Friday, November 29
Several men came and scalped the garden front and back. Overall I am delighted as it was getting out of control, although some precious plants were lost in the take no prisoners approach adopted. This before and after picture in no way conveys the extent of the haircut. I appreciate this is technically not December but look, close enough.
Friday, December 6
Faithful old Saint Nicholas delivered chocolate to Ireland and England as part of his lifelong obligation to those born in Belgium. The now adults in question are very firm on their understanding of St. Nicholas’s obligations in this regard.
That evening Mr. Waffle and I went to Cork for the funeral of my friend’s mother (our families were friends and I have known her and her parents my whole life). Her mother had died in England (where she had lived for many years) and it took – I kid you not – nearly three weeks to get the body back to Ireland for the funeral. My friend – who is an only child- said that she was inundated with texts from people saying “I totally understand if you have chosen to celebrate her life privately in your own way” basically a “you never told me about the funeral” message because no one could believe it would take so long. I myself was on constant refresh on rip.ie. It’s not all just glamour. Regular readers will be interested to hear that rip.ie has been bought by the Irish Times and from January 1, 2025 putting a death notice up on the site will cost €100 (cost to date – zero). The nation is up in arms. Honestly though it will just turn up on the undertaker’s bill, be paid for from the estate and on the scale of things, it won’t really stand out but still and all.
Anyway, Mr. Waffle and I decided to go to Cork for the weekend. He booked the Imperial on the South Mall which was once the height of glamour (it’s where Grace Kelly stayed when she came to Cork, it’s where Michael Collins stayed the night before he was shot and it’s where my great uncle Jack and great aunt Cecilia stayed – for three months (!) in the 60s while getting work done on their house – when they retired back to Cork after years in England). I was quite excited, I can tell you. We took our bikes on the train. We actually met my brother on the train who was returning from Dublin, also with his bike in the guard’s van. When we were chatting he said that he would come to the funeral also. This was great and everything but I had specifically asked my sister to put me and Mr. Waffle on her car insurance so that we could drive down in her car. She was away but had said we could borrow her car drive to Clonakilty where the funeral was. My brother is already a named driver on her policy and was planning to drive her car down so that was €80 well spent. Sigh. As I say to my children about their Uncle’s unpredictability “He’s not a tame uncle, you know.” (Small prize if you know the literary reference I am making).
The Dublin to Cork train service is fantastic but on this occasion it was not fantastic and we arrived 55 minutes late (more than an hour they refund you half your ticket value – not bitter at all). Mr. Waffle enjoyed the hilarious series of messages on the way down including the, honestly desperate sounding one, “If there’s a train engineer on board can he or she please get out on to the platform” and the not reassuring, “there’s a problem with the engine but she’s still going and we’ll do the best we can.” Percy French eat your heart out etc.
I had booked us dinner at the last sitting of Jacob’s on the Mall and when I rang to see whether they could accommodate us later than 9.30 it was with regret but no surprise that I discovered that they could not. Our train pulled into the station at 9.35.
I mean was I delighted to hop on my bike as Storm Darragh was raging? Not really, I have to concede. My smugness did not keep me dry (don’t worry, my rain gear did). When we got to the hotel, despite Mr. Waffle having checked, they were not, in fact, set up for bikes. However, after thinking it over for a bit a nice Polish man (in Cork 20 years) decided that they could be stored in the boardroom. Mr. Waffle brought his own up the carpeted stairs but the nice Polish man took my dripping bike up at speed. They looked very comfortable there leaning nonchalantly against the book shelves but I’m not sure that you could say that it was, strictly speaking, designated bike parking.
At this stage it was nearly 10 and the hotel was not serving food. Mr. Waffle who, I sometimes think does not value his life, suggested we could go to “Fast Al’s pizza”. We went across the road to a bar/tapas place that didn’t start serving food until 10.45. Just that little bit too authentic. I asked them if they could recommend anywhere and they said that there was a new taco place at the end of the street. We splashed down the road to this establishment and it’s bright fluorescent interior. This was my dinner:
Here is what I missed:
Any port in a storm, I guess. And, in fairness the staff were very nice but it wasn’t really what I was hoping for.
We rang home to make sure that someone had fed the cat and then rang back to check that the children had eaten themselves. Yes on both counts.
Our bedroom in the hotel was fine and not very expensive but it compared unfavourably with the public spaces. The hotel is undergoing a renovation and it is probably timely.
Not my best day.
Saturday, December 7
Next morning, once Mr. Waffle had picked up a new shirt (a packing malfunction), it was up on the bikes again (rescued from their boardroom haven by our Polish friend) and out to my brother’s house in the lashing rain to drive together to Clonakilty. He had offered to pick us up at our hotel but I was so concerned that he would be late that I had insisted on going to him. His attitude is that it doesn’t matter if you are late for the mass, the important thing is that you are there to sympathise afterwards and go for lunch. I do not subscribe to this view and having gone to the trouble of coming to Cork the night before I was not going to be late for the funeral. I was totally vindicated in my approach in that my brother was still in bed when we arrived at his house. He was partially vindicated in that we arrived half an hour early for the mass which even I would concede was a bit early.
I was really pleased to be at the funeral and see my friend and I think she was glad to see us including in particular my wayward brother. There were lots of people I knew at the funeral, mutual friends and relations and, indeed, the undertaker who is now pretty familiar to me. The rain held off at the cemetery and that was something. It was a particular mercy for my friend’s English cousins who were on their first visit to Ireland and had the previous evening had their flight diverted from Cork to Dublin, driven down from Dublin to Clonakilty through the storm and arrived in the early hours of the morning. God love them, they definitely needed a break from the weather.
At lunch I was seated near a very nice priest who was a friend of the deceased. He was a fellow Corkonian and I enjoyed our conversation wherein we placed each other on the social scale (he came to rest just above me). He attended the school in Cork where traditionally all the sons of the merchant princes went; my father attended the school where the boys at the next rung of the ladder went – “two households both alike in dignity” etc. While the results achieved by the boys attending the former were generally mediocre – they had family businesses to go into – the latter school was known for its excellent academic results. I commented to my new friend that the results in the former school had improved immensely (really quite extraordinary it has some of the best results in the country). My husband who had, crucially, not been following the conversation in detail said, “Isn’t that where you say that all the rich but thick boys used to go?” My new friend took it in good part but also took the opportunity to point out to me that the former president of his past pupils’ union was sitting opposite.
He (the priest) had done his PhD in Germany under none other than Cardinal Ratzinger of whom he seemed very fond. Typical of his schooling that he would get to work with the big names, of course.
Sitting opposite me was a man from Clonakilty who was a cousin of the deceased. He was so interesting. He was, I think retired but while working had been involved with a furniture factory. This had seen him working in Northern Ireland during the troubles and in China in the 80s, I think, when it was even further away than it is now. He described how once when he was staying in Carrickfergus – a very loyalist town outside Belfast – he asked to get a taxi into St Gall’s GAA club in the city. Apparently reception told him that no one from Carrickfergus would take a taxi to West Belfast. I see. His best story, however, involved a statue to Michael Collins. Although Michael Collins was from Clonakilty for a very long time there was no statue to him as it was a bit politically contentious and unclear who would unveil it. However, after the Liam Neeson film a statue went up and Liam Neeson himself, very decently, came to unveil it dealing with any political issues. Our friend was at the reception for the great and the good at which Liam Neeson was the guest of honour. Much drink was taken and a select group of half a dozen, including our friend and Mr. Neeson, went out to the town looking for further refreshment. A car drew up beside them. “Liam, get in” said a voice from within. He resisted. The voice insisted pretty firmly. Eventually he got in. We were agog, who was it? His Hollywood bodyguard? His minder? His agent? Apparently it was his mother. I love an Irish Mammy story.
We drove back up to the city and, acting on an excellent tip from my brother, went to Orso for dinner. They only take walk ins and this was a godsend when everywhere except the taco place was fully booked for a Saturday night in December. We went for a stroll around town and took a turn on the big wheel while waiting for our table to come free but it was a bit cold and damp.
We found ourselves at a bit of a loose end after our early dinner so went to see “Conclave“. I wouldn’t entirely recommend but it does look beautiful. It’s about electing a pope and Ralph Fiennes is terrific in it. I am still finding it a bit strange to be in Cork without my parents which I know is faintly ridiculous but there we are.
We got a message from the children that another spatula arrived with the shopping delivery. We lost one a couple of weeks ago and due to some errors in the purchasing department we are now the owners of three shiny new ones. Spatulas for everyone for Christmas.
Sunday, December 8
We headed back to Dublin on the train. “Wasn’t it great how easy it was to bring the bikes on the train?” I said to Mr. Waffle. He conceded that it was but then asked the killer question, “But did we need the bikes?” On reflection, I regret to inform you that, on balance, it would probably have been more convenient not to have had the bikes in Cork. Bitter.
More December thrills to come. Stay with us as Ira Glass would say.
