Over the weekend, although I hope that I was not committing blasphemy, it occurred to me that two splendid festivals virtually coincide. The first is the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin: the second, slightly earlier, the feast of the ascension of the red grouse.
I used to think a grouse needed a two-week hang. I was wrong. A couple of seasons ago, a blind tasting was held
One of life’s great pleasures is introducing a girl to Venice. Obviously, this will include the Church of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. The architecture is not that magnificent, but is there a more glorious name anywhere? And as for the interior… We enter and as we process down the nave, I tell the neophyte to imagine that this is indeed the Feast of the Assumption. The Patriarch, the Doge, the grandest heads of all the aristocratic families: everyone who is anyone in Venice is there in all their finery. Furs, silks, cloth of gold, jewellery – and that is only the men. The censers are at full tilt. I do not know whether Monteverdi performed in the Frari, but let us imagine him commanding the orchestra and the choir, conjuring the finest music Venice could offer.
But the crowning glory is to come, on the High Altar. This is Titian’s most sublime painting, and what a superb female portrait The Virgin is in her full glory. She has thrown off the frailties of old age to become once again the tremulous girl of the Annunciation. ‘Behold the Handmaid of the Lord.’ As she gazes upwards, her son stretches out his arms to welcome her home to be Queen of Heaven. Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian. Is there a leap from art to faith? For me, nearly – but not quite.
If there is a God, the grouse would seem to be worthy of its Creator. Yet there is a problem. The bird itself may be innocent, but it incites at least four deadly sins. There is pride, when the good – or lucky – shot demonstrates his skill. Watching his success, other guns may be guilty of envy or of wrath, contemplating their own incompetence. Finally, there is gluttony – or is there? The joy in eating a grouse surely cannot be a sin.
The grouse also deserves a salutation in the glass. This year, courtesy of an American friend, it will receive one. This fellow, who keeps his identity private, has an excellent cellar of burgundy, much of it from that prince of vignerons, Armand Rousseau. The Yank phoned. ‘I’m on my way to London. Tell me: grouse. Is it as good as they say?’ ‘Better.’ ‘Then it’s time I had one. Would burgundy work with it?’ ‘Perfectly.’ ‘Right. What say you to some of Rousseau’s Clos de la Roche? I have the 2010 and the 2021.’ ‘2010, drink of the gods. The ’21: not sure it’ll be ready.’ ‘You always say that, you incorrigible necrophiliac.’ ‘I shall be happy to be proved wrong.’
Apropos necrophilia, I used to think a grouse needed a two-week hang. I was wrong. A couple of seasons ago, a blind tasting was held, presided over by His Grace of Northumberland and other Percys, plus chaps who had shot and eaten plenty. The easy winner was breasts of young birds straight from the moor.
There is a delightful story in the Lyttelton/Hart-Davis letters about a ducal secretary of state in Victorian times who had an estate up north and was passionate about woodcock. He had left instructions to his keeper to alert him when they appeared. A letter duly arrived. The Duke summoned his carriage to go straight to King’s Cross, telling his private office that he would be in touch. ‘Horned Sir,’ the missive read: ‘the kaks be kum.’ What an eloquent introduction to a life-enhancing pleasure.
Bruce Anderson can also be read on bruceanderson.org.
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