Horse racing, Sancerre and escaped lobsters

A stint in dry dock — the ‘dry’ literally — has one advantage. There is time for lots of long reading. After many decades since the last opening of Middlemarch, I had forgotten how good it is. I had completely forgotten a delicious minor character, Mrs Cadwallader, who is a blend of Aunt Dahlia and Lady Circumference. A Marxist heedless of his safety might describe her as declining gentry. She would have rejected both words with scorn.

In those days, many Church of England livings were bestowed on parsons such as Mr Cadwallader, who needed the money to preserve their social status. ‘The C of E was always better at ministering to the deserving ex-rich than to the indifferent poor’: discuss.

Apropos of the former rich, I have been hearing stories about a sometime Northumbrian wine merchant, Calverley Bewicke; always known as Verley. He was, alas, the author of his own decline. Verley inherited houses, land and money. He had excellent taste and was an accomplished country-house cricketer. If Northumberland had been a major county, he might have played in the odd first-class match. But he also had a taste for horse racing. Although he was good at it — three Cheltenham Gold Cups — there was no gainsaying the old adage. ‘It is easy to make a small fortune on the Turf. You just have to start with a large one.’

Even as his fortunes faltered, he had a lot of fun, and bestowed it on others. One of his jockeys always said, ‘Spent a year riding for Mr Bewicke. Best year of my career — even if he never paid me.’

Other creditors were less tolerant. The horses were renounced, so Verley turned to another passion: wine.