belgianwaffle

Sweden

30 October, 2026 Leave a Comment
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

Did you think you weren’t getting full summer holiday details as it is nearly November? Think again.

Tuesday August 4, 2026

Herself joined us for the first leg of our trip. We flew from Dublin to Stockholm and ran like the wind for our connection to Gothenburg. We sent herself on ahead to hold the plane. It was unnecessary. When we panted up to the gate there were a lot of Swedes standing around (socially distanced unlike Irish punters who are always crushed together in a queue the second boarding is announced) and no one seemed particularly rushed. To celebrate our good fortune when we got to the airport in Gothenburg we took a taxi from airport. €73 to the city centre. We should have got the bus. We were as yet unused to Nordic prices and it stung us.

Our hotel was a delightful place called Hotel Eggers in the city centre and I loved it. It had electricity and everything.

While the hotel was very central, there were extensive works on the square outside. Mr. Waffle said that perhaps Gothenburg was like Chicago where there are two seasons: winter and construction. Herself made the very insightful comment that whenever we go somewhere the locals always say, “Welcome to our beautiful city – it is so unfortunate that you arrived for just these two weeks of works.” She never said a truer word.

We ventured out for a stroll taking in the botanical gardens (quite like our own) and a walk along the Ramblas of Gothenburg (v unlike the Ramblas). We had an unremarkable but acceptable dinner in an old fashioned restaurant (food wasn’t a total high point of this holiday). Herself tried to get a drink and they asked for ID. “It’s a €5,000 fine for us, if you’re underage” said the waiter, “And I’m not prepared to take the risk.” Salutary.

Herself had read Mary Wollstonecraft’s Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark in preparation for the trip and was able to give us a number of – perhaps not entirely current – insights. We all took against that bounder Gilbert Imlay, I can tell you. Anyhow, Mary Wollstonecraft was very down on the bad air of Gothenburg and I have to say that it was a bit close and the city had been built on a marsh (like Cork) but herself said the Georgians were obsessed with bad air and we could probably ignore it. I’m not so sure, Mary might have had something there.

Exhausted from our initial bout of touristing we went early to bed.

Wednesday August 5, 2026

We had a very nice breakfast in the hotel, if you like herring. As it happens, I am very fond of herring.

We then schlepped up to the castle mound which gave a nice view of the city but was not maybe very impressive in and of itself. Has a big crown on the top though, so there’s that.

As a treat to Mr. Waffle who is a big fan of public transport we got the tram back into town. Herself had identified a cafe called Brogyllen as a good spot for an afternoon tea. I can, unhesitatingly recommend it, if you find yourself in need of a cup of tea in Gothenburg. I had the Princess Torte and you should too. I was charmed to see the link to Princess Astrid of Belgium; who knew?

The city is full of canals and waterways, so I was unsurprised to hear that the Dutch had had a role in its development. It is also a little confusing for the tourist as you are never beside the body of water that you think you are. However, we successfully navigated our way to Magasinsgaten and environs which was full of trendy shops including – something that I think was unknown in my youth – many, many smart second hand clothes shops. This was a feature on our Nordic odyssey. You have to hand it to these guys, they are all about sustainability. Herself was thrilled. I went into a non-secondhand touristy shop and tried on a jumper which I liked but €320, am I made of money?

We went back to the hotel via a lovely food market and then collapsed after our endeavours. Still, like diligent tourists we went out again for our dinner to a Japanese spot near the harbour; grand.

Thursday August 6, 2026

Poor Mr. Waffle got news that a friend of his had died. I knew her a bit too – she was a lovely woman from the year behind me in college. It was a glum start to the day.

Things did not improve as we went on a walking tour of the city in driving rain (Mr. Waffle kindly gave me his coat as I had left mine in the hotel in the optimistic and entirely mistaken view that the rain would hold off). The walking tour was only alright really – although we did get to see a statue of the man who introduced the potato to Sweden so that was something – and when we met herself for lunch we were a bit down and bedraggled.

Things improved, however. We went to the fish market for a very nice lunch – you just have to start ignoring the prices; no good can come from changing them into euro.

In the afternoon we went to the art gallery. It was great. What an amazing collection for a small regional gallery; loads of artists, I knew. I loved it. My big discovery was Carl Larsson of whom I had never heard before but whose work I absolutely loved.

What a delight.

Somewhere in the exhibition they referred to Pomperipossa as an example of an allegory as though that was something totally obvious. There’s a lot to unpack there and if you are interested in Sweden or Astrid Lindgren, I recommend further research.

We emerged gasping for a cup of tea. We ended up in the cafe in the public library. I was thrilled by this as an idea but the execution left a little to be desired.

We got the tram back to the hotel. We were going in the direction of a place called Angered and when there was a little trouble about finding the tram stop one of the wittier members of the party commented that we were “swift to Angered”.

A friend of my sister’s who lives in Gothenburg had recommended an Iranian place for dinner which was grand but quite a schlep from town. As we went out we began to panic that the restaurant would be full; closed; or unfindable. None of these fears materialised but it was a tense time.

Friday August 7, 2026

Herself was leaving us and we wouldn’t see her again before she packed up her bags in London and emigrated to America; did I tell you, gentle readers, that she will be pursuing a PhD programme even further across the water than England? Well, she will. Her hard-hearted mother was inclined to see her off from the bus station (around the corner) but her father said we should go out to see her off from the airport so we did. It was pretty sad. Last sight of our emigrant.

She loved London so much, she was a bit ambivalent about going to America herself which made it harder (spoiler alert – she loves America and is having a brilliant time). When she went to college in England aged 18 she skipped off without a backward glance and although I was sad, the fact that she was so happy (and, I suppose also, quite near) made it much more bearable.

She met an English friend of a friend to talk about doing a PhD in America after studying in England and this guy said, “Honestly, I felt like a young boy from the Peloponnese going to Athens”. I guess America is a big player. “Still,” she said, “I’ll miss my Peloponnese salted fish.”

To recover from our gloomy early morning we went to a nice cafe for a cup of tea and a cinnamon bun. All of the cafe and hotel workers wear uniforms which is something I think we had in Ireland in the 70s but not in a long, long time. We were chatting to one of the staff and she said that Gothenburg was full of Norwegians looking for a bargain. This did not fill me with optimism re Norwegian prices as I couldn’t call Gothenburg cheap.

We went out to the archipelago in the afternoon. You can go by public transport and it is a delight. I cannot recommend it highly enough as a way to cheer up after your eldest child has emigrated to another continent. I swam.

It was very beautiful and pretty empty of tourists.

We went for lunch in a place called Knutssons where they had an extraordinarily healthy basil plant.

As well as…grapes. Surprising.

A book of Swedish sayings told us that “Sailing in on a shrimp sandwich” means everything is going well. Observe, I sail in on a shrimp sandwich.

Having got solar panels ourselves last year, I was on the look out for panels in Sweden but there were very few. It seems all their power comes from hydro-electricity. Who knew?

Stay tuned for the next installment when our intrepid adventurers will be in Norway.

Bank Holiday Weekend Round Up

26 October, 2026 4 Comments
Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins

It’s been quiet here as we hung around the house and tended to middle child. Honestly, I would not wish wisdom tooth extraction on my worst enemy. Not only are you sore and swollen but you can’t close your mouth and you can’t really eat anything but soup. The mood is poor and no wonder. I do hope the worst is nearly over.

Mr. Waffle and I left the house for a mild excursion to the Botanic gardens yesterday. They did good pumpkin work, in fairness.

In view of the improving patient, we went on a slightly longer expedition today to Carlingford, always a favourite of mine. Mr. Waffle was against as the forecast wasn’t great but I urged him to toss caution aside; a mistake I have made more than once.

As we arrived into Carlingford we could see that it was sunny across the fjord in Northern Ireland.

Not very sunny but sunnier than on the mountain we were proposing to climb.

Mr. Waffle remembered some Ulster Unionist slogan along the lines of “We will not exchange the sunny skies of Ulster for the mists and rains of the Republic.” As I said to him, it’s hard to argue with the evidence of your own eyes.

It was damp, no two ways about it but the walk was nice all the same.

We had a light picnic lunch beside some nervous sheep, saving ourselves for a more elaborate lunch in lovely Strandfield later (no website apparently, they don’t need any more custom, honestly, it’s always full).

Of course, on the way home the sun came out. It was beautifully sunny. Like it was when we were in Kilmainham a couple of weeks ago.

I mean, you could be in France.

And it was lovely when we went to Massey’s estate in the Dublin mountains.

And, my goodness, when we walked out to the Poolbeg lighthouse in late September, it was like summer.

I don’t know how it is but I always seem to catch the rain in Carlingford. This is a longstanding problem. Never mind, it’s lovely all the same.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil

23 October, 2026 2 Comments
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

Mr. Waffle had a terrible cold. Both children who are at home got nasty colds. The child in America has the flu. My sister came and stayed; she had a nasty cold. Do you know who hasn’t got a cold? That’s right, me. Even though I couldn’t get the flu jab as they are short of vaccines. Have I tempted fate? I’ll keep you posted.

In other health related news, middle child had two lower wisdom teeth extracted on Wednesday. That is quite the operation and to add insult to injury, the leaflet that got sent home described this as “minor oral surgery”. Methinks not, the child is still very sore and miserable and unable to eat anything but soup. My brother who stayed with us last night and always likes to add to the gaiety of nation took one look at the sufferer’s vastly swollen jaw and said, “You look like Buzz Lightyear”. Oh dear.

It’s Decorative Gourd Season*

18 October, 2026 5 Comments
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

I acquired my gourds and I put them outside. I stepped backwards to admire my work and fell off the step, twisted my ankle and landed on my bottom. You will be pleased to hear that there was no lasting injury other than to my dignity.

*May I yet again recommend this article?

Funereal

12 October, 2026 2 Comments
Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Siblings

I went to a friend from college’s mother’s funeral in Cork last Thursday. I was humming and hawing a bit but in the end I went. I only had internal meetings on Thursday so easier to take the day off and I benefited from the universal social assumption in Ireland that a certain amount of funeral attendance is essential. I said I was going, everyone sympathised and that was that.

I met another friend for lunch the day before and laid out my thinking for him and he said, “You spend your life agonising about whether to go to funerals.” It is, I fear, entirely true.

I headed down on Thursday morning and became filled with fear that after all that, the train might be late and I would miss the mass. No such tragedy occurred. Though there was a mild difficulty with my train ticket which appeared to indicate that I had not paid for it. I had. But while trying to resolve this difficulty the train inspector asked whether I was entitled to free travel. The earliest age at which this is available is 66. Bitter.

I arrived in – I brought my bike on the train and, of course, it was lashing in Cork (it always rains in Cork). I arrived early to the mass which was good as it gave me a chance to dry out a bit.

My friend spoke about her mother before mass began and did an amazing job; funny and moving and it gave a real sense of what her mother was like. There was a single male singer and he was very good (the deceased was 96 and a bit and so traditional numbers were largely the order of the day – “Abide with me” what’s not to like?). Funerals usually happen within 3-4 days of death so, as someone once observed to me, it’s like organising a wedding in a week. I did wonder where my friend had got the singer. At communion we had “Panis Angelicus” which is a firm favourite of a mutual friend of mine and the daughter of the deceased. In fact, he sang it at my wedding. Light began to dawn and on my way back down from communion, I spotted him in the organ loft.

After mass there was a certain amount of milling about outside. A woman I hadn’t seen since we were in college together was giving out about cycle lanes saying no one used them so I informed her tartly that I had used them to get here. The cycling activist never sleeps. Most of the people who had come down from Dublin were heading back but I was staying in Cork overnight and my singing friend was around for the afternoon. Having done our duty we decided not to go to the cemetery and the meal afterwards but to go into town for lunch ourselves.

More than 30 years ago we worked together on the South Mall in Cork – he was my boss – and, nostalgically, we went to the Quay co-op a vegetarian restaurant we had frequented in those far off days. It was 2.30 and I felt it would serve us. I was right about that. The premises are unchanged though now it has a new name.

I regret to say that the food was quite dreadful. I am not sure whether it was always dreadful and I have grown more discerning or whether it has become dreadful. It was nevertheless a nice spot to be in on a rainy Thursday and they let us stay as long as we liked which was all afternoon. We talked about our lives; how much we miss our dead mothers (it was appropriate); and his plans for an eclipse party in Spain in August next year (will I die from the heat or should I go?)

An old friend of mine says that, for her, Cork is full of ghosts. I know what she means. I haven’t lived in Cork since the early 90s and almost all of my parents’ generation are dead and gone; the buildings are changed; the world has moved on and I am somehow still part of the past. It’s always bitter-sweet to go home.

I stayed with my brother and we went out for a very nice dinner together (Orso, if you find yourself looking for somewhere) which made up for the terrible lunch. Then we called into my sister who had been unable to join us for dinner due to an, in my view, unwarranted dedication to Pilates. She made us desert and brought down the last of the family silver to divvy up. I have decided that on the divvying she should have first choice as she cleared out the parents’ house and was closely involved in caring for them when they got ill; my brother should have second choice as he also cared for my parents; and I should be last as I did least up in my fastness in Dublin. She had already picked her stuff. My brother picked out a number of things that I was happy to let him have (silver ashtray with a Waterford cut crystal inset anyone? yet another of great uncle Tommy’s golf trophies from Douglas golf club – I already somehow have two from an earlier distribution, he was clearly a demon on the fairways in the 1920s) but I was sorry to see the enormous solid silver tray which great uncle Jack got when he retired head off to my brother. On the other hand, it weighed a ton so, really, what was I going to use it for; I would have collapsed under the weight if I actually tried to put anything on it. Somewhat against my better judgement I took an Edwardian octagonal sugar caster; matching salt and pepper shakers; a mustard pot; a milk jug and sugar bowl; and a canteen of cutlery – fish knives and forks. I drew the line at two further canteens of cutlery (I already have over half a dozen which must be more than many small museums for God’s sake) as did my brother, so my sister will have to dispose of them as she thinks fit.

The next day I spent the morning disporting myself alone in Cork and I had a lovely, lovely time. I went to the Nano Nagle centre for breakfast. Great spot. I felt a distinct regret that I hadn’t taken us there for lunch the previous day but, on the other hand, they would have thrown us out at 4 whereas I think we could have stayed in the Quay Co-op all night had we so wished.

The Crawford art gallery is sadly, closed for renovations (until 2029 possibly?) so instead of art, I chose commerce and went to the shops which was satisfactory in its own way.

I went into the Market to buy dinner. It’s got much more upmarket since I used to go there with my mother in the 70s and 80s but “Superfruit” where she always got her fruit and vegetables remains determinedly downmarket and absolutely unchanged. I bought some green beans there and very nice they were too. I decided to go to Ashley O’Neill – my mother’s butcher – but his spot has been taken over by the butcher from next door. Mr. Next Door got my business and raised an eyebrow at the mention of Ashley O’Neill; clearly gone some time. My mother’s fishmonger must be gone 25 years and more but somehow when he shut down we ended up with a slab of marble from his stall; a sharp knife with M&E Sheehan written on it; and what I believe is called a receipt spike with the company name on the bottom. I ended up with the receipt spike something I have no use for. I keep it, inexplicably, on the dressing table. I guess it might be useful in the event of burglar attack? Even Mr. Sheehan’s replacement seems to be gone and his stand in the Market is empty. Sic transit.

I had loads of time to my train so I queued up for lunch in the Farmgate cafe upstairs in the Market chatting to a nice party of Americans waiting patiently for a table (five is just an awkward number). I got seated well before them and ordered at my leisure and read my book. All was right with the world.

Then, I looked at my watch and somehow it was 2.55. And my train was leaving at 3.25. I flew back to my brother’s house making a new land speed record of just over 5 minutes. I didn’t even know that was possible. I picked up my stuff which was not as packed as it might have been and flew to the train station. 15 minutes. Another record. I arrived sweating profusely and five minutes before departure. The train was full to the gills and, of course, the reservation system had broken down but what cared I, I was on. All in all, a successful trip and a triumphant bicycle ride to the finish.

Not Dead Yet

2 October, 2026 Leave a Comment
Posted in: Work

I was in the pub with my team earlier in the week to celebrate the departure of one of our younger colleagues. She’s off to Central America and she might come back but not, sadly, for ages. Sadly for us, obviously; she’s delighted. Anyway talk turned to living abroad and I was talking about my own experience and another of the younger colleagues said, “You’ve had a great life, Anne!”. Pause, “Not that it’s over yet or anything.” Indeed.

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