I woke up in Athlone this morning. I got the train to Dublin this afternoon. I drove to Cork this evening. I haven’t even the energy for a haiku. More tomorrow.
Cork
Blarney
We were in Cork at the weekend.
Herself cycled into town with her aunt using a Cork bike. She was very taken by the segregated cycle lanes. She is still alive.
Following my encounter with the people from Colorado, I was determined to take in Blarney Castle next time we went to Cork. While it wasn’t worth driving up from Killarney twice to see, I think, on balance, it was worth the 15 minute drive from my parents’ house.
It was lashing but we wore our rain gear like proper tourists. The castle is like loads of other square fortified castles in Ireland without a roof.
I have to say that they do a fantastic job with the rather limited material available to them. I have visited the castle before but not in years. I retained a vivid memory of the actual stone kissing being rather hair raising. My memory was not at fault. Daniel and Herself refused point blank to kiss it. Michael was the bravest but so speedy that I failed to immortalise the moment on camera. However, Daniel was to hand to record my latest kissing of the stone.
See that gap at the top of the castle in the battlements? That’s where the stone is. Hair raising indeed, I can tell you.
There was some old graffiti. The standard of graffiti seems to have gone downhill over the years, frankly.
After our castle adventure, we went for a nice cup of tea. The cafe was in the stable yard. In the main room there was a delightful roaring fire but no space. We found ourselves shunted to another room where the stables had been turned into rather drafty booths for tables and chairs with, for added authenticity, manger and trough still in situ. Not entirely successful in my view.
There was lots more to see including a cleverly designed poison garden (the gardens in general, however, were not at their best what with it being October) and a small playground. All in all, it wasn’t too bad. We might even go back for another visit.
Updated to add: look at these delightful pictures of Blarney castle that I saw in the Crawford Gallery.
Fáilte
I met a nice American couple from Colorado on the train recently. They were finishing a week’s visit to Ireland. They had been to Dublin (where, they revealed, in passing, that his father had happened upon some junkies shooting up in the city centre near where they were staying, alas), Clare, Cork and Kerry. They seemed to have picked up a number of misconceptions during their stay.
Them: We’re from just outside Colorado, where they brew Coor’s beer.
Me: Oh right.
Them: We knew that would help to place it for an Irish person.
[Not so much, actually]
Them: Why does everyone in Ireland love Wales so much?
Me: Ah, Wales who beat England in the rugby world cup match recently?
Them: Yes, everyone in the bar was shouting ‘Come on Wales!’
Me: That’s a complicated one.
Them: We took a tour bus in Dublin and saw the Protestant church that used to be separate from a Catholic church by a wall to keep the Protestants and Catholics apart.
[I’m pretty sure the tour company made that up.]
Them: So we went into a bar and this man at the bar just looked at us and said, “F*** off!” I guess that’s Irish pub humour for you [they laughed good-naturedly while I was just appalled].
Them: So the one thing we knew we had to see, if we came to Ireland, was the Blarney stone [possibly one of Ireland’s dullest attractions as they eventually found out – up the road from Cork, readily accessible from my parents’ house, I have visited it once – that was plenty].
The detail on their trip to Blarney, however, was enough to put off the most enthusiastic. They were staying in Killarney. Killarney is in Kerry and about 80 long kilometres from Blarney which is just outside Cork city. 80kms may not be as far in Colorado as it is on the Cork-Kerry road. Possibly for this reason, they decided to get a taxi to Blarney. That was €160 worth of taxi. Due to, admittedly, poor planning on their part and having arrived on October 1 when, as any Irish person would tell you, all Irish monuments change their opening hours, Blarney Castle had closed eight minutes before they arrived. However, undaunted, our heroes went back to Killarney (where they were staying) and paid a further €120 (reduced rate) to go Blarney and back in the morning. They enjoyed the added bonus of a near miss on the narrow road where their taxi driver risked all their lives passing out a turf lorry – authentic in so many ways. With difficulty, I managed to restrain myself from sharing with them how many more economical and effective ways there were to achieve their objective. Still, they seemed happy and, as they pointed out to me, it would be a lot more expensive to get to Blarney from Colorado. This was undoubtedly true and I could only admire their youthful optimism.
I have decided that the next time we are in Cork, I will take the children to Blarney Castle, maybe there is something in it after all.
A Game of Two Halves
The Princess was very keen to go to Cork for the weekend alone. With some trepidation, we sent our precious 12 year old off last weekend. I really thought there wasn’t much possibility for disaster. She’s a train veteran and it was a non-stop train, how bad could it be?
Well, on the way down, there was a drunken man in her carriage announcing loudly and intimidatingly that he had just been released from Mountjoy (Dublin’s largest prison). The staff were called but they went away again when he sat down and my poor 12 year old was petrified. Not helped by a six year old running up and down the carriage telling the man he was drunk; some kind of altercation ensued between the mother and the drunken ex-prisoner and the mother and six year old (who had been sitting opposite herself) hightailed it out of the carriage. Herself was terrified and wouldn’t talk to me on the phone in case “he would hear”; I was hearing this blow by blow by text message. I was very upset for her. Mercifully, a kind, saintly midwife sitting nearby asked the Princess whether she was travelling alone and suggested that she sit in beside her for the remainder of the journey which she did, very gratefully.
After the initial trauma, her weekend in Cork was terrific but it would be useless to deny that she approached the train ride back with some trepidation. She met the midwife again in the same carriage so that was a relief to her but they were the only two people in the carriage. One of the staff sat down opposite herself and asked was she travelling alone. She said that she was and he pointed out that every other seat in the carriage was reserved for Dublin supporters who would be getting on in Thurles and they might be a bit rough. Would she like, he asked, to move to first class. She would like. “What about the midwife?” I asked. “I waved to her as I went past,” said she. She travelled back to Dublin in first class. “I am never going back,” she said to me firmly. We’ll have to see about that now.
So, hats off to Iarnród Éireann for prompt action on the return journey but, alas, for the outward journey. Still, I think she is prepared to go on the train alone again, provided that she can travel first class.
Endless Summer – Cork
Saturday, July 11
We left Kerry behind us and drove to Cork. Mr. Waffle, alas, had to return to Dublin so it was just the four of us. We were in Cork by lunchtime where, for consistency, it was lashing. My brother took the children into the library for the afternoon. New books, new rain; it was all excitement.
Sunday, July 12
At mass, we had my favourite priest. He is now Michael’s favourite priest too. He is reverent, he doesn’t rush matters, he gives a good sermon and that Sunday, notwithstanding the fact that there was a choir, mass was finished 28 minutes after it started.
I remain convinced that the health of the Catholic church in an area is inversely proportionate to the length of Sunday mass. This explains why, for example, in Godless Dublin our mass is always nearly an hour.
In the afternoon we went to Fitzgerald’s park to go to the playground. For their own inscrutable reasons the city fathers have chosen to do up the playground in July. So, it was closed.
I am sure it will be terrific when it re-opens but, you know, sub-optimal for the moment. In the absence of the playground we went to the city museum. A poor substitute. It’s a good little museum with lots of interesting (if occasionally slightly random) exhibits but the troops were not in the mood for it.
Even the recreation of the WW1 trenches failed to spark their interest.
So we went to find the ice cream van and bounce on what is known as the Shaky Bridge (officially Daly’s bridge). Even this failed to cheer the troops. Daniel who doesn’t like ice cream (I know!) was particularly uncheered.
All that was left for us to do was return to my parents’ house and play with electronic devices with a vengeance.
Monday, July 13
Determined to make up for the previous day’s lack of success, I took the children to Milano’s for lunch. Joy was unconfined. As ever, I decided to push my luck afterwards and take them on the UCC George Boole tour. It’s mostly a UCC tour. And though the guide was knowledgeable and friendly, and there were a couple of costumed characters, it was pitched just wrong for us. For me, with an intimate knowledge of UCC, there was very little I didn’t know already and quite a lot I could have added; for the children, it was too much and too boring and too long. I could see that the tourists were entranced but it just didn’t work for us. For me the highlight was getting into the observatory where I had never been before; for the children, it was the costumed characters but, by the end, I think that all of the goodwill generated by the pizza was exhausted.
Tuesday, July 14
Michael did not feel well so, leaving him to the tender mercies of his grandfather, his brother and sister and I walked into the market to buy materials for lunch and ingredients for a cake for my aunt. My aunt, who lives next door to my parents, turned 86 on June 21 and after much logistical discussion we were having a birthday dinner for her that night. Herself had undertaken to make a marble cake for the event.
On the way back, I pointed out to the children a historical plaque on one of the houses (my poor children, how they suffer). It said “Professor Simpson who first synthesised succinic acid lived here”. “I wonder,” said herself, “did he have a lisp.” Perhaps you had to be there, but it was the funniest thing I heard all week.
In the afternoon, herself went next door to visit my aunt and came back with an emergency change of plan. Apparently, my aunt doesn’t like marble cake; resourceful child, she made lemon cake instead. Dinner itself passed off very well with only some slight difficulties as follows: 1. My brother, sister and I having concocted this between us, forgot to tell the birthday girl until the last moment, she was able to come all the same; 2. Having accidentally omitted to tell my father, he was convinced that it was a Bastille day celebration (he always celebrates July 14 being a Francophile and a republican – non-violent branch) and, as he is a little hard of hearing, it needed several stage whispers before he understood that it was a belated birthday dinner for his sister and he returned wistfully to the Bastille theme several times over dinner.
Wednesday, July 15
I seized the day. The weather forecast said it was to be sunny and by mid-morning we were in Kinsale on our usual forced march to Charles Fort. It was really lovely, even the children seemed to enjoy it. It made a great change from the rain.
As we walked back to Summercove to have lunch in the Bulman, I got to make the standard remark which is nonetheless true, “Ireland is the best country in the world for holidays when the weather is fine.”
Favourite sign on the walk:
When, we got back to the car, it was still sunny. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go to Garretstown beach. If there is a problem with Cork (which is, of course, denied) it’s that you have to drive out of the city for a good hour to get to a nice beach. It was sunny, we were already in Kinsale, the beach was nearby, we were fed and the beach gear, by happy coincidence, was in the car, so off we went. It was magic. The sun shone, the sea was warm (compared to Kerry, not compared to the Mediterranean), there were waves but not too high. We all loved it and came back to Cork sandy and happy.
Join us for our next installment, when our heros return to Dublin.
Easter Holiday Round-Up – Part 1
Mr. Waffle is a shadow of his former self. As the self-employed parent, he tends to do a lot of the childminding during the holidays. As it happened, these holidays he was very busy and it was all a bit tense. Not for the children, but for him.
At the start of the holidays, I took the children down to Cork for a couple of days. Having been to Kinsale so recently, the children avoided a trip to Charles Fort. Other improving activities included a trip to the ever popular Blackrock Observatory and a visit to the Cork City Gaol Museum which was moderately successful.
Undoubtedly, a highlight of the trip was a walk on the Marina. This was the subject of much unhappiness. A deal was brokered whereby we would walk 10 minutes from the car and 10 minutes back. In those 20 minutes, the children spotted that there was a funfair and begged to be let go.
I yielded. I felt mildly bad that on Good Friday while their 90 year old grandfather was up in the church doing the stations, they were flying through the air on a variety of dangerous machines. I also bought the obligatory fairground goodies.
It being Good Friday, I did not have anything to eat myself which, frankly, did not improve my enjoyment of the whole experience. When I got back to my parents’ house, I was ravenous for my dinner. My brother who regards my eating regime with a sardonic eye (he believes firmly that people and women, in particular, should watch what they eat, I do not watch what I eat, we have had spirited exchanges of views on this point in the past) commented, “It’s harder for your mother as she is so unused to deprivation.” Quite.
I can’t quite recall what else we did. I do remember a trip to the park and overhearing my daughter and my brother having the following conversation:
Him: How did your day go?
Her: Terrible, don’t ask her or she’ll kill us all.
So, you know, only good in parts. Michael dropped my father’s iPad and I attempted to repair it by banging it on my knee as advised by the internet. This did not work and I managed to break the screen. The repair of our combined depredations cost a fortune.
Maybe more tomorrow.
