were Irish having lived for many years in Barna. Her uncle was a Breton nationalist (interesting bunch the Breton nationalists) who moved to Ireland and married an Irish woman and she told us a bit about him. Interesting man. We returned home to find the children still alive but they indicated that the babysitter had engaged less with them than on the previous occasion. Clearly, she didn’t feel the same need to entertain them for the lower rate which, frankly, was fine.

Friday, 12 August

I went in to Quimper alone to look for a faience sculpture. I did not succeed. These Breton heads are pricy. I thought it might be a nice souvenir as I think we won’t be gracing Brittany with our presence again for a while as we have been there five times in the last six years and I am beginning to think that there isn’t a monument in FinistÃ¨re that we haven’t seen several times.

That afternoon we went for a mild walk in the woods.

That evening we had dinner out en famille and a last trip to the ever-popular fairground. I went into the fun house which I deeply regretted. I emerged feeling ill and grubby. The children loved it though.

Saturday, 13 August

We had a last trip to the beach and then afterwards we went to the Phare d’EckmÃ¼hl. This was one of those outings where I was glad to have overcome significant opposition. The inside of the lighthouse is beautiful as are the views from the top. Also, who goes to Brittany without visiting at least one lighthouse?

Sunday, 14 August

We did not go to the cathedral for mass. Sadly, mass was just as long as in the cathedral. Most of Sunday was spent cleaning the house within an inch of its life. Mr. Waffle and I went up to Locronan where we admired the tourist filled streets and I bought a 750grm jar of salted butter caramel spread. It could be a while before we get back to Brittany and I want to make sure my needs are met.

Monday, 15 August

With some difficulty we packed up all our belongings.

The Feast of the Assumption continues to be celebrated in France with enthusiasm which meant we had the greatest difficulty in getting lunch on the road to the ferry but, happily, Dinan met our needs. And then it was on to the ferry and safely home.