Last Friday morning, we all went off to vote in the referendum. Actually two referenda. It was the boys’ first time voting and Michael was interviewed for an exit poll. No greater happiness. The people of Ireland voted a very resounding “No” to both propositions put before them so that was that.
Mr. Waffle and I drove north afterwards to the beginning of a long weekend of excitement. We drove first to the Mourne mountains. The plan was to do the Slieve Binnian loop. A beautiful circular walk in the high Mournes. I was charmed by the scenery and very excited to see the views from the top.
Mr. Waffle was complaining a bit about the cold but I was full of enthusiasm. I thought he would be better after lunch so we stopped at what, I would have to concede, was a bit of a drafty hollow beside the Mourne wall.
I hopped up after our sandwich and began climbing again, Mr. Waffle called after me feebly. The zip on his coat had broken. God, I was filled with rage. We had to go back and we didn’t even get to the top of Slieve Binnion, let alone finish our loop. Mr. Waffle tried to placate me but my mood was not helped by the fact that he was clearly delighted to get down from the freezing, inhospitable terrain. Furthest point of the expeditionary force marked below.
Mr. Waffle began making conciliatory noises about going for another walk but I was in no mood for a walk in the woods as I told him bitterly. We drove into Newcastle and bought Mr. Waffle a new coat (last of the big spenders) and agreed a plan to walk the Antrim coast the next day.
I began to feel more cheerful and when we were upgraded in our accommodation, the reliably lovely Newforge House, I felt the tide had definitely turned. We had a delicious dinner and a fantastic breakfast.
It’s a 90 minute drive up to Antrim from Moira where our guest house was but I was sustained by the prospect of my lovely walk. We arrived and were charged a positively rapacious £10 to park at the Giant’s Causeway. We then planned to get the wee (everything in Antrim is wee) bus to Dunseverick and walk back to the Giant’s causeway. Smarter tourists would have parked in Dunseverick for free and done the walk the other way round but we will draw a veil. Having forked out our £10 we got out of the car and discovered that my husband, the genius, a man who clearly does not value his marriage, had forgotten his new coat that he had bought the previous day for the very purpose of going on this walk. I have no words. However, I managed with the greatest difficulty, to pull up his zip because I am a genius.
We hopped on the bus (great service, we had it to ourselves) and the bus driver advised getting off at the stop after Dunseverick as it was only half a mile further and a lovely walk. It was a lovely walk but here is what is important: it’s half a mile further on the straight road the bus travels, it’s a lot further along the coast road.
The views were lovely.
It took us about two hours to get to where we had originally planned to start our walk (Dunseverick) which was a further two hours to the Giant’s Causeway where our car was, very expensively, parked. It was about 1.30 at this stage and had we packed sandwiches? Gentle reader, we had not. Mr. Waffle had forgotten his hat and gloves and was, Napoleon like, clutching his zip which was beginning to come apart. Conditions were not exactly optimal. We pressed on for a little while but then wiser counsels prevailed and we traipsed back to Dunseverick where we ignominiously got the bus back to the Giant’s Causeway.
I was keen to go to the Bothy for our lunch, a spot where we had been the first summer of Covid when we stayed in Antrim. We drove there from the Giant’s Causeway and discovered it had been literally behind us when we were dropped off by the bus but we hadn’t turned around at all. I feel had we known we might have pursued other options but water under the bridge. Very disappointingly , the food at the Bothy was not what it was in summer 2020. Alas. Although the waitress did say to me, “Is the wee Earl Grey for yourself?” which I enjoyed.
Then we headed back to Moira where I dropped off Mr. Waffle to watch a rugby match and returned to luxuriate in the hotel. We lost the match in the worst way possible, I understand, but Mr. Waffle took it on the chin.
After dinner that evening in the drawing room we talked to the other guests and, as was almost inevitable, found we lived very close to one couple and, in fact, my friend’s 18 year old daughter does an occasional turn as a babysitter for them.
On Sunday, it was my birthday. 55! Shock, awe, surprise etc. It was also Mother’s Day. I was inclined to be unhappy about this confluence of events. When we went to mass, it turned out that it was also Laetare Sunday. In my view, these should be three separate events each of which allows me to break my Lenten fast. Herself says that Mother’s Day is always Laetare Sunday – shocking, if true. Mass in Moira was less well attended than I remember it being last time I was there. There was the confusion I am familiar with from our own church in Dublin when the scheduled reader isn’t there and the priest casts an anxious eye over the congregation. A man came to his rescue. Initially I thought that the reader was local but as he proceeded, I began to notice a bit of Poland peeping through the Northern Ireland overlay. Which was just as well as he mangled a number of words which I would have expected an Irish adult to be able to manage. One of the readings referred to Nebuchadnezzar and when the reader came to it
, he just skipped it altogether. Look, fair enough.To my chagrin, at no point did the priest wish us a happy mother’s day. Disappointing. The weather was not conducive to further outdoor adventures so we drove back to Dublin. In Dublin, there was great excitement. For me, anyhow. I got flowers.
And an elaborate afternoon tea where Daniel had made the bread and scones.
I received many presents. I spoke to herself on the phone. All in all, very satisfactory.
Though initially I was unhappy about Mother’s Day on my birthday, ultimately, it was a win. Usually by the time Mother’s Day rolls around it is a somewhat lacklustre celebration as my loving family are exhausted by the efforts for my birthday. Mr. Waffle tells me that my birthday and Mother’s Day will not coincide again until 2083, which is a shame.
I trust your own Mother’s Day was satisfactory, if you celebrate.
