Travel

Saturday, August 18

My saintly parents-in-law regularly take a house in west Kerry to which their children and grandchildren are invited. Veterans of the long drive after their holidays in France, the children were very good on the 6 hour journey. We broke the journey for a cup of tea at my parents’ house in Cork which was, surprisingly, not very much out of our way. The best route for the journey from Dublin to SW Kerry continues to be a hotly debated topic.

Sunday, August 19

We had the fastest mass of the year in Caherdaniel coming in at just under 20 minutes. The church was packed confirming my view that the greater the number of the faithful the shorter the mass. We strolled down to the beach which though damp was greeted with enthusiasm by the children who all rolled up their trousers and waded into the sea. Inevitably, they all got soaked, but they were cheerful.

Later in the day we paid the inevitable visit to Staigue fort where it was, as ever, cold and damp. We got chatting to a Scottish couple with two small children who were exploring the damp fort also. Why, if you were Scottish would you choose to holiday in west Kerry? Madness.

Mr. Waffle’s uncle and aunt and a grandchild – a 10 year old boy, R, – were also staying nearby and we went to visit. R had an x-box. The boys nearly died of happiness. The Princess, her grandmother and I went to explore slightly twee but yet appealing ceramics. The Princess and I bought some Christmas tree decorations. The potter was next door in her workshop and she was lovely and very patiently answered the Princess’s many questions on her work.

And then, that evening, the first cousins arrived from Dublin. Oh joy.

Monday, August 20

It was a beautiful day. This was surprising. This summer in Ireland has been pretty awful and West Kerry is notoriously wet even in a good year. We went to the beach. I swam, the children swam. It was bracing. After a bit, I took the small ones back to the house (the boys and their two cousins). They went haring along and I panted after carrying various bits of gear. While holding the hand of a small child walking on a wall, I stepped in a big dollop of dog poo while wearing my very flat, very open sandals. The result was as might be expected and I asked them all to stop while I took off my shoe and tried to remove poo from my foot, the sole of my sandals and, particularly appealing this, the inside of the straps. They got tired of waiting and I found myself sprinting up the road after them clutching my shoe and laden down with various bags, not my finest moment.

The afternoon was to bring relief in the form of pirate camp. This was a sea sport camp for children aged 4-8 that my brother-in-law had spotted on the internet. We were delighted. We all felt that being together would make for greater enjoyment for the cousins and we could all relax in our various ways (reading the paper with a cup of tea or running up mountains or whatever). I took myself to the tea rooms in Caherdaniel a new and very welcome addition to the village. All was rosy. Upon collection, the children were less happy with the arrangement. “Pirate camp is boring,” said Michael. Oh dear. And 3 more afternoons to go. Sigh.

Tuesday, August 21

Another beautiful day dawned. We held our breath.

The Princess and I drove in to Kenmare which is full of things tourists like; it’s pretty, it has a bookshop, a tea room, several nice cafes, an antiques shop, a shop full of expensive pretty useless things and so on. We had a terrific time patrolling the town. We also achieved our objective of getting birthday presents for cousin R. On our way there we dropped my father-in-law in Sneem from whence he ran back to Caherdaniel. For fun.

When we got back after lunch we poured the unwilling pirates (Daniel stoic, Michael and his cousin requiring a combination of bribes and threats) into their wetsuits and took them to camp. We spent all the time they were at camp having a restorative cup of tea. Pirate camp was more successful as they had gone exploring rock pools with Captain Vinnie. Even Michael, grudgingly, conceded that this was quite good. He maintained his position, however, on the general undesirability of pirate camp.

The Princess was briefly, to her intense joy, adopted by a small dog. It followed us to the beach where one woman said loudly and pointedly, “There’s that dog that bit Amy.” I have to say that the dog was lovely with us and didn’t seem at all yappy. I said, “That’s not actually our dog.” But as the dog was at that point enthusiastically fetching sticks for the Princess I felt that this was not particularly credible. The dog’s owner turned out to be the woman who had rented the house to us who was unperturbed by her dog’s wanderings.

That evening all the children went to R’s house for his party and had a sleepover under the supervision of his saintly grandparents. The rest of us promptly went for dinner in the pub.

Wednesday, August 22

Another nice day. Quite astounding.

I took the four smaller children to visit an open farm. The farm itself was perfectly acceptable (and a very welcome addition to the frankly slender local tourist offerings) and the people who ran it were extremely kind but the children were not in the mood to be pleased. No sooner had we arrived than they all needed to go to the toilet – always welcome news to the adult in the party. They were all feeling somewhat tired from the excitement of the previous evening and they showed it: they broke the door to the fairy tree by over-enthusiastic hammering; the pigs were smelly; the digging was boring and all in all nothing was any good and could they please go home. Oh dear.

After lunch it was again time to pour the boys into their wetsuits for pirate camp. Michael’s reluctance reached fever pitch and when we got there he pointed in a pained fashion to the sign on the wall which read “Sea Sports”. “I don’t like sea and I don’t like sports,” he said bitterly, “when will you find me a summer camp, I actually like?” His brother continued unenthusiastic but resigned. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth etc.

Did I mention that Mr. Waffle got ticks while climbing the hills earlier in the week with herself and young R? I thought that you might like to know.

I think we’ll save the rest for part two now. Hang on to your hats.

Thursday, August 9

Another beautiful day made more beautiful by the certain knowledge that our fellow citizens at home were continuing to struggle in damp conditions. We went to the beach to celebrate.

Friday, August 10

The Princess and I went for a last trip to the beach.

Ever game, she went to pony camp in the afternoon but the boys bailed out and the four of us went to Doëlan where they enjoyed themselves more than you might expect paddling in the small harbour.

Saturday, August 11

Is there anything more depressing than cleaning a holiday home? It took three hours. Our kind landlords gave us caramel sweets and hydrangea to speed us on our way but we were left shadows of our former selves.

We went to Saint-Malo where we were spending the night before going for our ferry. It’s a very pretty, touristy walled town. It’s also almost entirely reconstructed having been bombed to bits during the Second World War. We went aboard a pirate ship which, surprisingly, turned out to be a mistake. The bare footed man in pirate dress treated us to a detailed talk on the historical role of corsairs and buccaneers [much nodding and smiling at us as the historical opposition of English and French interests was discussed – in vain did we protest that we were Irish and, historically, even less in favour of British naval supremacy than the French]. The children went careering around the deck in a spirited attempt to throw themselves overboard or at the very least hang themselves from the rigging.

A trip into the town led to Michael falling in love with a small bear in a tourist shop which he promptly named “Pooky the Second”. I said that if he still wanted him in the morning, we would buy him. Michael spent the remainder of the evening saying disconsolately “Pooky the Second” and a considerable portion of the next morning until, inevitably we purchased him. Yeah, go on, despise me.

Sunday, August 12

We shunned the breakfast buffet in the hotel on the grounds that it would have cost €50 for the five us. We had a lovely breakfast at a cafe inside the walled town instead. Since this cost €47 our saving was not as significant as we had hoped but on the plus side, it meant we were in town early and the tourists were fewer as we walked around the ramparts.

Also, of course, we were re-united with Pooky the Second. And his friend Jojo who had to be purchased for parity of esteem reasons.

Then, onwards to the ferry. Mr. Waffle brought the children to the cinema while I dined in solitary state in the waiter service restaurant with a copy of Saturday’s Irish Times. Oh the virtues of a kind husband.

Monday, August 13

The return. We were all glad to get back. We stopped for lunch in the Courtyard in Ferns where the food was fine and we were reminded that Irish people really are very friendly. The bar staff were lovely after a fortnight of slighty haughty French service.

Stay tuned for our trip to Kerry. Go on, you know you want to [insert hollow laugh here].

Are we there yet?

Monday, August 6

This was a peaceful day with a trip to the beach in the morning and pony camp in the afternoon. Daniel retired from pony camp and came with his parents to a nearby little port. He had a pancake and read his Tintin which he found to be better in every way than dealing with recalcitrant horses.

Tuesday, August 6

The Princess and I had the first of several successful expeditions. We went to the market together and spent all our money. She considered ways to make more.

Herself: I’ve decided to charge you for looking at me.
Me: I beg your pardon?
Her: That’ll be €10.
Me: What?
Her: That’s another €10.
Me: This is ridiculous.
Her: Another €10. And I’ve been thinking, you must have looked at me loads of times since I was born. You owe me a fortune.

This monetising of everything is fundamentally unsatisfactory.

In the afternoon, we went to the beach. There was duck fishing. Let joy be unconfined.

They won pirate hats.

It was around this time that reading material began to get a bit thin on the ground and competition for the e-reader started to hot up. I was re-reading Pride and Prejudice. The Princess was re-reading Harry Potter. In desperation she had started Pride and Prejudice but abandoned.

Her: I need the e-reader.
Me: I need it more.
Her: Why?
Me: Mr. Darcy is just about to propose to Elizabeth again.
Her (in stupefaction): Mr. Darcy is proposing to Elizabeth?

Oh God, the only person in the world who doesn’t know the plot of Pride and Prejudice and now I’ve ruined it for her.

That evening Mr. Waffle and I went for our anniversary dinner to a very nice restaurant which I cannot recommend highly enough, particularly since I didn’t pay [hurrah for my loving husband]. It was one of those restaurants where only the man’s menu has the prices. It has a special stool for your handbag and oh the food, the food is just fantastic.

It is, however, in the oddest setting. It’s right on the outskirts of Lorient nestling between discount shopping outlets.

I am amazed that the Michelin inspectors made it to such an out of the way spot. Among our fellow diners was a child of 8 in a blazer and tie who was going through the tasting menu with every appearance of enthusiasm. I gave him a warm smile when he turned round to look about the restaurant because I felt he was exceptionally well behaved. He lifted a haughty eyebrow and his gaze moved on. Oh dear.

Wednesday, August 8

The Princess and I headed out to the beach in the morning while the men minded the house.

She went to pony camp in the afternoon and we went for an adventure with the boys. It was boiling hot and we chose to go to a maize maze. Oh the heat, the misery, the pirates jumping out of the maze to give us heart failure and misleading directions. The lighthouse pictured below is, I can assure you, particularly inaccessible.

That evening Michael finally lost a tooth. Unfortunately he seems to have swallowed it.

And, finally, if you look closely at this video, you’ll be able to see the red squirrels which we saw in the trees in the garden every evening.

I think that this is all I can take for today which means there will have to be a part 4. You can stop any time, I’m the one with the compulsive desire to document my family’s holidays on the internet.

Aaand we’re back!

Thursday, August 2

In the morning we contemplated the vast variety of marine life in the rock pools. Much more interesting than it sounds. Fortified by our quiet morning, we spent the afternoon flying through the trees on zip wires. This was a qualified success. The boys loved it and proceeded around slowly and carefully accompanied by their parents.

There was only one humiliating moment when a man had to get up a ladder and unhook a child. There was also, I suppose, the moment when I hung in mid-air saying “Pull me in!” while Mr. Waffle took a video on the phone and my two gallant 6 year olds pulled with all their might . It was less successful for herself who zipped around the entire course while the remainder of her family got from tree one to tree two. She was a bit small for the next course up and was therefore slightly bored and cranky. To cheer her up we went to the supermarket afterwards which they all loved. Your point?

Friday, August 3

On the way back from the zipline I managed to impale the car on a curb and pull of the plastic covering between it and the motor so kind Mr. Waffle spent the morning getting it replaced in the local garage. The children returned to pony camp on Friday afternoon but, alas, signs were that Daniel was going for the last time and under sufferance. Mr. Waffle and I escaped to Quimper.

Saturday, August 4

Did you know that the Princess was somewhat allergic to mosquito bites? That knowledge came to us rather spectacularly at her uncle and aunt’s wedding in Sicily when she was 18 months old. And did we bring anti-mosquito cream with us to France despite an extensive supply in the medicine cupboard at home? That would be a no. On Saturday morning the Princess woke up with a badly swollen hand having sustained a number of bites on the previous two nights. We took her to the chemist who said that she would have to see a doctor. The chemist then phoned the doctor and made the appointment. She went around and was seen immediately [wait time in Dublin invariably one hour regardless of when appointment made]. The French doctor was lovely I am informed by herself and her father [ I feel compelled to add that my own GP is perfectly pleasant also]. As she had an exciting red line up her arm, the doctor diagnosed inflammation of the lymph nodes and a course of antibiotics. Her first. Much excitement. Cost of this appointment? €23. Cost of appointment with my GP in Dublin? €60. Just saying. I was, of course, keen to take a picture of her injuries but she said suspiciously, “You’ll put in on your blog, won’t you?” and refused offering me the, frankly poor, substitute of a picture of her medicine.

In the afternoon, we went for a walk in the forest. I’m not terribly fond of forest walks myself [yes, I know, heresy] but the others all enjoyed it.

And we did get to see lots of enormous orange slugs which, you know, made for interest.

Later on we went to the beach at Le Pouldu which was not as attractive as this picture makes it look but it was my warmest and waviest swim of the summer so I think of it with some fondness.

Sunday, August 5

To the sound of squeals of protest, I made them all go to mass. The whole experience was slightly medieval. I believe that the length of mass is indirectly related to religious fervour. The longer the mass, the weaker the religion. This was a long mass. As always, the few French children in attendance were impeccably dressed and perfectly behaved. A small boy was relegated by his mother to a pew at the back of the church for an offence which was utterly imperceptible to both Mr. Waffle and me. Our children were fine all things considered. This included a young woman who galloped around the church making odd noises and occasionally knelt at the back (near us) on a plastic bag while singing. A middle aged lady caught her and hugged her from time to time but it was unclear whether she was minding her or just a kindly neighbour. The whole thing was slightly surreal. Particularly in France where, in general, mentally handicapped adults seem to be so well looked after.

To recover, we took ourselves to Concarneau again. This was a considerably more successful expedition than the previous trip into the walled town. There was a mock medieval joust where Ange Albert le Bon fought Sinistre de Malmort [go on, guess the likely winner].

I thought it would be actors who knew a bit about horse-riding but in fact it was riders who knew a bit about acting and it was surprisingly enjoyable.

And then we toured the ramparts until it was time to go home for tea. All very satisfactory though somewhat crowded. See cunning pictures which give the, entirely false, impression that we had the place to ourselves.

Lads, this is only the end of the first week. How much more of this can we all take?

We are back. Hurrah for us. Since you saw me last, I have been to France and to Kerry. A full debrief follows. Hang on to your hats.

Saturday, July 28

We arrived in good time for the ferry – the trauma of 2010 still, even now, fresh in our minds. Having faithfully attended the on board entertainment for several years at this point, Daniel was chosen to be the magician’s assistant. The excitement. “What’s your name young man?” asked the magician. Before poor Daniel could reply, Michael piped up from the audience, “He’s Daniel.” Who’d be a twin?

Sunday, July 29

Aside from some mild concern when we couldn’t find our car on the car deck, the day was uneventful. We had a long drive to our holiday destination which allowed us to note, yet again, the “deserted village” phenomenon in small towns across Brittany. Have you ever noticed that, if you go to a small French town at lunch time, there is no one at all on the streets? It’s quite bizarre.

Monday, July 30

Oh the thrill of sunshine after a long rainy summer in Ireland. We went to the beach along a coastal path.

We swam happily only slightly put out by the French people who pointed to the pollution evident on the shoreline.

Note unnatural red colour, bottom right.

In the afternoon we took a walk through the forest to the little port of Brigneau where we saw a trawler unloading fish and bought some crab claws. The appropriate holidayness of it all.

Tuesday, July 31

It was market day in the local town and we went in to have a look. Inevitably, we lost Michael but we found him again, so all was well.

In the afternoon we went to Quimperlé which is a pretty little town.

The visit was not a success. The children were uninterested and cranky. We were cranky. It was hot. The highlight was probably seeing herself try some Perrier.

We did find a small park where the boys played football with some French children. When it was time to go, Daniel, ever the chameleon, called out to his brother, “Michel, tu viens?” He doesn’t like to stand out, if at all possible.

This was also the day I learnt from local newspaper Ouest France that 70% of holidaymakers to Brittany don’t pay for their accommodation as they stay with friends and relations. I felt mild bitterness.

Wednesday, August 1

We went to Concarneau which, for some reason, we had never visited before. The guidebook describes it as having more tourists per square metre than any other site in Brittany. This would appear to be correct. Our timing was poor. We arrived just in time to partake of an over priced lunch and then had to hotfoot it back to the children’s pony camp. This was a huge success for two out of three of the candidates but Daniel was kicked by a horse (no serious injury sustained) and hadn’t liked any of the offerings for the afternoon snack. When we collected him, his lamentations were equally divided over these two points. Mr. Waffle and I had been to Quimperlé for tea and new shoes so were able to sustain complaints with reasonable fortitude.

More tomorrow, if you’re feeling strong.