Apologies, but Edwin is on holiday
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In which the Drood bids his readership adieu for the month of July, but promises to return soon, invigorated and with some cheery snapshots of windmills worth jousting.
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The word for vacation or holiday in German is “Urlaub”, which literally means “original greenery”, such as might be used by renaissance artists to discretely hide the “original sin”, and suggests a genuine return to some mythic paradise, at least for a while, to recharge oneself physically, mentally and spiritually. The dearth of originality in most sin these days is partly what inspires me to seek this ideal of sojourn in the green halls of Eden as a balm for my shredded psyche. However, in so doing I shall try to avoid the Germans, who either trek heartily through alpine pastures, clad in their sandals and socks, singing a merry song, or may be found baking in oily splendour on the beaches of Mallorca, where I am most unlikely to set so much as a toe. This is nothing personal, you understand, almost any “Volk” is tiresome when taken in their massy matrix. The English are quite particularly loathsome abroad, and definitely to be avoided. Fortunately, this is rather easy, as they converse in loud braying tones that are audible from the next village.
Jerome K. Jerome (perhaps the coolest name in literature) has already taught us how to pack for a trip up the river. To get it right requires, as a minimum, a stunning level of ineptitude, a dish of butter and a dog. How to pack for a road trip through France is slightly easier, since both dog and butter are fortunately extra to specifications. Miranda, my splendid but exigent Alvis, built in the days when “Grand Touring” meant exactly that, boasts a roomy cavern that might be entirely intended for luggage, were it not necessary to carry such a comprehensive toolkit. This is in anticipation of the quite likely event that the lady may need her tappets tinkering. For she is perfectly capable of running with the sweetness and silence of a sewing machine for a thousand miles, even climbing effortlessly into the high Pyrenees, only to succumb to some minor ailment, slap-bang in the driveway of Belloc’s legendary inn, before the amused gaze and hearty jeers of all the assembled muleteers.
However and notwithstanding, Drood promises to cool his temples in the mighty cathedrals of nature for a good month and then return with renewed vigour to his favourite planet to tilt manfully at all his, and hopefully all your, favourite windmills. Farewell. We shall meet at the bridge, in August.
Text: © Edwin Drood, 29 June 2010 |
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