Last time I was in this part of the country I spent two days jumping into the heart of the universe and pulling myself apart for examination and reconstruction before yarking heavily into a white bucket, washing the thing out, and starting again. I was sleeping on the floor. People were playing tribal instruments and singing vaceros.
Now I’m surrounded by old folk in a stately home crossed with a Toby Carvery.
We just left the musical extravaganza. It’s hard to watch performers who don’t care. The warm up act was a pro, a kind woman, working for and with what might be a disheartening audience if you’re just in for the validation. She gave it her all and really added to the joy. The main act were younger and there’s this thing when you’re young when you kinda need some sort of validation. Once you’re secure in your craft it goes, but these guys had switched out from caring after one too many sleepy audiences. Even with the two of us in the room I kid you not but the average age there was well over seventy. They aren’t gonna be howling for joy, especially after nine at night when happy hour starts mid afternoon.
In other places here, people really give their all. Our neighbour at dinner recommended a multi instrumentalist. He was playing in the ballroom and was greatly skilled, mature in his craft and humble, sharing his passion with us. The whole day can be full if you want it to be. ‘It’s like after retirement you can be a child again,” Lou says.”Make friends, do activities, eat too much, sleep lots.” It’s true. And mere oblivion. Sans teeth sans eyes sans taste sans everything. But let’s have fun on the way down.
It has been a very curious experience. We stick out like sore thumbs. Everyone is lovely. These are the part of their generation who still gets out and does stuff. “He can’t hear a thing, but he’s always at it, can’t sit still, can’t stop moving,” says our neighbour of her ninety year old companion. “I used to do long walks,” he shouts to me. “So do I, the longest ones I can find,” I shout back. “Oh, yes,” he smiles and nods, having heard nothing whatsoever. “Oh yes. Yes I like long walks.” Her second husband died less than a year ago. Getting old is hard if you manage it.
It’s the immersive pensioner experience in having here. Someone’ll run it in a building in London some time, charge everyone £200 quid, give ’em a bit of dry chicken on good plates and then pay someone like me to shout at them for a bit before blowing a bit of smoke at them and singing a song. This is better. And there’s more meringue.
I’ve eaten so much though. Buffet, innit. Three courses. My side of the bed is nearest the bathroom.
Huge windows but it’s boiling in here. Gotta keep them warm. One more night in this humungous suite and then it’s the real world again and I think we will both remember that we aren’t in our eighties.
For now though, bed before eleven.
AlBarclay 