I blame the chips
in which I am undone by greed
As any regular readers will know, as I’ve wanged on about it here at length, last October, wedged into an Umbrian taxi between Mark Diacono, Molly Wizenberg and Sharon Wee (having listened with increasinging jealous fascination to Mark go on about the glories of his train ride across the Alps) I decided that my new year’s resolution for 2026 would be to not fly within Europe.
Shortly afterwards, in an early test of my resolve, I was invited to Ballymaloe Festival of Food, which took place last weekend at the Ballymaloe Grainstore in Shanagarry. Having had the absolute pleasure of three previous visits to Ballymaloe in 2007, 2012 and 2019 (and sent my parents there for their 100th wedding anniversary or whatever they were celebrating at the time), I accepted immediately, seeing only the certainty of good food, interesting people and beautiful surroundings.
It wasn’t until we began to discuss travel arrangements in early December that it struck me it would – despite the fact they’re our closest neighbours – be rather more of a faff to get to Ireland from London than to continental Europe. Indeed, though Ballymaloe is 300km closer to my front door than Val d’Isere, instead of the two trains, two-stop metro ride and bus it took to get the the Alps back in March, this one involved a train, two shuttle buses, a ferry, a cab and a late-night 290km lift down the M8, for which I am eternally grateful to the very generous Dublin-based journalist and host Dee Laffan. Admittedly, all of this would have been slightly easier had I not stopped for fish and chips, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Leg 1, after walking to Euston under clouds that threatened yet another imminent downpour, was the 8am train to Holyhead, which was an intermittently beautiful ride through green tufty countryside and some ancient-looking brickwork in Chester, and then following the north Welsh coast through Prestatyn, Llandudno (did I really run up Great Orme when we were there for Great Taste awards judging in… 2017? It looks very high) and across the Menai Strait to Anglesey, and the end of the line. Got lots of work done while listening to a v. interesting-sounding Canadian lawyer en route to his Galway shack giving Dublin tips to a couple across the aisle from Connecticut (which left me wanting to visit both Grogan’s for a toastie and Newfoundland to see some whales) and a man a little way down the carriage already two strong beers in snoring so loudly, and consistently, that I was moved to wake him up before getting off the train. It took a few prods, so I hope he hadn’t actually intended to disembark at Stafford.
“See you onboard!” I said cheerily to my new Kiwi friends across the table as they went to check in for our sailing; handily the passenger terminal is actually inside the station, which means you don’t have to see Holyhead at all, but this seemed a shame, especially when there was fish and chips on offer. The town was crawling with tour groups and cruise ship passengers (a big Celebrity Cruises boat was parked – technical term alert! – just outside the harbour), but, sidestepping the gift shops and fudge emporia, I hurried like a heat-seeking missile to The Chippy on Stanley Street. Not, I must observe, that there was any rush; there was a full hour before check-in closed, but still, I wanted to get back to the station with my prize as fast as possible, just in case.
I was, I need you to know, on this. Conscientious, not shilly-shallying around thinking only of fried potatoes. (And, happily, they were very good, the right amount of sog, with a pronounced potatoey flavour, the fish plump and juicy, the batter crisp.) Having demolished them in the sun, I went to wash my hands, noting to my surprise that the check-in gates still weren’t open, though plenty of people were milling around. Eventually I went up to the Irish Ferries window and asked about the 14:10. The rapid descent of the man’s face was early warning that he had bad news to impart, namely that they hadn’t run a 14:10 service since before Christmas, and the 13:15 was about to leave. The next sailing was 1:30 – I panicked, wondering how I could kill 12 hours in Holyhead without resorting to a solo pub crawl – but! after a quick word with the girl at the neighbouring desk, he managed to get me on to the next Stena departure instead. Though I didn’t need to be back to check in for at least another 90 minutes I decided to play it safe and spend the time working in the terminal cafe and on several cups of tea in the company of a man drinking cans of cider and occasionally burping loudly. Lovely staff mind.
We finally made it into Dublin about 20:00, and foot passengers were released half an hour later in the nick of time, as my cabbie to Heuston station, where I was meeting Dee, was – as he informed me on arrival – planning to leave me stranded had I been any longer. No mind that he was on the meter, he was incensed my husband (? at that point munching kibble in Hackney) hadn’t come to pick me up himself, and for all my placatory remarks about the beauties of Romania, a country I am in fact very fond of, he fulminated crossly on my husband Dee’s thoughtlessness for the entire journey.
What a relief to be in a car with her instead. Editor-in-chief of Scoop, an annual celebration of Irish food stories published by Dublin’s Nine Bean Rows, and co-ordinator of the Scoop and a Yarn stage at the festival, she insisted that really it was no bother at all to have had to hang around for several hours and then drive in the dark all the way to rural Cork. Indeed, we had a great chat, even if we missed the welcome dinner which was, by all accounts EPIC.
The festival itself – well, it’s hard to do it justice without gushing, and certainly not in the two paragraphs remaining so I think I’ll do another separate (and minimally floral) post on that later in the week. Suffice to say that, now on my return journey, having left at 9:30, and at the time of writing, 19:45, on the train between Colwyn Bay and Rhyl, having just demolished a scone from the petrol station at Horse and Jockey spread liberally with raw milk butter from the Ballymaloe Jersey herd, and anticipating arriving back at home shortly after midnight, I am very very much looking forward to going to sleep before I get up to go and collect my husband.
TLDR: I would certainly take the boat train to Ireland again (though I’d also take a bicycle with me to make up for the lack of Dee’s Taxis): got loads done, saw some beautiful scenery (and the Rock of Cashel, thanks to Dee’s Tours) and spent quite a bit of time watching sea bird skim the waves instead of writing my column which was all, despite the missing of the train, far more restful than hustling on to a plane. That said, it also took two days, so I concede it’s not the craic for everyone.
Wilf
Apparently had a lovely weekend with his minders, spending a day in the Observer office with Claire (who made this excellent work experience diary for him) and working from home with an accountant and an award-winning podcast producer, as well as going to the pub with a chocolate Labrador. Now back asleep on the sofa next to me, having totally ignored the Welsh sheep cushion I picked up for him at the Holyhead terminal shop (what can I say, I had time to kill).
Events
This Saturday afternoon, amazing cyclist Emily Chappell and I (and his Maj) will be at the Beccles Food Festival in Suffolk (4pm at the Beccles Public Hall) which ought to be fun – though staying in Norwich, so all recs there appreciated too, especially for Sunday breakfast – then next Wednesday (27th) me and him will be at the Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town chatting to my pal, and proper journalist, Claire Cohen. Finally, for this month, there’s the Cafe Murano Book Club in Bermondsey with the delightful Mark Diacono-who-made-me-spend-two-days-getting-to-Ireland-and-back on Sunday 31st.
Pleased to have had a small hand in your discomfort
I have to guess that shilly-shallying is similar to the American dilly-dallying. Having experienced a fair new number of transport options in the last few days, will be eager to explore all London modes shortly, and hoping to soon forget our plane rides.