And breathe! At
last I can hear the sound of silence as the final few guests departed this
morning – not before helping me stack 5 tons of winter logs, I grant you – and
we get a moment or two of peace and quiet for a few days. When I say a few
days, it is actually barely that, as we head south to visit a few friends this
weekend, inhabitants of Rock village, as it happens, and then I have to zoom
off to Scotland to sort out some issues. But during those couple of days at
least we get chance to listen to music we like, eat whatever and whenever we
fancy – or nothing at all - and know which bed the dog is sleeping on! I have
to admit I do like having guests here and this year has seen a wide variety,
from youngsters just climbing onto the hamster wheel of life while others, such
as Scott and Sally, who have recently had a eureka moment and exchanged the
rat-race of international commerce for a trip around France in a sports car
with the intention of finding themselves a new vocation. Together, the whole
ensemble represents the rich tapestry that carpets the hallways of human kind –
and sure breaks up the boredom.
Obviously, I
use the latter word in jest, as being fed up with doing nothing has never yet
made it on to my radar. Just when I think I have the decks cleared enough to tie
up the loose ends of our existence, along comes yet another opportunity as a leafy
avenue opens up, tempting us back down the rabbit hole. This time, a chance
meeting with a Kiwi has somehow advanced me to a new role of advisor to one of
the world’s richest men. No, I am not educating Mister Well-known Un-named
Russian Billionaire on how to make more money but on a subject I have a little
more knowledge about – sheep! Having bought a most idyllic chateau near here a
few years ago, this chap now produces one of the finest and most expensive
wines in the region. It transpires that one of his close friends and business
partners own a vast estate in Perthshire, Scotland, and for my client’s 45th
birthday he sent him a ‘wee pressie’, a flock of Scottish Blackfaced ewes. Now
I have seen a few blackies in my time, mainly through binoculars, as they tends
to live at 2-3000 feet up on a mountain, contentedly munching on heather in a
climate that ranges from driech drizzle to out-and-out hurricane. So you can
imagine how these 40-odd gimmers may have felt when they are unloaded in the
middle of a birthday party in full swing, to 40 degree heat, little or no shade
and not so much as a peat bog in sight! However,
hardy and adaptable as these creatures are, they have settled in over the last
few years and my client is now looking to produce some premium quality lamb to
sell alongside his grand-cru-classe wine. Enter yours truly, via a
recommendation from a friend, as we try and put together a project plan to turn
sow-ears into silk-purses via introduction of new bloodlines, a truck load of
stock from Scotland and some quite intricate data recording. Shh, don’t tell
the tax-office but payment for such professional guidance has been agreed in
liquid format! Eureka indeed!
A few years
ago I mentioned a bad experience I had with Ryanair about being forced to put
my sandals on for landing and take-off, something which still mystifies me to
this day. Well it seems the French government is now endorsing yet another
absurdity, that of not being allowed to wear flip-flops whilst driving a car;
this outlawing just about every single person behind the wheel, including
myself. However, after doing some basic research, it appears that this idiotic
ruling is not legally enforceable as long as, if pulled over, you can prove
that you are able to be in perfect control of your vehicle, able to use your
mirrors and indicators, drive at a sensible speed and be courteous to other
road users – which, let’s face it, rules out all French drivers anyway!
Some may
recall that, as a day job, I write books for a living and that I am midway
through penning the history of the Aberdeen Angus cattle breed; a project that
has taken over 2 years thus far. The creation of such a tome was the brainchild
of the breed’s chief executive who had the realisation that some of the older
guard were starting to disappear from this earth, taking their memories with
them. For over a year I toured the country, tackling some of the older members with a tape recorder
to capture snippets of information for eternity. I am therefore extremely
saddened that the very man who gave me this opportunity passed away himself
this week, aged just 64, and that I never took the initiative to actually hear
his own story and, moreover, that he
didn’t get chance to see the fruits of my labour. History is a strange thing, isn’t it? One
thing is for sure, we might be able to document it, but we sure can’t change
it.
On a lighter
note, I have a couple of appointments with large stadia in the headlights over
the coming months. The first is that spectacle of sport, the Rugby World Cup,
an event which Wendy and I have engaged in every 4 years over the last decade
and more. This time, the hosts, England, have managed to price us out of the
ticket market for their home games, with basic tickets costing upwards of three
hundred quid a throw, but we will be making the trip to Newcastle to see
Scotland playing those rather animalistic Polynesians, Samoa. For the trip I
will dust off my saltire woolly bonnet and show allegiance to my wife’s country
of origin, although I am not sure I will be putting a bet on their survival.
Allez les Blanc!
Then, just a
few days later, it is a short trip to Bordeaux to see one of Britain’s finest
exports, that aged rock band, Deep Purple. Yes, against all odds, a few members
of the original line-up have remained pickled enough to still perform such gems
as ‘Sweet Child in Time,’ ‘Speed King’ and ‘Smoke on the Water.’ The excitement
of it all has even provoked me to un-mothball my own guitar, plug it in to the
mains and give it some welly – if only to an audience full of bewildered sheep.
I can even remember the words to the latter – “dan dan dan, dan dan de dan...”
Come on, you Rockers, sing along now!
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