Sultry August days and nights, with the gift of privacy an added bonus. In summer the village contains the die-hards, the locals and a few tourists. Bucolic freedom, fresh air and sunshine were once anathema — foul-smelling, airless dives like New Jimmy’s were the real McCoy — but now the sound of bells on roaming cows means instant happiness. It’s called old age. I can now walk from my place to the next village and back, a trip of about one hour, before the pain becomes unbearable. The good news is that early next year I’m trying out a revolutionary treatment in Germany, one with a 70 per cent success rate, especially among athletes. (Blood is extracted, jiggled with, then re-introduced and, presto, a new, improved Taki emerges and returns to competition pain-free. I hope.)
Good old Fatherland. When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, only a German can be counted on. Just ask Wellington. In the meantime, I’m hobbling along getting ready for the autumn judo and karate season. Alas autumn, a depressing time, is upon us. Why is it that summers lasted so much longer when one was young?
At times I walk along a river, which is ‘smooth and fast in the early morning’. (Two guesses whose words those are.) I walk at sunset because it’s cool in the shade, the farmers are already in bed, and the only living things that cross my path are slugs. I can’t wait to get back to the gym and to start training. But that’s for New York, in tempo and temperament light years away from here. Gstaad is for walking, climbing, dreaming. Of one’s youth, of girlfriends past, of drunken nights in Boulevard Montparnasse, lazy afternoons at the polo, of flower sellers at dawn, of the magical word yes, when uttered by a girl.
Down by the sea last week on the French Riviera, the wine flowed, and flowed, and flowed, and flowed! It was pink, and chilled, and not for the first time I had difficulty speaking to three very attractive women that the chairman had staying in his house. One of them very sweetly told me all about it the next morning. Me: ‘Did I misbehave? If I did, I apologise from the bottom of my heart.’ She: ‘Actually, you were very sweet. You told me you were afraid to sleep alone and asked if you could share my bed, and that your intentions were honourable.’ Me: ‘You Brits are hard-hearted. I woke up in my bed, after a horrible night of fright.’ She: ‘You poor thing, I never realised what a sensitive soul you are.’
Actually, Andrew Neil’s house is in Grasse, light years away from the brothel that the coast has turned into. Cannes, Nice and their environs are now fleshpots where narcotics and sleaze, wrapped up in glitz for their Russian and Arab clients, are flourishing. Not up in the hills, where Grasse, Mougins, Opiot, Chateauneuf and Saint Paul-de-Vance are located. The vulgar set wants to be by the sea, leaving the high ground to us. The new barbarians do not get it. Thank God.
The yearly lunch commemorates Napoleon’s birthday on 15 August, and the spot where he bivouacked on his first night ashore (after escaping from Elba) that is located in Andrew’s garden. But my host got one thing wrong in his speech. He forgot to mention that at Waterloo it was Blücher who carried the day for Wellington, and if the Prussian hadn’t arrived the Iron Duke would have been picking up leaves in Hyde Park for the duration. I tried to intervene but was booed by the mostly British crowd, as one-sided a bunch as I’ve come across in a very long while. Even my next question was drowned out by boos. ‘Why can’t you Brits ever fight a war one on one?’ Because then we’d win as often as the Italians, is the answer.
Having thanked my host and hostess, I then made my excuses and left for the airport, destination Gstaad, a large warm bed, and a hell of a lot of cows to look at. (As well as two-legged ones.) The farmers are making hay and storing it for the winter. The men sit on the tractors, the women do the heavy lifting. This is German-speaking Switzerland, a place that has its priorities right. An American lady whose children attend the Kennedy school asked me about this. She is a very nice woman so I kept my mouth shut for once. Who are we foreigners to interfere with such a quaint tradition, was all I said. Incidentally, couple of weeks ago I wrote about my buddy Peter Livanos and the JFK school he purchased and turned into a first-rate institution. What I didn’t say is that he then donated the school to a public foundation based in Berne, a foundation that needs funds constantly to upgrade the school and its buildings. Gstaad being the so-called Mecca of the rich, I hope some of them turn out to be as generous as Peter. I for one will send my grandchildren there, and hope to start the ball rolling this winter. But knowing the rich, I will not hold my breath until I see it.
Comments