Our three apple trees have had a productive year. Again. I am exhausted from my jelly making efforts and out of jars but still the apples come.
Apple Jelly
The Hedge Hating Peasantry
We had two men cutting back in our garden all day yesterday. They did a bit of a radical job but it can grow back over the next 12 months. I regret my lilac which they cut within an inch of its life last year. It grew back but, understandably, didn’t produce any flowers. “Next year,” thought I to myself. Alas, I didn’t single it out for protection and it has, yet again, been scalped.
Youngest child, who daily grows more like my father (who gave us the title of this post – it was what he always said gloomily when hedge clipping was imminent), says that it is awful when the garden is shorn but without the intervention of these men, I honestly think we might be fully overwhelmed.
Here’s the before.
And here’s the after. It actually doesn’t look that different in the photo but you will have to take my word for it that this is a radical change.
Under Egged
I went out for lunch during the week to a trendy cafe. I was alone – just me and the previous day’s paper. I ordered the Turkish eggs with curried cauliflower (see, trendy). It came and I started eating while reading the paper. There seemed to be a lot of cauliflower. I summoned the waiter. “Um, my Turkish eggs have no eggs.” “REALLY?” he yelped. He inspected. They have a new chef apparently. That is all.
London
Friday 29 May 2026
We went to London for the June bank holiday to visit herself. Want to hear all about it? Possibly not but here it is, dragged out of the archive. Herself was leaving London and it seemed like a good idea to visit before she left.
We stayed in happening Spitalfields in a hotel that is part of a nice chain. We’d stayed in the sister establishment in Soho in the past and we needed somewhere a bit nearer to glamourous (ahem) Dalston where our firstborn was residing. She said, “It’s not close at all.” But it’s closer than Soho, is all I can say.
The hotel was lovely but like it’s sister establishment, not exactly dog-cheap. I went for a nap after arriving as I had a slight headache and was not delighted to see workmen on the scaffolding outside my window. I was even less delighted by the vigorous drilling right beside my head which made sleep elusive.
Once somewhat restored, we went out to dinner in a trendy London eatery with our firstborn. It was Japanese-Italian fusion and herself was keen to try it out. I think once we were finished dinner we all agreed that it was not a fusion that was wholly successful.
We went back to her house share after dinner. It was lovely to see her somewhere she was so happy. I was slightly depressed to note how much better value renting in London seems to be than renting in Dublin.
Unrelated: we saw this advertisement on the way back to the hotel. What?
Saturday 30 May 2026
Mr. Waffle and I went for breakfast on trendy Redchurch street as recommended by herself. I liked it. Then we went to Denis Sever’s house which was on the same street as our hotel. As you know, I like nothing better than a house which recreates little vignettes from another era (folk park anyone?) but for reasons I can’t explain this place didn’t do it for me. But grand, I suppose.
We met herself in Marylebone where we had a very nice lunch and then went to the Wallace collection for a wander around. It famously has Fragonard’s “The Swing” but I was surprised and rather pleased to see an old favourite – The Laughing Cavalier – which I didn’t even know was there.
You can also see Mazarin’s cutlery in the collection. I mean, why not?
By far my favourite picture though was this one of Napoleon’s tomb by Vernet. Come on, it has everything.
After our brush with the arts we went to a chemist herself is fond of – wouldn’t be my idea of thrill but each to their own.
Then we went for pizza in Islington which would have been grand except there was some Arsenal related excitement and everything was heaving with Arsenal fans. In fairness, good natured enough but loud and drunk and many.
Sunday 31 May, 2026
The room in our hotel were named after historical figures (we were in Daniel Mendoza, in case you are curious). When I went down for breakfast the next morning, the young waitress asked me, “Are you Mary Wollstonecraft?” and I must say, I rather enjoyed that.
Herself took us to the Towpath cafe for breakfast. We walked around Dalston which, away from the main street, is really pleasant and has excellent cycling infrastructure. I was pretty impressed by cycling provision all round in London. Surely, if they can do it in London, we can do it here.
We went to the Borough Market and Hackney Depot to a flea market. I felt about 102 and extremely untrendy. We bought her 1950s sandals (for a ball, she is still Oxford balling, they seem to go on forever) in the flea market and the owner of the stand ran after us with a matching bag which she pressed upon us. This was very kind of her and heartwarming. She gave the Princess a big hug. When did the English become a nation of huggers? Is it Princess Diana? I can’t see it happening here.
Mr. Waffle made it his business to buy her a lock for her bin which kept disappearing from her front garden. Someone had entered the garden and set some clothes on fire the previous night so I would have to say that the Dalston experience is an exciting urban one and it’s no surprise that jovial souls spirit bins away from front gardens. We picked up a big rock from a local strip of waste ground for her to put behind the gate to discourage further visitors. What a time to be alive.
And then it was time for us to go to the airport. The bus was pretty much stopped by a million Arsenal fans. Arsenal fans stopped the Windrush line by being on the line. I began to not love Arsenal fans, I will tell you that.
However, eventually we got on the lovely Elizabeth line and safely to the airport (full of Arsenal fans) and on to the plane home (also full of Arsenal fans).
Stay with me. Nordic charms to come. Bated breath etc. on your side, I am sure.
Northern Adventure
You’re doubtless on the edge of your seat waiting to hear about our Nordic odyssey but first let me tell you about our Northern Ireland trip in May. “Exciting!” you shout.
Friday, May 1
You may recall that some time ago we tried to climb in the Mournes but were defeated due to problems with Mr. Waffle’s coat. A difficult time. We vowed to return and this time we stayed the night before in Carlingford which is nearby and would allow for an early start on Saturday.
We stayed in Ghan house in Carlingford which is lovely but the last time we stayed there was during the pandemic (also lovely then) and we were assigned the same room so it reminded us a bit of that difficult time. But we had a nice lunch, a nice walk and a nice dinner, so what’s not to like?
Saturday, May 2
We spent hours going up Slieve Binnian. It was very foggy as we panted up and as we passed fitter walkers coming down they said gloomily that the normally excellent view from the top was invisible. Was I downhearted? Honestly, a bit. However, we felt our way to the Mourne wall – a key landmark – here it is looking foggy and, well, wallish.
Despite some incentive to turn back we followed the directions and instructions and clambered to the top where we were met with a less than stellar view.
However, as we sat there recovering from our exertions, the clouds miraculously cleared.
And it was, honestly, totally worth the effort; really recommended.
We came back by a different route as I always enjoy a loop but it was a bit dull and quite long so if I were doing it again, I’d probably come back down the way I went up. Although the return did have its own quiet charms.
By the time we got back to the car, we were keen for a restorative cup of tea and a snack so we went to the Percy French restaurant which is at the entrance to the luxury Slieve Donard hotel and, I can only hope, unrelated to it. It was quite vile and an insult to poor old Percy who gave us the song “The Mountains of Mourne“. However, it met our needs, in a very basic and uninspiring way and gave us the strength to push on to lovely Newforge House in Moira where we were booked in for the night.
At drinks before dinner we met the other guests. There was a Cork woman who had married a local who assured me she could drive from there to her mother’s house in Cork in 3 and a half hours (highly dangerous, I would have thought) and two newly engaged (to each other not in employment) doctors who had been to college in Cork. They told us all about their time working in Australia and their return to Dublin. Overall more Cork content than you usually get in Armagh. We got our room upgraded and we got an amazing dinner. Delight all round and the memories of the Percy French restaurant in Newcastle faded.
Sunday, May 3
After a superb breakfast, we went to mass locally. On that day there was an Ulster senior football match. Armagh were playing Down (supporters’ cry which never fails to amuse “Up Down!”) in Clones (Co. Mongahan, a neutral venue, I guess). It had been referred to at dinner the night before and I wasn’t sure that the Polish priest was going to be weighing in at mass but that’s where I was wrong. “I’m not going to pray for Co. Down today,” he said to his Co. Armagh audience, “because they don’t need it.” Daring. He was wrong too, they did need it. Armagh won by miles. Despite being visitors, Mr. Waffle and I were nabbed to bring up the gifts; I was very tense as I can never remember when anything happens in the service and I’m always afraid I’ll miss my cue. Mr. Waffle was on top of it, however, and all went off peacefully. Mass went on forever though.
The youngest child was still in Liège at that stage. He had been in Dublin for the week and had to get himself to the airport without parents to drop him off. We offered to pay for a taxi but he is very frugal and insisted on getting the bus. Everything went wrong: the bus stop moved; the bus didn’t come; there was a delay on the road. But look, even though he had to sprint, he got there in the end. I felt a bit bad but he survived and it doubtless made him stronger.
We took in Hillsborough Castle on the way home. It’s an odd spot. It’s run by the historic royal palaces organisation and they haven’t at all, even slightly, adapted for local mores. I found the tat in the shop (and I love an upmarket souvenir shop) very divorced from the context in which it sat. But it is an interesting building with lovely grounds so overall I would recommend but I would say, in all the years I have been visiting Northern Ireland, I have never been in a more British spot (and I have mostly been on the Antrim coast).
Then it was back to Dublin. Stay tuned for further adventures.
More Power to her Elbow
I wouldn’t be a big fan of boxing as a sport but even I was aware that Katie Taylor, Irish boxing champion was having her final bout in Croke Park last night. The papers were full of it. By all accounts, as well as being a great boxer she is a very inspiring and worthy person. She did some kind of warm up session in Dublin City University (extensively covered) and did her weigh in in Trinity College (ditto). The French embassy cultural newsletter to which I am a subscriber told me about her French opponent. The neighbourhood whatsapp group gave a blow by blow account of her prowess last night (she won). The fight was on in every pub in the city. But I have to say, most surprising of all was mass this morning where we prayed for her to have a good retirement during the prayers of the faithful. Everyone’s jumping on her bandwagon.