Bruce Anderson

In an apparently benign — almost prelapsarian — setting, the Rhine is an epitome of the human condition. Scenery is rarely more beautiful or more glorious. Yet it can be equally hazardous. This is a river that arouses mysticism, and its temptations. By swimming in those waters, men seek to affirm their unity with the cosmos and their triumph over the natural world. But every year, a fair few swimmers end up in the mortuary. Their quest for mastery over nature ends with ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Almost as soon as men first emerged from caves, they began to beautify their dwellings near the Rhine, as well as exploiting its fertility.

Some time ago, I wrote that rosé should only be drunk south of Lyon, but one could start on the first bottle around 10.30 while brushing away the last shards of breakfast croissant. Although I received appreciative comments, I am no longer sure that I agree with myself. I recently discovered Domaine de Triennes, which is a serious wine with length and structure — far better than the average supermarket rosé which would work perfectly well as an ice lolly. Domaine de Triennes ought to be good. It was founded by Aubert de Villaine of Romanée-Conti, an unsurpassable pedigree, and Jacques Seysses who had been with Dujac, a superb Burgundian producer. The Var has always produced lots of wine, almost all quaffable, almost none worthy of serious attention.

‘The doors clap to, the pane is bright with showers.’ With ‘summer’ determined to do its worst, there is one obvious question. How were the English able to invent cricket and tennis? Apropos tennis, there is another obvious question. How long will Wimbledon remain mired in sexism? It has now been established beyond peradventure that women are at least as good as men at everything. Anyone who claims that those who were born female — an increasingly irrelevant criterion — are not as strong as men is likely to encounter the wrath of the criminal law. Quite right too: supposed free speech must not be allowed to trump common sense.

It is hard to decide which is more depressing, the extension of the lockdown or the public support for this latest instance of ministerial panic. The Royal Navy may still march to ‘Heart of Oak’. But among great swathes of the civilian population, there is precious little sign of stout-heartedness. As well as virus variants, there is another infection, from variants of Stockholm syndrome. Many Britons appear to be enjoying captivity: mask-wearing, restrictions, bossing people about. The trouble is that there is no vaccine to hold all that at bay. Boris promises relief after four weeks. He means it; he always does with his promises. But in BoJo speak, four weeks is a long time. Four days is a long time. We shall see.

It seemed a suitable topic for a bank holiday. We were discussing Haut-Brion, a bank-breaking wine. There is a question that is often asked. Which is the greatest claret, Haut-Brion, Lafite or Latour? I find that easy to answer: the one I have drunk most recently — not that I have tasted nearly enough of any of them. (I have heard at least one expert claim that post-war, there has been no greater claret than Haut-Brion ’59.) Haut-Brion is a marvellous wine. Thomas Jefferson may have been the first to explain why. There is a good deal of gravel in the terroir, which seems to give the wine an intellectual depth: appropriate for Jefferson. Yet the initial impact on the nose is hardly an intellectual one.

The last Saturday of lockdown — inshallah — and we were discussing literature. Specifically, when does a detective story become a novel? T.S. Eliot edited the World’s Classics edition of The Moonstone and gave a copy to A.E. Housman, with the inscription: ‘The best detective story in English or any other language.’ Surely Eliot was right. The Moonstone and The Woman in White are superb detective fiction. But they are not novels. Poor Wilkie Collins did try to write novels. Nobody read them. Nobody was wise. We more or less agreed. Ian Rankin, Reginald Hill, P.D. James, Dorothy Sayers, James Lee Burke: all regularly cross the frontier into novelism. Perhaps we should adopt the French term: roman policier.

Freedom approaches. Should we be humming ‘Va, Pensiero’ or ‘O Welche Lust’ — perhaps both. Thinking of Fidelio reminds me of a delicious comment made about Ted Heath by the late Sam Brittan in the FT, decades ago. On this occasion, Le Grand Epicier was being interviewed about music. He declared that Fidelio was one of his favourite operas and that every time he saw it, he was inspired anew by the ideals of freedom which it so powerfully expressed. Sam was unpersuaded. ‘Poor Mr Heath. He may be moved by Fidelio. Yet he does not realise that if the British public knew that noble work, they would immediately identify him not as Florestan, but as Pizarro.

We were discussing travel, that forbidden delight now tantalisingly close. Where would be our first destination? Forswearing originality, I chose Venice. Among the world’s greatest paintings, one in particular does not merely come to mind. It fills the mind. I have never been in the Serenissima for the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin, probably just as well. In mid-August, there are bound to be pedestrian traffic jams all the way from the Piazza to the Rialto. But it is possible to imagine the event. Go to Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. Use your inner eye to fill the church with the entire nobility of Venice, festooned with gold and jewels. The choir and the censers are both in full cry.

There is a more depressing subject than the lockdown. The evening began with a bottle of 18-year-old Glenmorangie. It was subtle and relatively gentle, but also powerful. Alas, this true flower of Scotland lured our talk towards disaster. We started discussing contemporary Scottish politics. Instantly, we were transported to Macbeth: ‘Alas, poor country, almost afraid to know itself.’ My friend said that this was unfair. Nicola Sturgeon was not as bad as Macbeth (though she would make a good Lady Macbeth). I disagreed. She is worse. It was relatively easy for Scotland to recover from Macbeth. He just needed to be slain. There is no such simple cure for the curse of the SNP.

A year of lockdowns has certainly passed slowly. But there are topics for thought. One disappointment has been the Church of England’s failure to take its opportunity. It could have tried to position itself at the centre of national life. Even unbelievers should agree that if its Church were stronger, so would England be. What about the occasional day of prayer? A surprising number of people would have taken part. Instead we had closed churches and teeth-grating literature, like brochures from a third-rate business school. Faith by platitude and Zoom call does not work. This is a better way. My friend Alexander Sherbrooke, the RC parish priest of St Patrick’s, Soho, believes that it would be blasphemous to close a church.

Some friends claim to be making marks on the wall to count the days until liberation. Ah, the forgotten delights of restaurants and foreign travel. In one long nostalgic phone call, we kept present discontents at bay by discussing Paris. Although I have partaken of three-rosette meals in the capital of gastronomy and was never disappointed, a different experience came to mind. This restaurant has never received Michelin’s highest accolade, not that it would care. It believes itself entitled to at least four rosettes. Its name is Chez l’Ami Louis, in the Troisième, not far from the Marais. I was introduced to it by Rémy and Mathilde, a couple who knew their Paris. The husband could explain every nuance in Proust and the wife was not far behind.

Lockdown provides time to think, and to reminisce. A South African friend, trapped in Amsterdam, phoned the other day. Had I written about the David and Nadia wines from Swartland we had tasted at the end of last year? Not yet: I was awaiting further particulars, which may have been remiss of me. Justerini and Brooks is a major stockist and they are some of the best wines coming out of South Africa, which is saying a lot. Wines have been produced in South Africa since the Huguenots settled in vine-friendly lands not far from Cape Town. Stellenbosch, Paarl and the aptly named Franschhoek are well known. Swartland is catching up. The names take me back to so many evenings in the 1980s, drinking wine in Stellenbosch and discussing the future.

There was all this talk about Covid, claiming that chaps who were over seventy and not underweight were vulnerable. I would nod sagely, never thinking that this could apply to me. Like a lot of men, when it comes to physique or romance I have a secret appeal court, to override the harsh judgments of birth dates and the shaving mirror. It assured me that I would not catch Covid.  Yet around the turn of the year, I kept on getting intimations and twinges. Full-blown Covid symptoms? No. Taste? Fine. Smell? Fine. Occasional cough but hardly so you would notice. But I was not happy. Was this plague, or hypochondria? The latter did not seem impossible. I was tested – a brush at the back of the throat variety – and passed, without feeling reassured.

I was thinking about tragedy. Could one use the term ‘chronically tragic’? My first instinct is against. Tragedy is the soul-ravaging final scene of Othello or King Lear, when hope is overpowered by implacable despair. In Kent’s words: ‘Break, heart; I prithee, break.’ Flesh and blood could not withstand such emotional intensity in chronic form. Then again, how else can we describe the modern history of Lebanon? I have just heard of the passing of a splendid old girl. Yvonne Sursock was caught up in the terrible explosion which shattered Beirut at the start of August. Being a tough old bird, she lived for more than two weeks. Being 98, she succumbed. Yvonne could claim kinship with most of the Christian great and good along the Mediterranean littoral.