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. Just ask Wellington. In the meantime, I’m hobbling along getting ready for the autumn judo and karate season. Alas autumn, a depressing time, is upon us. Why is it that summers lasted so much longer when one was young?
At times I walk along a river, which is ‘smooth and fast in the early morning’. (Two guesses whose words those are.) I walk at sunset because it’s cool in the shade, the farmers are already in bed, and the only living things that cross my path are slugs. I can’t wait to get back to the gym and to start training. But that’s for New York, in tempo and temperament light years away from here. Gstaad is for walking, climbing, dreaming. Of one’s youth, of girlfriends past, of drunken nights in Boulevard Montparnasse, lazy afternoons at the polo, of flower sellers at dawn, of the magical word yes, when uttered by a girl.
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