Life

Provence As soon as I opened my front door I could smell it. Along the path, flakes of white ash landed on my arms. Looking north beyond the cliff, I saw a rapidly increasing plume of brown-black smoke. Before long it filled a third of the sky. Not again. Ten years ago, almost to the day, the concrete shack I was renting in the woods a few miles from the village was almost engulfed. Jeremy was having a break and staying with me when a wildfire broke out in the valley below. The smoke and flames looked about a quarter of a mile away and firefighting Canadairs flew low overhead. Friends told us to leave but I refused. I’d left everything behind in Scotland 18 months before and couldn’t face doing so again. Jeremy asked if he’d have to knock me out and throw me over his shoulder.

Pascal attributed royalty’s employment of court jesters to the king’s desire to forget or ignore, for however brief a moment, the fact of his own mortality. Carl Trueman, in The Desecration of Man, suggests that today’s star athletes and entertainers owe their remuneration, exceeding by many times the annual salary of the US president, to the major role they play in helping postmodern and post-Christian people to do the same.

“Quiet luxury” is all the rage these days, the social media algorithms tell me. On Instagram and TikTok, Americans inform their followers that clothing with no visible branding is a true status signifier, before extolling the virtues of Barbour jackets and Loro Piana shoes. Aspirational people shouldn’t drive flashy new cars, they argue; instead, they should drive a 30-year-old Range Rover – as if the inevitable engine rebuild wouldn’t cost more than most people would spend on a car. When decorating, millennial gray is wrong, garish and uninteresting; everything must be sage green with brass accents. There is nothing more quiet and luxurious than the B&Q color-matching desk.

It’s a sweet little town, Arcachon. Clinging to the long French Atlantic coast, adorned with Victorian villas and pretty flowerbeds, it reminds me oddly of the English town of Bournemouth. By which I mean: Bournemouth before it was ruined. As such, it’s the kind of place that usually calls for a return visit. I am sure for many French people it is a holiday regular – “ahh, shall we do Arcachon again? Mais oui, we can try that new oyster cabin.” But right now I seriously wonder if anyone will want to return to Arcachon, ever.  The reasons are twofold. Firstly, the news is full of searing images: of people fleeing the wildfires on Cap Ferret, and being ferried, like wartime evacuees, across the bay to Arcachon after a summer of repeated heatwaves.

Our July 4 was low on bombast and high on fraternity this year. There were no stealth-bomber flyovers, no tanks treading ominously down Main Street or any other minatory displays of military hardware straight out of a Soviet-era Moscow May Day. Even Lee Greenwood left us alone. I’m told Washington was another story. For the first time since Covid, “Picnic in the Park” was back in Batavia. This much-loved festival of food, music, and smiling, “hey, how ya doin’?” encounters fills the bosky park across the street from the New York State School for the Blind. (One of Batavia’s many ironies is that the best view in town is from the blind school.) For years, my wife, daughter and I manned the Landmark Society’s strawberry shortcake stand at Picnic in the Park.

I am currently six months pregnant with my second child, and it feels like a rather strange time to be so. Partly because these unexpectedly long spells of warm weather have rendered me umbilically tethered to a fan at all times, which has done terrible things to my electricity bills. Partly because every morning I seem to wake up to a new maternity scandal and must navigate between newsfeeds in which women trauma-dump their horrendous birth stories or hypnobirthing experts chanting that my “body was made to do this”.   Another reason I feel discombobulated is that I am pregnant with my second son, and yet everywhere I turn, there seems to be a preference for baby girls over baby boys.

I moved on from most of my father’s automotive prejudices. He refused to buy from the Japanese “who treated our prisoners so cruelly,” French and Italian cars would “always let you down in the end” and Fords were gaudy creations of “big-headed Americans.” Instead, it was Volkswagen (VW) I never trusted. Stupidly stuck in a bygone era, I couldn’t get over that infamous 1938 photograph of Adolf Hitler, smiling with childlike delight, leaning over a miniature Beetle. Beside him, in a smart civvy suit, SS Colonel Ferdinand Porsche gleefully shows off the prototype. The foundation of Volkswagen is the definitive portrait of a dictator and his sycophants. OK, it’s 88 years later and I don’t like hearing about people losing jobs, even at VW.

The World Cup’s new ball is the most technologically advanced ever, FIFA tells us. It has a 500Hz motion sensor chip, which lets VAR and analysts figure out precise positioning, speed and even the spin on the ball, for some weird reason. But former England goalkeeper Joe Hart says the Trionda ball is making life harder for goalkeepers trying to save shots. “It’s that kind of shoulder height,” he continued: As soon as [players] are not using the curling technique, as soon as that ball is not spinning, the goalkeepers are struggling.” Hart obviously has lots of experience in the area and was particularly known for his ability to deal with shots around the head and shoulders, but is he right?

Epic figures leave epic gaps when they retire. The generations that follow are doomed to be compared to past heroes by nostalgic fans. So it is with Roger Federer. Novak Djokovic might be the GOAT (greatest of all time, to use the phrase du jour) in terms of sheer numerical achievement. But tennis is art, not science. Ballet, not bookkeeping. For the aesthetes among us who drink in the sight of on-court grace like champagne, Federer will always be number one.  To answer why, you don’t need words, though heaven knows enough have been written about the grace of Rog. (David Foster Wallace famously called watching the Swiss savant "a religious experience"). Click on any clip and watch Fed glide on the court, near-supernatural in his poise.

Edward Gibbon was troubled by a swelling in his lower abdomen. I have the same condition. “Wow. That’s huge,” said my GP as he gazed at the affected area. “Huge?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I wouldn’t know. It’s the only one I’ve ever seen.” My cyst has been expanding steadily for decades and I was told a few years ago that its intentions were peaceful. My new GP was trying to scare me, obviously. I don’t blame him. It’s dull work staring at sick bodies all day and he was trying to amuse himself with a spot of scaremongering. “You’ll need a scan within two weeks,” he added. “Cancerous perhaps?” I asked. He nodded with a sly grin.