High life | 29 August 2013

Sultry August days and nights, with the gift of privacy an added bonus. In summer the village contains the die-hards, the locals and a few tourists. Bucolic freedom, fresh air and sunshine were once anathema — foul-smelling, airless dives like New Jimmy’s were the real McCoy — but now the sound of bells on roaming cows means instant happiness. It’s called old age. I can now walk from my place to the next village and back, a trip of about one hour, before the pain becomes unbearable. The good news is that early next year I’m trying out a revolutionary treatment in Germany, one with a 70 per cent success rate, especially among athletes. (Blood is extracted, jiggled with, then re-introduced and, presto, a new, improved Taki emerges and returns to competition pain-free. I hope.)

Good old Fatherland. When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, only a German can be counted on.