Travel

Woe, Woe, Woe

17 November, 2025
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Travel, Work

I cannot believe this, today I chipped another tooth (mercifully not visible but I can feel it). Not to worry though, I have another appointment with my interventionist dentist in December (I mean, even I would have to concede that intervention is required now). Will I ever get out of his clutches? Advice on this point would be very unwelcome so don’t do it.

I am travelling for work for the remainder of the week so think of me gamely typing out my updates for November on the app on the phone. There’s devotion for you. Let us hope travel gives me some news because, as you will see from this post, news is thin on the ground otherwise.

But, look, at least the rain has finally stopped.

Parental Advisory

15 November, 2025
Posted in: Middle Child, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

I hope that someday my three children will be great friends. At the moment each of the twins refers to the other as “the other one” which doesn’t entirely show the levels of affection I’m going for.

Over the summer, the youngest child did relatively little while the middle one got a job and went inter-railing. When challenged about his lack of activity, the youngest said “But Mum, I don’t make plans, plans happen to me”. I am not sure that this is a viable approach long term but in some ways it’s a lot less wearing on the parental nerves.

When I was 19, I went as an au pair to Naples. I set off from the south of France where we had been on a family camping trip. There were no mobile phones in 1988 and the only way my mother could find out that I had arrived was to telephone from the phone box in the camp site to the number I had given her. Unfortunately, a complete stranger who spoke no English answered the phone. This was the builder who my au pair family had doing works on the flat while they – and crucially, their au pair – were ensconced with her parents. Obviously, I couldn’t ring my parents so there we were, my mother having heart failure in the Pins Parasols campsite and me safely in a marble floored flat in the nicest part of Naples. You’ll be pleased to hear that my mother rang someone she knew in the Italian department in UCC who rang the builders who gave her the grandparents’ number who in turn gave it to my mother who finally managed to contact me. I am sure my mother had an unpleasant 24 hours (perhaps? I don’t know how long because children are heartless) but all was well. Honestly, that might as well be the motto of parenthood.

You would think that the mobile phone would make things easier but, in some ways not. Firstly, middle child missed a crucial train due to a death on the line (the first of two on the trip, grim) and had to spend an unexpected night in Paris and cancel accommodation in Barcelona. Maybe I would have been better off not knowing. Tesco mobile changed its rules on top up and the full complicated details elude me but the only way to tap up the phone was if you had an Allied Irish Bank account. My sister’s partner did and he saved our bacon by topping up for a considerable amount and refusing to be refunded which was foolish of him because I was so grateful at that moment I would have paid him anything. I spent much of my time in a state of nerves; the internet in hostels was often intermittent and I wondered why my dutiful child who is good about staying in touch hadn’t contacted me and it was never a terrible thing had happened and always that the internet didn’t work in the hostel.

The trip was lengthy including stops in Barcelona and Gothenburg which are not exactly adjacent (the itinerary was, in part, driven by where our interrailer had friends). A landslide in Italy meant that that part of the trip was curtailed, possibly not the worst outcome. The whole trip involved 11 countries and 2 days and 10 hours on trains. Glad to have done it but perhaps also glad when it was over.

La Serenissima

8 November, 2025
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

Am I seriously telling you that I have been putting up content on electric toothbrushes when I was in Venice in October? Yes, yes, I am but I wanted to do it justice. Choice of the date was very challenging and in fact we had booked everything for the weekend before when we discovered that Mr. Waffle couldn’t make it and we had to rebook everything. It was stressful but, you will be pleased to hear, Venice was worth it.

Day 1 – Friday, October 17

Mr. Waffle and I left Dublin at a civilised hour on Friday morning and flew (direct!) to Venice, hopped into a taxi at Marco Polo airport and were at the city in no time.

I’ve been to Venice a couple of times before but only on day trips: once for the carnival when I was an Erasmus student in Modena in 1990 and once with my family in 1980. In fact, because I remember nothing, my brother had to point out to me that we went back on a family holiday in 1987 which I had forgotten. I retained quite a vivid memory of us each being allowed to take home a present from Venice: I got a golden necklace with blue stones; my sister got a rocking gondola and my brother got a… flick knife. I remember being outraged at the time. “What,” I said to him recently “were the parents thinking buying a seven year old a flick knife?” It was then that it emerged we had gone there again when he was 14. I mean, is that better? So, I had been to Venice but I wasn’t super familiar with its ways. Even when I went in the 80s and 90s, it was very busy, hence our decision to go in October when it might be a bit quieter.

Our neighbours have been to Venice a lot and gave us many excellent tips. The first being that we should stay in Dorsoduro which is where I found our Airbnb. The whole city is really compact and everywhere is walkable. In fact walking and boat are what is available, nothing on wheels of any kind is allowed: no bikes, no cars, no scooters, no buses, no trams. It’s even quite tough for people in wheelchairs as there are bridges with steps every couple of metres. Our taxi tossed us out at Piazzale Roma which is where the bridge to the mainland is and the only place on the island with car access. To Mr. Waffle’s intense delight, we got a boat to near our destination. He loves a public transport system and one with boats? Well, as I say, he was delighted.

I quite liked the Airbnb but Mr. Waffle and the Princess were less enthused. Over the weekend though, I found the hosts exceptionally…communicative and when we left they sent me a long questionnaire which was separate from the Airbnb questionnaire so that was a bit tiring.

Herself was joining Mr. Waffle and me as she was in Italy for a friend’s party in Rome the following weekend and had decided to spend the week in Italy travelling down from Venice . I think it’s fair to say that she may not have loved the Airbnb but it represented a luxurious high point in her journey through Italy which was, elsewhere, hostel based.

She was already ensconced when we arrived and we all went out for a drink, a tramezzino or two (basically a sandwich) and a walk. Venice is beautiful from every angle. The weather was perfect. Sunny and 18 degrees. While tourists were very numerous around Piazza San Marco, they were not particularly so elsewhere. It seemed like a perfect time to visit

Same view with tourists:

Everywhere looks like a postcard. It has no bad angles.

We went in to the Piazza San Marco for a look around and a ludicrously expensive cup of tea. I think it was on this first day that we passed a huge demonstration about Giorgia Meloni’s appointees to La Fenice (the opera house – which we never actually saw, next time). Glad to see that the political demonstration is alive and well. Apparently La Fenice is not for sale. By the time we got to Piazza San Marco it was evening and the crowds had thinned and it was beautiful even though there was some scaffolding (into every life some scaffolding must fall).

We went for dinner in a hotel recommended by a colleague of mine. I regret to say that it was not fantastic. Actually, I thought the food generally was only alright especially given the standard of Italian food normally; maybe we didn’t quite find the right places.

I studied Italian in college and lived in Italy for more than a year in my 20s but I haven’t visited Italy in about ten years so it would be fair to say that my Italian is rusty. I was keen to try to revive it but at every turn I was frustrated by Italians who wanted to speak English. The waiters in the hotel were no different. Poor Mr. Waffle drove me crazy by using his very limited Italian quite dexterously (his vocabulary is terrible but his accent is excellent thanks to his francophone background) and actually sometimes getting to speak more Italian than me. He was unwise enough to correct me (correctly damn it) on one occasion. The unkindest cut of all was later in the trip when we went into a tobacconist to get stamps. The Italian word for a stamp is a term of art and I knew Mr. Waffle wouldn’t know it. I was ready to roll out francobollo when the moment arrived. The people in front of us in the queue were French (Venice was full, full, full of French tourists) and like many another Venetian, the tobacconist spoke French (is is always full of French tourists?). When it came to our turn to be served I stepped up smartly only to hear Mr. Waffle say, “Vous parlez Français?” Words alone are insufficient to describe my full ire at being denied this vital chance to show off.

When we got back to the airbnb to plug in our exhausted phones, I found that I had packed an Argentinian adapter instead of a European one and herself had forgotten to pack one at all. So the poor old ant accompanied by his two grasshoppers let us use his.

Day 2 Saturday, October 18

We were staying quite near the Accademia. Fortified by a delicious – though pricey – outdoor breakfast we went to tackle it.

My memory from my art history diploma (1999 or 2000 but how much does history of art change?) was that the big arty draw in Venice is the Scuola di San Rocco but I was very glad we went to the Accademia. It has a beautiful Venetian collection and it is quite small and manageable, I would really recommend. On the steps on the way in, the security guard asked where we were from. “Irlanda” said I. “Viva la regina!” he said cheerfully. Consternation in our camp. When I was a child this kind of thing was commonplace but I really thought Ireland had been put on the map by our cultural exports. Apparently not. The guard took in our dismay and thought he knew the problem, “Viva il re!” he said triumphantly.

The gallery had lots of the big hitters – Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese and even Giorgione. None of these illustrated below just to keep you on your toes: we’ve got a love sick young man by Lorenzo Lotto; a truly fantastic rococo family group by someone called Alessandro Longhi, previously unknown to me; and a lovely genre painting by the reliably wonderful Pietro Longhi (some relation, we wonder?).

Afterwards we had lunch by a canal

and this guy just powered by.

Looking out on the water, I did wonder how the plumbing arrangements in Venice worked and found this rather fascinating article. I was surprised to see that the article began: Sewage treatment is one of those subjects that visitors in Venice inquire most about. I mean, really?

Anyway turning our minds from the gatoli, everywhere you look is just picture perfect. No artifice is required to get a nice shot, everything is nice.

Our neighbours had recommended that we go up the tower of San Giorgio on a small island across the bay from Piazza San Marco. That was excellent advice (side note to say how much fun Mr. Waffle was getting from his Venezia Unica public transport card – he bought one for everyone in the family – going by boat is so much more fun than by bus even if it is just public transport).

The view from San Giorgio is spectacular and also there is a lift to the top. Did I like that? Oh yes, I did.

After the strain of travelling up and down by lift we had a restorative cup of tea on the tiny island and decided on our next move. Our neighbour had recommended the cemetery island (San Michele) so we decided that would be next. It was a bit of a trek on the vaporetto (hark at me) but, as I say, it’s a boat.

I had to buy new sunglasses in Venice as I hadn’t brought my own, who knew it would be so sunny in October. Not me or my firstborn. Our ant had his sunglasses alright. And I sent herself off on her trip to Rome with the €8 pair I got but I enjoyed my Iris Apfel weekend.

Disaster: when we got to San Michele, it was closed so we stayed on the boat and went on to Murano. It was evening and most things were closing but it was not unpleasant. It’s very different from the main island where there are many tourists and “every prospect pleases”. I’m sure there are tourists earlier in the day but in early evening in October it seemed to be all working class Venetians and it felt perhaps more real than Venice proper. We also got an ice cream in a workman’s cafe which was full of Halloween decorations – several cultures collide. We didn’t buy any glass though; somehow nothing really appealed.

And then we got the boat home ducking under the Rialto bridge on the way.

We had dinner in a small restaurant near the flat which was grand. Herself was a bit mortified as she had had lunch there on Friday before we arrived (cheapest item on the menu) and spent a couple of hours there on her laptop and she was greeted by cries of “Carissima” from the staff on her return but I thought it was rather endearing.

Day 3 – Sunday, October 19

Our neighbours had recommended 10 o’clock mass at San Marco. Off we went at speed in the morning.

When we got to the front of the church, people were being turned away but fortified by my neighbour’s advice and in my best Italian I asked where to go for mass at 10 and was respectfully sent around the corner. What a church. What a mass. The singing was incredible, the church was incredible and I really felt “Well now, this our faith and we are proud to profess it.” Mass lasted an hour and a half – and you know how I feel about a long mass – but I didn’t care. It was by some distance the best mass I have ever attended. I dutifully paid particular attention to the sermon in Italian so that I could explain it to herself and Mr. Waffle afterwards and, honestly, great was my ire when the priest proceeded to give the exact same sermon in English when he had finished in Italian. The church was full but the congregation were clearly all Catholic and knew the drill and mostly didn’t use their phones. In some ways it was a surprisingly normal congregation given the context but the second mass was over everyone (including, I regret to say your correspondent) got up and started taking pictures.

It was a truly extraordinary experience.

Immediately afterwards, unwisely perhaps, we forked out €30 a head to go into the Palazzo Ducale. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the Palazzo Ducale is huge and spectacular but it was perhaps the former element that we hadn’t entirely banked on. Just when we thought it was over we would turn into another even more extraordinary audience room with more gigantic paintings by Titian or Tintoretto. Even looking over the photos now makes me feel faintly exhausted. Our mistake may have been not having a cup of tea beforehand.

You go over the Bridge of Sighs towards the end. I definitely sighed.

But it was all spectacularly beautiful.

Even the views from the odd opened window as you go around.

We had lunch in the museum cafe afterwards and I have never been more grateful to sit down to a museum cafe lunch.

Reinvigorated by our lunch we decided to try to get to San Michele – the cemetery island – again. We walked across Venice. Delightful.

We passed the hospital. I enjoyed the ambulances.

This time we were successful in getting to San Michele and it was well worth the trip. It’s very peaceful and quite beautiful out there. Our neighbour said try to get to a funeral (apparently he has attended a few – he’s a dapper older gent in a suit, I guess he just blends in seamlessly) but we did not succeed. Still there were many graves of the famous to admire.

I had not previously been familiar with Princess Catherine Bagration but quite the character; that wikipedia link is well worth a read.

And it’s a beautiful cemetery.

It might perhaps have been wiser after our successful cemetery outing to have had a little rest but I was keen to take the vaporetto that basically does a tour of Venice via the Grand Canal (either the one or the two, come back to me if you need to know). So we did. The spirit was willing but the flesh was pretty weak at that point. Still I was sitting down and it was so spectacular to look at.

We got off at Santa Maria della Salute which I was really keen to see inside. It was closed and I was surprised how unsorry I was by this development. Next time.

We were on the wrong side of the canal to get home and we tried and failed to get a little traghetto across so back on the big vaporetto.

Herself was on a mission to get these Venetian slippers. She had got a pair about a year ago and I thought they were quite stupid and I mocked them. But we went to the home of the Venetian slipper and, despite myself, I was tempted so here we are, we both got a pair and I am wearing them as I type (pause to photograph). I feel quite fashion forward but also, how the mighty are fallen etc.

Herself chose a restaurant for dinner and it was our biggest dining success so a note for next time.

Day 4 – Monday, October 20

We rose with the lark (about 9.30) and the three of us went for breakfast together in a bar around the corner from the flat. Breakfast was definitely the best meal of the day in Venice – I found it uniformly good in the little bars and cafes and they always, always had freshly squeezed orange juice.

After breakfast, Mr. Waffle and I said goodbye to herself and began our long trip home. I love that she loves London and things are going her way but I wish I could see more of her and I am always so sad to say goodbye.

In an uncharacteristic burst of economising, I suggested to Mr. Waffle that we might get the bus from Piazzale Roma to the airport which we did and it was just fine – perhaps a note for me to reflect on. The trip home was uneventful although the airport was slow and the flight a little delayed so we only took off a lunchtime. It was supposed to be an earlier flight so perhaps they weren’t particularly set up for a lunchtime crowd. I was pleased to secure the last sandwich on the plane and the man beside me looked chagrined. Mr. Waffle asked him had he hoped to get the sandwich. He had. I did wonder what Mr. Waffle’s plan was there but he just said vaguely, “Oh right” and carried on happily while I ate my sandwich like a (hungry) criminal.

I must say there is a great deal to be said for a four day trip which allows you two full days in the middle. And I will certainly be back to Venice.

Democratic Duties

25 October, 2025
Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

I was in Cork yesterday for a work event which I signed up to blithely in the summer when I wasn’t as busy as I am now and when I thought I could make a weekend of it. Then, the presidential election was scheduled for yesterday; my sister’s partner’s mother was the subject of a conference on her lifetime’s literary labour (admirable) and my sister and her partner were away providing moral and other support for the conference subject; and I also inadvertently booked myself in for the Picasso exhibition guided tour at 9.15 this morning (more anon, possibly). All in all, I went to Cork on Thursday and came home yesterday evening about 9.30 which was not at all what I had been planning.

Due to my exhausting schedule (and 9.15 exhibition tour on Saturday morning), I went to bed early and missed Michael who was out late. This morning I was (deep regret) up with the lark and as I passed Michael’s bedroom, I saw that it was empty. I scuttled downstairs to get my phone: he would definitely have texted me if he had been going to stay out all night. No text. I began to feel extremely nervous. I zoomed to the kitchen where, to my enormous relief, Michael and his father were breakfasting together. Michael was in his pyjamas gloomily scooping cornflakes into his mouth. He had only got in at 2 in the morning and he was off to the RDS to act as a tallyman on the presidential election count starting at 9. He enjoyed it once he got there but he was definitely thinking hard about his choices at 8 in the morning.

France III – Arcachon

11 October, 2025
Posted in: Family, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Monday September 1, 2025

At the crack of dawn, Mr Waffle took the bus to Lidl to pick up the car. On the way back (what a time to be alive, driving the car), he decided to drive to the Monoprix – a slightly more upmarket offering. Exceptionnelment, the Monoprix was not opening until 10. Well, of course. Then the car started flashing an alarming message on the roundabout that there was some kind of breakdown; though it was still going, so Mr. Waffle (rather gingerly) took it home.

“We’d better ring the car hire people,” said I. We did. They seemed indifferent to our plight. “Did you take a photo of the notice?” asked the bored young woman on the phone. “No because I was driving the car,” said Mr. Waffle. “Well, take a photo and send it to us next time,” she said. Not the kind of customer service I was hoping for from Thrifty. We delved deep into the bowels of reddit France and various threads seemed to indicate that this issue was not a fatal problem so, with some trepidation we packed everyone into the car to drive to Bordeaux.

Time was a bit tight because Herself was doing some tutoring and the last service for the restaurant she had found for us was 1.30 but we got there. The car park we had selected (round the block twice because we missed it the first time) did indeed have a charger but we couldn’t get it to work because there was no internet access down in the centre of the earth where our car was residing (Michael found the wifi code in the car park on our return, I don’t want to talk about it). We abandoned and trotted to the restaurant at speed. It was around then that I realised that I had left my glasses back at the house and Mr. Waffle would have to drive back again. A slightly inauspicious beginning to our Bordeaux adventure.

However, from there on out, things improved. Herself had found a nice middle eastern restaurant for us (Kedem, if you find yourself in Bordeaux, recommended) and we all relaxed over lunch. I learnt two unrelated factlets over lunch: (i) France has banned smoking on the beach and (ii) everyone of a certain age in England is on Ozempic or equivalent. I was quite shocked by the latter discovery. “But not everyone is obese,” I said in horror. “Obese is thinner than you think,” said herself in what I can only describe as a marked manner.

After lunch we went to the cathedral which was grand (big church, you know yourself) and also provided some shelter from the rain.

I have to relate that two of my three grown up children failed to bring anoraks to France. They were damp but they were cheerful.

They are very proud of their theatre in Bordeaux. Very nice from the outside but I cannot say what it is like inside as it is, alas, “fermé lundi”

We went for a fancy cup of tea in the Intercontinental to assuage our grief (also, it was there, it was raining again). All of us got lost in the extraordinarily labyrinthine route to the bathroom but other than that it was pretty satisfactory.

We went on to the Place de la Bourse which is very impressive.

Overall, weather notwithstanding, I found Bordeaux a delightful place to stroll around. It’s small but not too small and quite grand in places.

We went to the Musée des Beaux Arts. It was a lovely size and I really enjoyed wandering around. There were some very nice works which I had to peer at rather closely. I truly mourned my forgotten glasses. I always say of regional art galleries that they have first rate pictures by second rate artists and second rate pictures by first rate artists. That is a bit unfair but it’s not totally unfair. Often the better works, in my view are works by local artists you’ve never heard of rather than works by better known artists. Here are some things I enjoyed.

I like to change my whatsapp icon – drives the children crazy – and I found a picture which I regard as my best find to date for this purpose. Some sub-David artist (Pierre-Narcisse Guérin) who was previously unknown to me and, I’m going to call it, probably to lots of people but good fun all the same.

Honestly, it was an extremely successful day. Saintly Mr Waffle drove us home again and, after some difficulty, I picked up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. I left the others in the car and ran in, the man stacking shelves said, “Madame, I have no idea what you want.” This is trying when you quite fancy your abilities in French. The charcuterie guy was got out from the back and eventually produced a roast chicken already divided up – beggars can’t be choosers.

Tuesday September 2, 2025

Mr. Waffle went to charge the car. He’d downloaded a new app and was full of hope; there were electric charging stations in the campsite only a short walk from our house. The campsite, alas, were firm, charging was only open to campsite residents.

Mr. Waffle rang some app to see whether their car charging networks were operational in Arcachon. They were but the mobile app was only downloadable by residents of 6 countries (including New Zealand) but not, sadly, Ireland.

We took ourselves to the pool out front and spent a happy afternoon playing a game called Marco Polo which herself had introduced to us. This is the kind of cultural product from abroad that we need.

The house was in a pine forest. Most of Arcachon is in a pine forest planted in steep sand dunes. This was why they made a ski slope from pine needles near our house. Sadly, it closed in the 1970s but you have to admire human inventiveness. Can’t imagine it would have been very good for your skis.

A friend of Mr. Waffle’s sister in London is actually from Arcachon and also Scotland and she gave us a number of excellent recommendations. I enjoyed the pleasing phrasing of her messages. Would we be travelling to the “wee towns” around Arcachon? Anyway we took ourselves to one of her recommended restaurants and – get this – we had a great result for car charging. We found a parking place right by the restaurant, the app worked, the car charged and went from 54 to 86 % over dinner. Living the electric dream. Dinner was fine too, not that anyone really cared when we had successfully charged the car.

The faces of people who have triumphed in the car charging lottery.

Wednesday September 3, 2025

After our success on bikes in Île de Ré, I was desperate to get bikes again in Arcachon. This was unsuccessful despite reasonable cycle lanes. Firstly we rented bikes from the campsite up the road and unlike the bikes in Île de Ré, these were just absolutely terrible bikes poorly maintained and not great to start with; secondly, and perhaps more significantly, Arcachon is built on sand dunes and everywhere you went it was steeply uphill and steeply down. I honestly didn’t think you could build on sand (biblical sources indicate that it is problematic, you will recall), but you really can.

The whole town was built in the 19th century and the architecture is pretty consistent. It reminds me of a lot of other places with significant art nouveau housing stock like Brussels (Mr. Waffle observed that in the rain it was a bit like holidaying in Tervuren, a middle class suburb of Brussels) or Riga or the Grunewald in Berlin, the difference being that this was a whole town rather than parts of a larger city.

Anyhow, moving on from architecture, myself and two of the children had a very successful beach trip. Everyone was a bit grumpy on the 15 minute cycle there but when we got there, the Plage Pereire did not disappoint.

We had a lovely swim and we bonded over seeing a French man run along the (happily emptyish) beach at extraordinarily impressive speeds. He went from a standing start and managed to secure his escaping beach umbrella before it took anyone out.

We had lunch at a bar on the beach recommended by our Franco-Scot looking across the bay to Cap Ferrat. Was I winning at life? Oh yes I was.

We joined the other pair in town and, after a restorative drink and some shopping, went home.

I had a swim in the early evening and a mosquito bit me between the eyes. It gave a kind of weirdly Botox wrinkle removing effect but, on balance, I was against. Of course no one gets mosquito bites like herself and she spent the week swelling up like a balloon despite all modern medicine could do to help her.

After dinner we watched “Persuasion” with Dakota Johnson on Netflix. It’s the weirdest rendition I have ever seen but “Persuasion” is my least favourite Jane Austen novel so, whatever as they say, but worth watching for the sheer oddness of the experience. Not everyone is convinced.

Spending time with my children gave me a chance to try to find out about popular memes and what the young people are saying. Are you familiar with “No cap”? Apparently it means “really, no really, it’s true”. Various memes were explained to me – micro trend final boss anyone? My absolute favourite is “They don’t know I’m…” Basically it’s where someone is apart from the group and looking down on them – “There they all are chatting away but they don’t know I am [an expert in middle English/Superman/whatever you’re having yourself].” I see a lot of this in the wild. The children say I have not understood this properly so do not take me as your guide.

Thursday September 4, 2025

I took herself for breakfast in town and we found a man to fix her phone which had been presumed dead after a lengthy dip the previous day. We rejoiced. We went to the charcuterie in the market and bought a whole lasagna. A large very nice lasagna carefully wrapped and presented. It cost €72. I nearly died but was too embarrassed not to pay. It was nice and all but what? [I bought a rug recently – a terrible mistake, more anon possibly – it wasn’t super dear for a rug but it was €300 down the drain – “Only 4 and a bit lasagnas,” said middle child cheerfully.]

The biggest attraction locally is a big sand dune known as the Dune du Pilat. Don’t laugh, I have the fridge magnet to prove it. It was actually surprisingly impressive and, happily, not very hard to climb. Herself stayed at home but the others came and amused themselves by running up and down to the top while Mr. Waffle and I traipsed up the steps.

Despite the impression the artfully taken snaps above may give, the place was full of tourists. I am lost in awe for the marketing that made us all come out and look at a sand dune. A high sand dune but you know, a sand dune.

But on the plus side there was somewhere to get a cup of tea at the bottom which is definitely not a feature of every sand dune.

On the way home we tried to go for a swim but tensions were a bit high so we all just went home. Then myself and beach enthusiast middle child went to the beach for a swim. I regret to say that we took the car even though the bikes were right there and it was not far. There was something about those hills that was just quite off putting. Herself observed at one point as I was plugging the bikes “They’re like mechanical dogs that you have to take for a walk.” There was a lot of walking because those hills were steep. The local authorities seemed to be slightly anti-bike but the hills were honestly doing a lot of that work for them.

That evening we watched “Everything Everywhere All at Once” which is a confusing film. About half way through I got a call from my cousin that my aunt had died. She was in her 90s and had been in a nursing home for a number of years so it wasn’t exactly unexpected but I felt very sorry for my cousin who is one of the kindest, gentlest people I know. He’s a quintessential bachelor farmer and himself and his mother lived together almost all of his life. I went back to the film but it’s really not one to watch with something else on your mind.

I was on tenterhooks about the funeral arrangements. Surely it would be Monday (crucially the day after we returned from holidays). Saturday was too soon and they never hold funerals on a Sunday. I consulted with my sister who was in Munich for the weekend and she agreed they would never have it on the Sunday. They don’t do funerals on a Sunday.

Friday September 5, 2025

Mr. Waffle, herself and I went on a walking tour of Arcachon. The town was founded as a resort in the 19th century for people with various maladies (including TB) to convalesce. There are a lot of big grand houses in the Ville d’Hiver.

My idea was that our tour would take us around the houses and tell us about them. This was not the guide’s idea. We spent a long time in one place hearing a lot of local history and only saw three houses. The guide who was undoubtedly very expert was a bit of a comedian. It was tiresome and, overall, not a success.

The face of someone who has enjoyed three hours of our local guide.

We went into town for a late and grumpy lunch. The death notice for my aunt went up on RIP.ie (that invaluable social resource) and I discovered that my aunt’s funeral was on the Sunday. Whoever heard of a funeral on a Sunday? Much logistical discussion followed. I finally booked myself on to a flight from Bordeaux to Cork for the following day. My sister was arranging her flight home from Munich at the same time as I was organising mine home from Bordeaux. She was flying into Dublin and we agreed that I would drive her car from Cork to the funeral in Limerick. She then would hire a car from Dublin, drive down with my brother who was staying in my house in Dublin and then she and my brother between them would drive her car and the hire car to Cork, dropping me off on the train to Dublin on the way (Luas to Sandyford anyone?). My poor family would be left behind and make their way back to La Rochelle for their own flight on Sunday. My mood was not improved by my brother telling me that I was crazy to come. I still feel guilty for missing my uncle’s funeral in 2008 so probably best to make the effort, I feel.

I was pretty mournful about bailing on my holiday a day early (unworthy, but there it is). I took myself home for a last swim in the lovely pool. As I was floating looking up at the pines and the blue sky, I heard Mr. Waffle whistling from across the road. I hauled myself out of the pool and there he was waiting cheerfully at the bus stop across the road to get the bus to collect the electric car. The bus to the car was such an integral part of our lives at this point that we had really stopped noticing how unsatisfactory that arrangement was but I did feel very grateful as I hopped back into the pool.

We went for a last lovely dinner by the seafront. It was lovely even though I insisted on eating outside and we were almost kippered by French cigarette smoke.

Saturday September 6, 2025

Middle child and I went out for a long deferred breakfast together. Michael – at my request – had prepared a tour of Arcachon which was, and I cannot stress this enough, far, far better than the official tour.

It did finish in the same place though.

Afterwards Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk around the local cemetery because that’s what I enjoy. And then back to the house for a last chat.

How would they manage without me on the drive back to La Rochelle and the flight back to Dublin? Spoiler alert: reader, they were absolutely fine despite another electric motor collapse which we finally managed to get on camera.

Mr. Waffle gave me a lift to the station and from the moment of my getting on the train to getting to the airport, literally nothing went wrong (the train had announcements in French, English and Spanish which I found a bit peculiar but why not?). Every connection was seamless and I got the earlier bus to the airport with no difficulty.

The trouble with building in lots of margin – I blame my father who was a big fan of this approach – is that you are very early, if nothing goes wrong. I arrived at Bordeaux airport with three hours to spare which, even by my standards, is a bit early. When bag drop finally opened I was behind a Cork couple who had inadvertently gone through security with their luggage, got to the gate, realised their mistake and had to come back out again; a challenging process I gathered from their bitter argument.

I don’t know when I last flew into the airport in Cork. It was appropriately rainy but it’s a small airport near the city and I actually arrived at my brother’s place, where I was staying overnight, before the plane was due to land which must be some kind of record.

Sunday September 7, 2025 – Definitely not Arcachon

I drove my sister’s partner (who alas does not drive) to the funeral in Limerick in my sister’s car. There were some mild stresses on the way including a road closure which google maps had no knowledge of and where we were thrown back on our own resources for directions (hopping out of the car at a junction and asking the driver behind) but we got there. Given that I had come from France, I had hoped to be on time for the funeral mass but it was not to be. I also had to make do with the wardrobe I had so I wore converse runners to the funeral; not a choice I would normally have made.

My cousin – the lovely bachelor farmer who lived with his mother – came up to the altar for the eulogy. He’s so shy and gentle, I felt this would be the worst thing in the world for him, wasn’t it bad enough that he had to bury his mother? But he was absolutely amazing: funny and poignant by turns as they say and really confident and engaging. And I learnt a lot about my aunt that I had never known before; her father had been injured in the first world war and her mother was ill and from her early teens she was a carer for both parents and her brothers and sisters. People didn’t really talk about first world war veterans in Ireland until pretty recently; it was in opposition to the narrative about the War of Independence and these poor men almost had to hide that they had fought in the army so in a way I am not surprised I had never hear this before.

I was talking to one of my other cousins after the mass and said I was surprised that the family had decided that this particular cousin would do the eulogy and then I was surprised by what a superb job he had done. His brother said, “No surprise there, he was a star of the debating team in school.” Who knew? Though it did explain why he began his eulogy with the words “Reverend father, ladies and gentlemen…” which I thought was a bit unusual.

My brother and sister didn’t make the mass but they made it to the graveyard where my aunt was being interred in the family plot. In something I had never seen before (although my cousins assured me that I had and in this very graveyard), the family filled in the grave with all of the children and grandchildren working away. I had a chance to chat with my cousins’ children and was slightly surprised to hear that the theoretical physicist’s middle child has gone off to be an apprentice electrician and is having the time of his life. Different branches of the same tree, I guess. I was quite charmed by his youngest child who is delightful. Her older sister is a very successful sportswoman and she was very droll and self-deprecating about trailing in her sister’s wake.

It was strange to see my male cousins suddenly as grizzled old men with grey hair (somehow the women seem to have aged differently?). But then we would start talking and they would just be themselves again. Another batch of cousins had come home from holidays in Albania for the funeral (loving Albania, thanks for asking, they went back the following Tuesday).

As always when I go to a funeral after considerable effort, I am horrified at the prospect in advance but really pleased I went afterwards. I think my cousins were glad to see me and now funerals are the main events at which I see extended family. I did enjoy seeing my relatives and catching up at the lunch after the funeral. I dutifully replied to everyone’s favourite question for me “Are you still above in Dublin?” “Yes, yes, I am.” But I enjoy the way the question holds out hope that I might one day escape.

My cousin’s farm is very close to where the Ryder Cup is being held and, it turns out, he is sitting on a goldmine. Another cousin pointed out that someone (whom he knew, how could one bear the shame?) was offering his house for €40,000 – yes, you read that correctly, feast your eyes on these outrageous rates – for the week and it is much further from the action than my cousin’s place. I still don’t think he’ll be putting it up for rent even though I think he might be so close he’s within some kind of security radius. His cattle need him.

Another cousin has a summer house on an island in West Cork and I was surprised to learn that she drives there regularly in her electric car. How can this work? “Is it range anxiety you had?” she asked me sympathetically when I said that I would never hire an electric car again. Where to begin?

My brother dropped me to the train station in Charleville after the lunch (about 7 in the evening, long lunch). I would have to say that the station ambience compared unfavourably to Arcachon where I had been, incredibly, only the previous day. Perhaps, it was down to the weather.

I was glad to get home that evening notwithstanding the ongoing painter chaos. My brother had already given me the deeply unwelcome news that the painter still working away in our house in Dublin so it wasn’t exactly a surprise but it was nonetheless unwelcome.

The painter, a taciturn man by nature, said to me at one point, “I think your cat hates me.” I think that is probably true. But honestly, we were all glad when he eventually finished.

When I was reunited with my loving family, I asked them about their journey. “Was it tense?” “No”. “Was Daddy cross?” “No”. My middle child offered the insight that Mr. Waffle and I were only stressed when travelling together and that each of us was calm when travelling alone with the children or as it was it more succinctly put “You guys are like bleach and ammonia; together you make mustard gas.” I see.

Oh, and our electric car charging card from the French was sitting on the hall table among the other exciting letters which had arrived in our absence.

France II – Île de Ré to Arcachon

29 September, 2025
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Thursday August 28, 2025

My late mother-in-law, of whom I was very fond, was very excited when the new Luas (tram service) arrived in Dublin. Despite having a commuter rail service which went to her house, she would often try to develop plans which involved getting the Luas to Sandyford which was the nearest point to her house to which the Luas went but, you know, not very near and not at all as convenient as the existing rail service. Whenever an arrangement is overly complex we describe it as being like the Luas to Sandyford. In a Luas to Sandyford type arrangement we decided that we would charge the car at the Lidl outside St Martin de Ré. Mr. Waffle brought the car to the Lidl and made his own way home; then he and I both cycled to St Martin and had breakfast; then I cycled home while Mr. Waffle drove home (I get home first proving, yet again, the superiority of the bicycle); then we both drove back to Lidl; then Mr. Waffle cycled home and I drove home. Are you with me? On the way home google maps indicated to me that it would be 2 minutes faster to cut off the main road. I did. Google maps is not really set up for European arrangements, I think. It sent me along an unpaved dirt road along the side of a field and then up a sandy trail near the house where I thought I would get stuck. Google maps loves that sandy wooded incline as it had sent us there by bike earlier in the week. It is not suitable for bikes or cars and happily I did not get stuck but, seriously, look at this picture from inside the car.

Compare this to the comfort of travel by bike on the island. The house even came with bespoke bike parking inside the front door which compared well with the car parking around the corner.

In the afternoon, herself arrived! The island is really near the airport so we had her picked up and whisked to the house in no time. We went for dinner out to celebrate. Hurrah.

Friday August 29, 2025

I went out with herself in the morning for a bit of an adventure and to show her the island. We did some mild shopping. Such was the excellence of the whole bike riding situation on the island that even herself who is not normally a bike fan (possibly in part due to my slightly rabid advocacy) said that she enjoyed cycling.

In the afternoon my beloved middle child arrived having survived exam season, an uncle in residence and the painter. I have to say it was very nice to have all my chickadees together.

Poor Mr. Waffle was a bit under the weather but still took a bus to the Lidl car park (“this is where I live now, apparently”) to pick up the car which he was charging in anticipation of our drive south the following day.

Saturday August 30, 2025

We were up with the lark. “To improve their service” to me, our Airbnb hosts had given us the opportunity to hire our sheets and bedlinen. I was not delighted and honestly think that bedlinen could have been included in the cost, I would gladly have paid a bit extra to have the beds made and not to have created a loclinge account. I had to predict the two hour window when laundry should be collected. Check out from the house was at 10 so I felt laundry should be collected before we left. So I selected the 8-10 window. This meant we had to be up and showered by 8. Were people enthusiastic? They were not. Did loclinge even turn up before we checked out? Non.

We dropped herself to the station to get the train down to Arcachon as the car was a bit small and we felt it would not be conducive to good relations to put all the children in the back. The roads were quite busy on the way down but we stopped for a long lunch in a service station (as glamorous as you might imagine) to – you guessed it – charge the wretched car. Mr. Waffle was thrilled by the fast charger and he said gleefully (after an initial disappointment when all the charging stations were full, but mercifully someone left) “It’s like the early days of motoring.” Honestly, could do without it.

Herself arrived in Arcachon first and after some tension over which I will draw a veil, we managed to find the station, collect her and drive to the house. I really liked the house. The living quarters were upstairs and it felt like living in a tree house.

There was a nice heated pool out the front and I took myself for a swim while Mr. Waffle and herself went to the supermarket to lay in supplies. One of the features of the car was that it sometimes didn’t start for us; to be fair, I think this is a feature of automatic cars more generally that they won’t start if you don’t have your foot on the brake when you turn on the engine? Anyhow, Mr. Waffle and herself were stopped at the exit from the car park and, of course, couldn’t start the car engine. Almost immediately the woman from behind beeped them. When there was no progress she hopped out of her car and shouted at them “Il faut avancer!”. While they knew that they had to advance, they couldn’t seem to persuade the car to do so. “How long will this take?” huffed the irate French woman. “About 3 minutes,” said herself with a confidence born of nothing. Their progress was possibly further impeded by both of them becoming mildly hysterical with laughter something which I suspect did nothing to calm down Madame. Anyhow, they made it home safely.

We had take away pizza for dinner and recovered from our day of excitement.

Sunday August 31, 2025

Arcachon is a small place but we were a bit of a step from the centre in quite a suburban area. We walked to what we thought was a cafe but it turned out to just be a boulangerie and, I regret to say, not a very good one at that.

We continued on to 11.30 mass. We were quite early so made meandering progress stopping at a corner shop and a newsagent and dutifully admiring the local architecture (much more of which anon). Still, despite our efforts, at 11.20 we ended up sitting on a bench across the road from the v ugly church considering our entertainment options for the next 10 minutes. I double checked my phone and realised that mass was at 11. We galloped across the road. There was no mass. On the back of an envelope pinned to the church door there was a notice saying “No mass at 11; mass at 7 this evening instead”. Not a great system if you ask me. Michael, who had stayed in bed for the whole adventure was amused but the rest of us were less than entirely delighted.

Mr. Waffle and I drove to the centre of Arcachon and did some mild supermarket shopping; it was hard to find an open supermarket and while I really welcome this at a theoretical level, on a practical level, it has some drawbacks. It was absolutely lashing rain but I said that since we were in town we should have a poke around. Rain soaked; a real end of season feeling.

But there were signs that the weather may have been nicer in the past and that the people of Arcachon would prefer if you didn’t parade around the town in your swimsuit. It seemed a very improbable concern on that particular day.

Michael resolutely refused to go out in the driving rain but the other two were curious and we went into town for a look around.

Mr. Waffle didn’t come “I’m going to the Lidl car park – my new home in France,” said he. He managed to leave the car charging in Aldi overnight and got the bus back to the house. I’m not sure that we were experiencing all of the advantages of having a hired car. Herself observed that the electric car was like the B plot to the holiday.

Since the weather for the next day was scheduled to be dreadful again, we decided that we would drive into Bordeaux. We spent the evening hunting online for a car park in Bordeaux with a compatible charging station for our car. Fun times.

More excitement to follow. Stay tuned.