Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
me feel like a pawn in a wider game. And though I'm aware that most men could shrug off
these coincidences with nonchalance; I hear the soundtrack from
The Omen
.
And once again the biblical portents for this year were looming particularly large.
It seemed to have been raining since Boxing Day - not just drizzle but heavy, build-an-ark
rain and strong winds. The river Cher, the left tributary of the Loire and at a wide point here,
is about 400 metres from the house and its banks had burst. It tends to do this every year any-
way, but normally towards the back end of winter when the water table has taken four or five
months of deluge, certainly not at the turn of the year. The playground in town, built rather
optimistically on the river bank, was almost completely underwater, with just the top of the
swings and slide showing; a depressing post-apocalyptic vision, like the Statue of Liberty in
Planet of the Apes.
Junior of course loves this kind of weather, facing it down like some Nordic god, angrily
whinnying at the elements. I can't help laughing at him when he's like this which only makes
him angrier. As usual, he came marching up to me at the fence, snorting away like a bluff old
colonel, but then for some reason curiously ran out of steam and actually avoided eye-contact
with me, which he'd never done before. Maybe I'm finally wearing him down, I thought, and
then he snorted in my face like a spitting camel. I don't know what makes him as irritable
as he is. A friend of ours suggested that we should give him mint tea, as if that would help.
Frankly it sounded about as helpful as trying to massage his chi in the mornings, or re-arran-
ging his stable to harness a more positive feng shui.
'Mint tea, you say?' I was unable to disguise my scepticism and caught her boyfriend's
equally cynical eye.
'Yes,' she replied without a shred of doubt and held her mug up to his mouth.
The next five minutes was bedlam. He dipped his tongue into the mug and all was peace for
a couple of seconds, then his lips curled right back beyond his teeth and he let out a primeval
and very unhorse-like howl, stamped his feet, reared up at us as we scattered and fled the pad-
dock and then went galloping off. He hasn't really been the same with me since, clearly hold-
ing me responsible for the whole debacle. Whatever properties mint tea actually has, turning
a horse into a permanent Mr Hyde is not one of its best.
It's not just Junior, though, who was affected by the weather - we were all going a little stir
crazy, even those who were used to it. Jean-Paul owns a farm nearby and he also supplies
us with hay for the horses and
pousse d'épine
(a homemade liqueur made from blackthorn
shoots) for aperitif. From the start he and his extended family - he is Brigitte the
nourrice
's
father - have made us feel welcome and helped us out when we needed it, but he's knocking
on is Jean-Paul, a dead ringer for Albert Steptoe, and his behaviour is sometimes, erm, errat-
ic. As such, it wasn't entirely a surprise when he wandered unannounced into the lounge just
after New Year looking for his waders - what was more of a shock was when he asked me to
help him put them on.
