On our way down to Dublin to dog sit Alfie for my daughter last Thursday (she went off to Paris for the weekend), I popped into Aldi in Cavan to buy Poppins’ favourite dog food and some sugar free mints (I smoke but cannot abide the taste, so have to have mints with every cigarette…don’t ask), where I discovered, unbeknown to me (again, don’t ask me how I didn’t know) they had converted the old rundown, higgldy piggldy Aldi into a supersonic, fifteen lane, airy, ordered, French like superstore! I almost decided to stay there for the weekend, instead of coming to Dublin, but being a dutiful mother, as promised, I headed off down the N3.

Roisin lives in Stoneybatter, in a tiny, but lovely home. It is less lovely when there are four of us and two boisterous dogs staying in it, so when she and Jack headed off the next day, we gave a sigh of relief, threw out the mouldy food in the fridge, emptied the bins, re-ordered the house to the way we liked it, and began to live our pretend Dublin life. Having made a tour of the Lilliput Deli (fresh anchovies, artichokes, and every tapenade and pulse you could imagine), the organic green grocer and butchers, the Green Door Bakery, the 24 hour Centra which has an excellent selection of fine wines, I came back and scrawled a notice to put on the front door: NO EVICTIONS HERE. LAND LORDS GO AWAY which I hoped Roisin would understand should she come back.

We had great weather. Every morning, me and the dogs (and a trail of green poo bags) would bound up to Grange Gorman or Pheonix Park in glorious sunshine, weaving along the narrow terraced houses, the spooky front gardens, stopping regularly to unravel the two leads from lampposts and other dogs and pass the time of the day with whomever would stop to help me. Grange Gorman was usually crowded with dog walkers, dogs, students, runners, footballers, and milling with yellow vested security guards. I loved it, as did the dogs.

Pheonix Park was more elegant. Finely landscaped, beautiful roses, secret paths through wooded hills, a river, ducks, small children feeding the ducks. All heaven except for the fire works which exploded (even in daylight) in a regular stutter of bang bang bang as if we were being shot at, which of course Poppins thought she was. Fortunately, she was on the lead at the time, but she wanted refuge, and so leapt up at every parked car we passed as she dragged me and Alfie home. She is remarkably strong. She gave one man sitting in his driver’s seat a heart attack as she scrabbled at his window to be let in. At one stage, Alfie decided it was all too much and stopped. He point blank refused to walk. So, there was Poppins, out in front, nose to the ground pulling me forward. Then there was me in the middle, trying to calm her down, interspersed with angry retorts to Alfie behind me who I was literally dragging, on his back, paws in the air along the pavement. Such very unD7 behaviour. Thank God Roisin couldn’t see me.

Saturday, after a quick run around Grange Gorman, we left the dogs behind to hopefully bond, and set off to meet our oldest and bestest Dublin friends whom we hadn’t seen for over two years (we all know why.) We had arranged to go see the Jack Yeats exhibition on the National Gallery and then go for a boozy Italian lunch. It was perfect. I love the slick and sprawl of the oil in Yeats. I love stepping back and watching the story emerge from the painting. I love the colour and energy. It bubbles up in me and makes me want to cry with happiness. The wine at the Italian restaurant had a similar effect. Chatting politics, books, children with old, good friends left me feeling happily weepy and sentimental. Eventually we all had to go home (they had to babysit grandchildren and our dogs needed us).

So, we did other things too. We went reminiscing in the Wicklow Mountains, oohing and ahhing at the changes around Cherrywood and Kiltiernan, and giving out at the snarl of traffic we encountered coming back on the M50 (you don’t see much of that sort of thing in Cavan). And, talking of mountains, I ate a mountain of mussels in Oscar’s last night in Smithfield. They were delicious. And then we watched the last of the Kin series. We felt it was appropriate that we came to their territory for their grand finale…except of course, it wasn’t the Grand Finale. They haven’t gone away you know. This morning is my last morning. Again, it is glorious sunshine. Having finally bonded, the dogs and husband are all upstairs together in the same bed (they have similar habits). I must get them up and take them all out. We have learned where the obstreperous lamp posts are, found ways to navigate away from the Grange Gorman yellow jacketed security blokes who want me to leash Poppins. The dogs have asserted their individual right to eat from the other’s food bowl without killing each other. My culinary exploits (venison burgers, garlic with a splash of wine sausages, Italian panetone cake with chocolate) will be no more. Soon a plane will be arriving at the airport from Charles de Gaulle bringing back Roisin, and I will be flying up the N3 with a relieved Poppins because, while she will put up with Alfie, she prefers to have me to herself (though she will tolerate Jerry). Poppins will be happy to get back to her perch on the top of the couch watching the world go past in Cavan though she may have to wait just a little while longer while I go explore that new Aldi en route home. I’m hoping they’ll have fresh anchovies.

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