To Boldly Google

Our daughter's education has now begun in earnest, and suddenly we are all thrown into a new milieu, that of National School (State run primary school). Having mastered early starts (sort of), healthy lunches, school books and schoolbags, I am now free to concentrate on getting to know the mothers whose company I am going to be keeping for the next eight years. That's what I think. It's all very well to discuss how your daughter is doing in school, or what extra curricular activities she is pursuing, but as to their own lives, well that's another story, and seemingly not one that's open for discussion. Having sussed out and eliminated child minders and nannies I try making a few small inroads, taking care to approach a different mother, or group of mothers, each time. I don't get very far, but let me clarify that this is not a military exercise, just a hopeful attempt to find a few like-minded people, with whom I can move beyond the superficial.

The superficial is all around - car park full of SUVs, toned bodies leading up to crease-free faces, immaculate grooming, daughters in designer anoraks. It is abundantly clear that we live in a small pocket affected only by one aspect of our booming economy - rising property prices. Therefore fewer families are moving into the area and we remain immune to many of the challenges affecting education in modern Ireland. And so, when handed the contact list for junior infants, I felt like I imagine Fionn mac Cumhaill must have felt when he first tasted the Salmon of Knowledge. From now on I too can stand in dutiful silence at collection time because, with the information provided, I don't have to ask any questions. I can find out all I need to know online.

After several days deliberation I decided that blogging is morally superior to googling. And so I pinned the contact list on our notice board and resolved to refer to it only when arranging a playdate, the modern day replacement for spontaneous playtime - sadly no longer an option for 21st century children. But curiosity did get the better of me and I decided to take a test case. Because of what I've written so far my options are clearly limited and so Mr Q and Wine Goose fell under the spotlight.

Mr Q is not necessarily the corporate hotshot he has led me to believe for years. Instead he could conceivably be spending all those extra hours, not in the office, but commuting to Clare where he is a successful county hurler. Or maybe he's really a freelance musician, available for drum sessions at lower than normal fees. The possibilities are endless... But persistence pays and after mousing through several pages I do eventually find the profile that fits the physique.

Wine Goose stars in 'Home and Away.' How glamorous. Where does she find the time? Failing that she could be leading an altogether duller life and recently have won a printmaking award in a midlands town. Then a golden nugget, I find out where she went to secondary school. People from outside Ireland who have spent a long time in the country often observe how important this seems to be to us. With good reason. Nothing gives us the ability to form an instant mental picture of the person we're dealing with that their school. I won't take this further today but it is a theory that demands an entire blog - comments welcome.

Search a little further and I can find out when they bought their current home, and how much they paid. Wine Goose is no techie, and all this information was gathered using very basic methods of research. What purpose does it serve? Information is power, as long as you don't let any of it slip.

If you're planning a traditional Halloween dinner of bacon and colcannon, why not skip the wine and go for the best match with this meal - a glass of milk. Can't do it, then nip out to your local wine shop and search the lower shelves for a bottle of Gruner Veltliner. The herbaceous and grassy tinges will bring out the meat's flavours and perfectly complement the parsley sauce, €13.99.

Harp Bar moment

Mr Q and I dined out recently at what restaurant reviewers nowadays describe as a 'neighbourhood restaurant'. I may be wrong, but my understanding of this term is a suburban restaurant, usually without any distinguishing decor, cuisine, wine list etc, that caters for people living in the immediate area, who will happily put up with the lack of glamour in return for comfort and convenience - an enjoyable meal out, not too pricey, and none of the hassle associated with travelling into town. On any given Saturday night, fellow diners will generally fall into the same socio-economic grouping and there will be lots of discreet nodding by the likes of Mr Q to fellow professionals, and the likes of Wine Goose to faces she recognises from the school run.

Most married couples on nights out 'a deux' do have occasional lulls in conversation and here I can fill these lulls by earwigging on parallel discussions i.e. how well Child A is doing on the school rugby team and how Child B is likely to get the lead part in the school play this year. And so, it was with great delight on my part, that on this occasion we were placed at a table next to a pair of Disco Ball clad ladies on a big night out. Homogeneous Blonde Southsiders both (the kind of girl that most men like Mr Q end up marrying), they looked liked they were getting up to leave as we arrived. But something persuaded them to park their derrieres and order another bottle of wine. A fruity little red, my ears were pricked.

I expected scandal, and I got it. Cheating husbands, affairs, names named. Even Mr Q could not avoid overhearing their now too-loud chatter, and for most of the meal we did manage to keep up a good flow of conversation, in a valiant attempt to shield the ladies from the eyes and ears of the entire dining room. Then, like in all the best novels, the evening drew to its inevitable conclusion and the adulteress uttered a name we both recognised. Our simultaneous sharp intake of breath awoke them from their reverie and they dashed outside for a cure-all cigarette, their wine bottle now empty. We left the restaurant soon after and repaired to a local hostelry for a nightcap, only to see them stumble in moments later.

There's a very fine line between ordering a second bottle and going home. Wine Goose and all her geese friends have crossed it many times, usually with exceptional results! But if it's revelation time, surely it's better to cross that line well away from home, or any resemblance of home. Those ladies might have travelled out of their local area, but they really should have stayed on that bus and opted instead for a noisy pizzeria in the city centre.

Back in the last century, before we were all so liberated and liberal, I had a friend who handed out some very good advice to another friend. This as a result of her showing up in her local pub with a man who should have been elsewhere, and being surprised when they bumped into mutual acquaintances. What, he said, were you thinking of, taking him there? You should have gone to the Harp Bar on O'Connell Street.

Obvious in hindsight.

For Sunday dinner this week the Q family enjoyed a delicious roast leg of lamb, served with roast veg and potatoes, accompanied by Chateau Beaumont 2004, a Cru Bourgeois from the Haut Medoc. Classic vanilla, cassis and blackcurrants on the nose. Importantly for goose, not too tannic on the palate, smooth and well balanced with lots of fruit. Widely available, from €16.99.

Requiem on a gala dinner

And so to the big night out.

Predictably, the night before was spent playing 'musical beds' a game long enjoyed more by the little people than their parents, whereby the household starts the night as a conventional family unit. Children are fed, bathed and story-told into a deep sleep by 8 pm. Mr Q and myself then enjoy a brief spell of togetherness, this usually involves Mr Q reading the newspapers and myself watching the soaps, with a few brief exchanges of conversation between us during the ad breaks. We settle into the marital bed soon after the 9 o'clock news, having assured ourselves that the children have been so tired out by the days activities and look so peaceful that there is no chance of them waking until the alarm clock rings the next morning.

The game starts sometime around 2 am, when child 1 wakes up and runs into the parents bedroom. Child 1 wakes parents, ousts father, and proceeds to fall fast asleep jammed up against mother. Just as mother gets back to sleep child 2 wakes and runs into the parents room, wakes child 1 and mother (again). Child 1 and child 2 then insist that they cannot sleep without mother, whereupon she crams herself into an impossibly small space between them and watches in disbelief as they fall fast asleep. Just as the first light of dawn is coming through the window, she herself caves into exhaustion and passes out. 5 minutes later the alarm clock rings and the little people awake refreshed and ready to face the day. As does Mr Q, safely ensconced in 'daddy's room' since the game began.

Preparation time, as usual is minimal. The new contact lenses are very comfortable and I no longer have bloodshot eyes within 5 minutes of putting them in. If there's any criticism, it's that my vision doesn't seem any better than without them. They'll work themselves into the correct position en route to the dinner I hope. My son, who helped me sort out my make-up bag last week, is refusing to reveal the whereabouts of the magic Laura Mercier concealer that hides all the bags and shadows under my eyes. I think that's called compounding a problem he already created. And my daughter has only landed one chocolaty hand on the dress before wandering off with the babysitter. Nobody will be looking at my left outer thigh area anyway. So we leave the house in relatively good shape.

If whisking means alternatively moving swiftly for a few moments, then screeching to a shuddering halt for several more, then we were whisked along the M50 to Carton House. On arrival we were most definitely moved swiftly into dinner, the pre-dinner drinks having been scheduled with no regard to victims of the city's traffic chaos.

To give credit to my maligned personal dresser, I shone like a brilliant jewel, my magenta dress providing a brilliant flash amongst a sea of black. However, it still could not prevent the eyes-glazing-over effect, with which I have become only too familiar at social events since I chose to stay at home with the children during their formative years. And so my dining companions chatted politely if disinterestedly about children until the tian of crab and avocado with gazpacho vinaigrette and frisee salad arrived, when I happened to remark that I felt the accompanying Chablis seemed a little young, and resembled more a Macon, with the honeyed flavours overpowering the minerality that would develop in another year or two. Now I had their attention. The conversation turned from the predictable subjects of Ireland's economic success and second homes to the much more interesting subject of wine. We learnt that the Dutch representative at the table is also a fan of white Burgundy, and that in Norway, considered such a progressive country in many ways, it is only possible to buy wine from Vinmonopolet, the state liquor stores. My contact lens never did kick in, so I had to resort to bringing home a copy of the menu, and checking out my theory later on, from behind the comfort of my spectacles. It was a Chablis Premier Cru 2005, Bouchard Aine et Fils. A wonderful wine from a highly reputed producer, but capable of much more ageing than the 2 years it was given before being poured into my glass.

My main course prediction was wrong. This time we were served Chateauneuf du Pape 2001, Domaine du Pere Pape. Another safe option from a good vintage, and drinking well now, but as I pointed out to my dining companions, it would not be my first choice to serve with prime Irish fillet of beef, with glazed mixed herbs and peppercorn crust served with parmesan potato and truffle scented jus. I think I would have gone for something weightier, like my prediction of a Bordeaux, more likely left bank with a higher concentration of Cabernet Sauvignon or indeed an Argentinian Malbec. When it arrived the beef course did not have any heavy or overpowering flavours or sauces so in fact the Chateauneuf stood up well to the test. The wines of the Rhone are not a personal favourite, but when matching them with food I find they go better with game dishes and casseroles than with red meats.

And so onto dessert, coffee and cheese (strangely in that order). Enough of wine and the wonderful surroundings of Carton House, it is time for Mr Q and I to be sped home, in time for another round of musical beds.

The Wine Geese and Wine Goose

Ever wandered into your local wine shop and headed for the Bordeaux section, intent on walking out of that minefield with a fine bottle of red that lives up to its price? Well you're not alone. Next time you're in there, why not try a different angle and look out for some unexpected names. Scattered amongst the venerable French families you are likely to spot more labels with Irish names than one would expect of a country with no history of wine production.

Start with the basic Bordeaux AC where you'll find Barton & Guestier, as well as Michel Lynch. Both names are slightly Frenchified, the men must have fallen in love with more than the soil! Move into Listrac-Medoc, where Chateau Clarke produces some of the finest tannic, medium-bodied reds for which the region is famed. Browse the Margaux labels and you'll find that Chateau Kirwan can compete with the best of them, as can Chateau Lynch-Bages in Pauillac. The Barton family pops up again in St Julien, with the second growth Leoville-Barton featuring at the top of the quality ranking in that appellation.

These 'wine geese' as they are now known, did not drift into Bordeaux by accident, decide to take the French on at their own game, and develop great wines. Like so many before and after them, they did not leave their country by choice. Indeed, this particular group fought many battles in Ireland during an especially bloody period in her history, and eventually fled, not only to settle in foreign fields, but indeed many of them went on to fight in other European armies.

It all happened over 300 years ago, when, following heavy losses in the Battle of the Boyne and the Battle of Aughrim, the 1691 Treaty of Limerick allowed a group of soldiers to leave Ireland and serve in France with the defeated James II, the last Catholic King of England. The term 'wine geese' is derived from the 'Flight of the Wild Geese', as their departure subsequently became known. Nowadays the term has extended to include all the Irish involved in wine production worldwide, and as of today Wine Goose herself!

The International Museum of Wine in Kinsale, County Cork, documents many of the families of Irish origin involved in the wine trade throughout the world, and for those interested in further delving into the subject, its website offers a breakdown of Irish involvement in the wine trade by country, winery and family. The museum also welcomes information on the Irish roots of wine families around the world and can be contacted via its website.