belgianwaffle

Travel

Cork


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Siblings, Travel

Last weekend my kind sister and parents minded the children while Mr. Waffle and I skipped off to Kinsale. As a former local, I’ve never really been a tourist in this part of the world before. It’s lovely, I can tell you.

We stayed in a place called the Glebe House [query for Protestants – what’s the difference between a Glebe, a Vicarage, a Rectory and a Manse?] and it was delightful – roaring fires; Victorian furniture; pleasant views; and a charming hostess.

On Saturday morning we took the Scilly walk out to Charles Fort.

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I had, to my intense chagrin, left my heritage card in the car but the nice woman from the OPW looked in her book and found the entry showing where my sister had bought the card [a present] and let us in free. €8 saved – hurrah [insert your own cliché about the recession here]. Charles Fort has been tarted up enormously since I last visited – probably about 20 years ago – and it looked very cared for. The OPW staff gave an interesting tour and were very knowledgeable about the site. The sun was shining; the weather was beautiful could it get any better?

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Oh yes, it could. A local collective was having a sale of crafty things; including expensive, but very delicate and beautiful batik pictures. I bought Christmas tree ornaments and soap from the lady who makes it. She was cutting her own ribbons while I was talking to her – the handmade clearly covers all angles. And then we went for late lunch in here; a restaurant I have been curious about for some time. It was nice and very, very busy – still heaving at 4 when we left but not as spectacular as local opinion had led me to believe. Then we went our separate ways for a bit. I got to go around the town which is pretty, though familiar, and particularly rich in what Mr. Waffle disparagingly calls “upmarket tourist tat”. In a sweet shop, there was a young man leaning on the counter speaking to the young woman who was serving in a strong local rural accent. “I was up fixing your father’s rooter last night,” he said. “What kind of agricultural implement is that?” I wondered to myself. Then the young man added, “He’s delighted with the new netbook, isn’t he?” Ah, that kind of router. My favourite shop is Kinsale Silver where I almost always find something but there are lots of great, small, appealing shops and, if only I were a little more organised, my Christmas shopping would now be complete.

On Sunday before being reunited with our children we went for a walk on Garretstown beach and it was so warm that we had to take off our coats. I think we must have got one of the best weekends of the year. As we hopped into the car, I called my sister to tell her that we were on our way, “Will you be glad to see us?” I asked the babysitter in chief. She considered for a moment, “I’ll be glad to see you leave,” she offered. It’s a good job that we had such a wonderful time because I can’t see our babysitter in chief being ready to take on another weekend of sunshine and laughter with small children immediately.

On a Railway Platform


Posted in: Ireland, Travel

Small girl to me: I’m Ciara.
Me to small girl: Hello Ciara, how old are you?
Her: I’m 4, except on trains and buses when I’m three.

Tales from America


Posted in: Siblings, Travel

Regular readers will recall that my brother is taunting us from his extended holiday in the US. Despite myself, I must concede he is funny. Consider this email:

Report on the trip around the S. West. I set out from San Diego in a gigantic gas guzzling SUV, got up sold in the car rental place very easily; how Mum and I are related I’ll never know. First stop was Joshua tree NP in the dessert. The ‘town’ I was staying in was Yucca Valley, like a lot of rural places in America it was basically just a strip of fast food joints, motels and stores on the highway…..no character but tell me where in Ireland could you get a Burrito at 01.30am (and 7am too probably)?

Next morning I went to the rangers station. Even with my So Cal bronzed skin I suppose it’s fair to say I don’t look like a species that’s ideally adapted to life in the dessert, however, the ranger gave me a concerned look like I was a black guy going to a Ku Klux Klan meeting. I was warned of the dangers of dehydration and hiking in a remote area. Suitably apprehensive, setting out I nearly cleared a gas station of their entire stock of bottled water. On into the park…vast haunting open spaces…it was a strange landscape. The Joshua trees were named by Mormon settlers after the biblical character, there was some reason for this I didn’t altogether understand.

It was hot but I did only short hikes. On the first hike, with the warnings ringing in my ears I loaded up on water, I was in more danger of a broken back carrying the water than I was of dehydration. The U2 album the Joshua tree was inspired by this landscape, no wonder they were obsessed by nuclear devastation. I was hoping to find the tree from the album cover, but it was take your pick from millions of them.

Next morning it was off to the Mojave desert , it made Joshua Tree look like a metropolis, there was a place with two broken down sheds that got a mention in the map (Cima check it on Google maps, seemingly the 2nd city of the Mojave). The main place in the park was Kelso, a renovated railway station, which served as a visitors centre. It was pretty cool saw a Union Pacific train passing very slowly, there must have literally been hundreds of freight containers (no passenger trains use this route any more). I enquired about hiking routes and got more concerned looks from the ranger but at this stage I was more confident of my dessert survival skills.

I was revelling in the vastness and solitude when suddenly the decision to rent the gas guzzler came back to bite me in the ass. Having passed up an option to get gas before I entered the park on the basis it was too expensive (although still half the price of Ireland) I found myself in the middle of nowhere when the display suddenly jumped from 100 miles to empty to 40 miles to empty. Night was falling (why did I ever watch that movie Deliverance) and the nearest gas station was 40 miles away. Driving style went from all action 4 wheel driving to Driving Miss Daisy. After a long and stressful hour, (no radio just in case…I didn’t want to get stranded in the desert due to listening to Country and Western music), hoping that Sat Nav was correct in its identification of a gas station, and that it would also be open, eventually just as the message on the dash came up saying ‘you’re rightly fucked now’ out of the vastness came the magnificent sight of a Neon sign with a yellow shell. Phew!!! I pulled up to the pump and fed my thirsty chariot. As soon as the relief of not dying alone in the desert had faded I was mightily miffed at the price of the gas (…5 dollars a gallon, I suppose I’m related to Mum after all) and as well in my panic I filled up much more than I actually needed to get to Las Vegas where the tour was starting from.

I proceeded from there to Vegas without further incident. No roulette table for me though, early night was needed as I was up at the crack dawn to kick off my tour……to be continued, my hopeless editing skills have meant that my email about the tour has gone over the max before I even started talking about the tour……

Take it easy,

PS Before all the pedants get back I freely admit I’m not sure if spelling of desert is correct it could either be a harsh dry landscape or something sweet to be consumed after dinner (but rarely found in the parents’ house), it should be clear from the context which is intended.

An Outing


Posted in: Family, Ireland, Travel

I am always trying to prod my little family to go on outings. Last Sunday, I made them go to Carlingford, which is supposed to be picturesque and charming.

We arrived to a light but persistent drizzle. We had to abandon the picnic but lunch in a nice pub where the staff were fantastic did much to cheer us all up. We emerged in slightly heavier rain. Undaunted, we decided to go for a nice walk at the base of the mountain. Based on the only map available, I thought it would take about 15 minutes.

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An hour later we were still tramping along the path in driving rain, peering at the only map we had (you’ve seen it, we were inspecting it on the camera screen) wondering where we had gone astray. There may have been beautiful views, in fact I am sure there were but it was hard to see through the cloud. We cut cross-country and squelched back to the village. Soaking. Oh so wet.

On the plus side, there was a sale in the village hall (dry! indoors!) and we bought lemon curd, sage jelly and jam from this woman. The sage jelly is one of the best things I’ve ever tasted and herself has already polished off half the lemon curd. But yet, the family consensus is that I am barred from taking them on any further outings.

No sooner had we left Carlingford, than the sun came out. It was quite warm for the remainder of the day. It gave us a chance to dry out the coats.

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Toujours Belle


Posted in: Family, Travel

Are you really back for week 2? I applaud your enthusiasm.

Saturday, August 13

The rain, oh lord the rain. The local summer festival was cancelled. We went into Lorient and watched Mr. Popper’s Penguins. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Jim Carrey speak French. My children exclaimed loudly at intervals throughout the film. We were surrounded by perfectly silent, perfectly behaved French children.

Sunday, August 14

We went to mass. It went on forever. The children were restive. The French children were, of course, saintly.

We went for a walk in the afternoon through the woods

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as far as the little port:
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That evening we attended the rescheduled poissonade (you will recall that it was rained off on the previous evening) where the Princess had mussels and chips and candy floss (sequentially).

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And, ultimate poor parenting accolade, the leader of the band had to interrupt his singing to say, “We’ve found a little boy here, his name is Daniel, he’s wearing glasses and a stripy jumper..” Oh dear.

That night and every night thereafter, Michael asked, “How many days, including today, until the rescue ferry comes to bring us home?”

Monday, August 15

We did some more wading in rock pools. We forked out €60 to see the most depressing circus ever which even the children found depressing. Mr. Waffle bought “Breton pour des Nuls”. He tells me that links with Irish are not very obvious.

Tuesday, August 16

Down by the rock pools, the princess sat on my lap, “Ouch, ouch, get off!” “What?” “You were sitting on a wasp, my knee, my knee, my knee, the pain.” “It could have been worse,” said she, “it could have been my bottom.” Indeed.

That night she and her father went back to the abbey to look at bats and hear a talk. They left at 7 and weren’t back until nearly midnight by which time I was sitting up in bed a nervous wreck. They liked the bats.

Wednesday, August 17

We finally got to the flying fish adventure centre.


Thursday, August 18

We went to the Manoir de Kernault in the morning which had an exhibition about a famous French radio broadcaster. Children are sub-optimal company for those actually hoping to hear any of the broadcasts.

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We also visited a Dolmen.

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My husband, at my prompting, told me that I pronounce the word “du” incorrectly. Further, I cannot pronounce the words jeu, jus and joue in a way that makes them sound at all dissimilar. I am doomed. By tacit agreement, the short lived experiment of making Mr. Waffle my French teacher was abandoned.

The Princess went horse riding again. The boys were tired of it and spent the afternoon on a merry go round instead.

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Mr. Waffle and I went for dinner to an immensely elaborate restaurant entrusting the children again to the intrepid babysitter. The restaurant was in a very industrial suburb (we were able to park in the DIY superstore across the road) and the decor reminded me vaguely of a very smart hairdresser but the food was fantastic and the service excellent [none of the chilly hauteur which we encountered in Pont Aven]. “A triumph” says the Michelin guide, oh yes indeed. If you find yourself in Lorient, do not hesitate. The memory of the crab soup will remain with me forever.

Friday, August 19

We went to the beach along the path. We made still more blackberry jam. We watched the squirrels in the garden and the hermit crabs in the rock pools.

Saturday, August 20

We gave the house back to its lovely owners. They wished us bon voyage and sped us on our way with a present of a box of Breton biscuits. We went to a hotel on the way to the ferry. It had television. The children nearly died of happiness.

Sunday, August 21

We went to Bréhat a small island about 10 minutes off the coast. It sounds delightful; there are no cars, there is a delightful micro climate and it is surrounded by a spectacular archipelago.

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All these things are true but, the, rather rich, home owners in Bréhat do not fancy people looking at their tasteful houses, so it mostly consists of lanes with high walls.

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Mr. Waffle found it strongly reminiscent of the part of suburbia where he spent his youth in Dublin. And there are millions of tourists. It is, frankly, not untamed. Alas, not a success.

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Monday, August 22

We got the rescue ferry! Michael nearly died of happiness. We met old friends on board who were moving back to Ireland after 22 years in Brussels. Ah nostalgia.

Tuesday, August 23

And we’re back. Faerie hands have painted the outside of the house while we were away – alright, Glenn the painter, then – and the sunflower had come out. Home again, home again jiggedy jig.

La Belle France


Posted in: Family, Travel

I am still alive. Did you miss me? We returned last Tuesday from our final holiday of the summer. In my role as keeper of the family archive, I have detailed all below.

Friday, August 5

We drove to the ferry, stopping for a picnic in the park beside Castlebridge House where the Guinness book of records was thought up. It’s now very sad, boarded up and dilapidated although it would seem to be of mild historic interest and has an absolutely amazing conservatory.

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Saturday, August 6

After what felt like an immensely long drive, we arrived at our holiday house in torrential rain. The lovely, slightly elderly couple who owned the house were there to meet us with cider in the fridge and a slight air of nervousness at the thought of handing over their house to these odd foreigners.

Sunday, August 7

The rain continued. We went to Lorient to look around the damp interceltic festival.

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We decided to visit the Thalassa which, the website tells me is an “espace découverte de l’Océanologie”. I would love to know what that means but I am afraid I cannot tell you for as we trudged in damply at 4.35 to do our discovering, we were told coldly that last admissions were at 4.30. “But, it’s open until 7,” I protested feebly. The woman looked at me indifferently and said that admission was by guided tour only. We trooped back out into the rain. The only thing to be said for our visit was that it allowed me to have the following conversation with my husband.

Me: Is there some phrase or something – “Thalasso, thalasso”
Him: Thalatta, thalatta. It’s the story of a bunch of mercenaries trying to fight their way back to Greece and when they see the sea, they know they’re nearly there, so it’s an exciting bit.
Me: Do you have to pronounce it as though you have a lisp?
Him: Well, yes, because it’s in Attic Greek.

Feeling in need of child friendly activities, we went to the fair which accompanied the interceltic festival, the sun came out and the children stocked up on their supply of weapons with which, somewhat rashly, they threatened the police.

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Monday, August 8

The sun came out and we walked along the coastal path at the back of the house to the beach. It was a bit like an Enid Blyton story. That path made my holiday. It was so pretty and as you walked along there was the scent of pines and the sound of crickets chirping.

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On this occasion our walk was marred by losing herself for a slightly terrifying 15 minutes – she ran ahead to the house and disappeared. Turns out she wasn’t as good at recognising it as we all thought. It made us appreciate her more.

Tuesday, August 9

We went to the market and got new raincoats for all the children. The weather was fine but we felt prudence was probably appropriate.

The local press informed us of the books which the presidential candidates are presenting to the public for the “rentrée littéraire”. Only Martine Aubrey hasn’t produced one and that’s because she’s already written 14, the last of which came out in March. Is there any other country in the world where writing a book is a pre-requisite to running for high office. Remember de Villepin?

Wednesday, August 10

The children went to a riding camp for the afternoon.

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Mr. Waffle and I hot-footed it into Quimperlé which is a lovely little place. And, even better, the children loved the riding so much they wanted to come back another day, even Michael who only speaks French under duress.

Thursday, August 11

The day started well. We went to the Abbaye de Saint Maurice which is lovely. It is also very cleverly laid out so that the children can run about while the grown-ups find out about the origins of the monastery.

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After this successful start, we drove around the French countryside trying to find an outdoor adventure park. The children were very saintly as we drove around looking for clues and finally missed last entry. Sigh. Also, we made the amateur’s mistake of trying to eat in rural France at ten to two with the result that we found ourselves driving around looking in vain for food and had to stop off at the boulangerie for a baguette to ward off starvation.

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Friday, August 12

Ouest France’s pages were more or less equally divided between the toxic green seaweed invading Brittany (36 unfortunate boars had recently died on a beach after snuffling around in it – who knew that there were so many wild boars in Brittany?) – caused, allegedly by excess nitrates created by farming methods – Le Monde had a diagram; the London riots and the collapse of the financial markets. Both Le Monde and Ouest France had interviews with the S&P staff in Paris while we were in France following the American rating downgrade. Apparently it’s all “tu” and first names in the office. I thought you’d like to know.

Then we were out to gather more blackberries for jam [we made a lot of jam].
Stage 1 – Collection
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(in all weathers)
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Stage 2 – Production
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Stage 3 – Storage
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Stage 4 – Marketing
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We also peered at the rock pools.
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They were extremely exciting and over our fortnight we spent much time looking into them spotting hermit crabs scurrying around in periwinkle shells, little fishlike yokes (marine biologist’s term of art), limpets, anenomes and this very exciting find:
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That afternoon, the children went for more riding and Mr. Waffle and I went to Pont Aven. I did not like Pont Aven. It heaved with tourists and whatever attracted Gauguin and his mates there has, in my view, long since evaporated. It was unfortunate then that we were scheduled to go there for dinner that evening. Entrusting the children to a babysitter, we ventured out. The restaurant had not been very welcoming. We had to confirm our reservation on the day as we had a foreign mobile and, clearly, were not to trusted. The food was good and we got to wear lobster bibs but our hostess was chilly and forbidding.

Tune in tomorrow night for week 2. Ah go on.