I think I invented a new sport
last week called gyro-skiing, where you career down the side of a snowy
mountain in a gyroscopic fashion! I am not certain it will take off - not like
I did anyway! Bruises were incurred. And, to quote Forest Gump, 'that's all I
have to say about that.'
Wendy and I did have a great trip
in the Alps though, punctuated by an overnight stop in Clermont-Ferrand, an
industrial conurbation set in a valley in the Massif Central surrounded by
volcanic mountains. Once home to the French Grand Prix, as you enter the
sprawling city it is hard to ignore the fact that this is the birthplace of,
and home to, Michelin Tyres whose factories dominate the suburbs. However, rubber
is not the only black thing in this city as, nestled in its quaint ancient
centre, with its cobbled streets and vibrant bars, stands a huge gothic
cathedral built out of volcanic rock making the vast black structure appear
rather macabre as its two spires extend over 100 metres into the sky. As for
their rugby team, well this year's efforts would have been greatly aided if the
goal posts had been of similar height, as the fabled yellow and blue jerseys
bowed out of the Heineken cup in such embarrassing style that the whole town
population were also wearing black to mark the occasion. We were allowed a
moment of gloating as it was our minnows from Bordeaux who administered their
dismissal.
Yes, of course, it is that time
of year when large burly gentlemen pull on bright lycra and knock lumps out of
each other in an organised fashion every weekend for a few months. Considering
myself a multinational, I will inevitably be wearing my collection of white,
blue and red hats throughout the Six Nations although so far it has started
well when the Jocks have waved us Sassenachs off home, once again carrying the
silverware with us. This annual bloodied encounter between England and Scotland
always reminds me of an occasion some twenty years ago when a Scottish rugby
playing friend of mine, known affectionately to one and all as the White Shark,
was out celebrating a Scotland victory on Edinburgh's Princess Street only to
demonstrate how best to take a drop goal. The solid silver Pilkington Cup still
has the dent in it to this day as proof. And still he missed the target, although
he was quite severely told off for the faux-pas!
We appear to have arrived back to
monsoon season here at Chauffour, when 400mm of rain, nearly two thirds of our
annual expectancy, has fallen since Christmas, much of it through a leaking
skylight window into an array of buckets which require emptying every three
hours. Thankfully lambing is not yet underway but it is imminent and we are
considering relocating to higher grounds. There are even small trout in the
puddles by the back door, not that Mr Spanky would notice as he hasn’t been
outside for six weeks. Our lake that was bone dry up until New Year is now a
sea and the polytunnel has concertinaed in under the weight and has become a
10000 litre reservoir, should we require it during the dry summer. Let's hope
so.
In a recent interview I was asked
where I grew up, to which the statutory reply is always the same, I haven’t
grown up and have little intention of doing so! However, I did spend my
childhood and teenage years in Rock village, when a gang of Fraziers, Notts,
Neaths and Whitemans would tear around the lanes from pub to pub in our Minis,
taking in discos on Clee Hill, games of spoof in the Alma and the odd fence
post on the way home. Next day we would all be back at work, driving tractors
or feeding yards of livestock, no harm done. Back then I can vividly recall
Bernard Birch senior saying to my Dad, when they heard about the death of their
pal John Whiteman senior: 'Jack, they are
pulling them out of our pen now.' Well, with the passing of one of our
crowd, Fooey Neath, I guess the cycle has just gone around again. A sorry
thought, I suppose. RIP big fella, we had some good times.
Anyway, enough of that; this
column wouldn’t be complete if I wasn’t complaining about something and this
time it is a simple gripe about the price of Muesli. Up until recently, this
isn’t something that would cross my breakfast radar, but of late I have been
making a gallant attempt to be healthy. Three euros fifty - that's over three
quid - that's what it costs for a box of rolled oats and barley with a few
raisins thrown in. I know I am no longer in the farming business but I still
have friends in that game, each of whom assures me that a ton of grain sells
for just over one hundred pounds. So how on earth does one company manage to
pimp the price up to £6000 per ton and get away with it? On every news bulletin
we hear that the world population is growing sideways and there is Jeremy Hunt
talking about taxing sugar to keep us all healthy, and making sure we get our
five a day. Is he missing something here, or am I? Well, yes I am actually, my
bacon butties - but not for much longer.
Oh, btw, Mr Spanky is our cat, in
case you were wondering!
