OM Director's Update from Lawrence Tong

OM Director's Update from Lawrence Tong, International director

OM Director's Update from Lawrence Tong, International Director

OM Director's Update from Lawrence Tong

OM Director's Update from Lawrence Tong, International Director

OM Director's Update from Lawrence Tong

On the potholed drive home from the pub the other night, a creature ran into the beam of our lights. Long, low and lean, for a moment it looked like an otter. One has occasionally been sighted in our village, though like Loch Ness’s fabled monster this is a source of some dispute. But in another second it was clear that this beast was not from the riverbank but the woods.

I dimly remember a time when the subject of keeping a house warm would have left me cold. In a previous existence, my brother-in law would visit in the depths of winter and complain about how chilly the place was. The problem was not our thermostat, however, but that he chose to sit in a bay window overlooking the Firth of Forth, through which the wind would find him in his short-sleeved shirt.

A young American dressed for the hills wandered past our cottage last week with the air of someone lost. Alan who, since we moved here, has found his calling as a human Google map, asked if she was looking for something. “Yeah,” she said, “a Diet Coke.” He told her that, despite our community’s many attractions, a shop wasn’t one of them. Pointing her in the other direction, towards a village two miles away, he said she’d find what she needed there.

There was a time when I would sit up late in bed, reading novels. As a reviewer, this was often for work, but that didn’t diminish the pleasure of ending the day in another world. Of late, however, I’ve hurried through ordinary books the way you rush the main course in expectation of pudding. The reason? I’ve discovered the joy of gardening catalogues, and of roses in particular. As a result, my evening ritual is extended to include a last look at roses that ramble over walls, or join hand

When I first moved to the country, I anticipated taking long sturdy walks every few days, filling my lungs with fresh air, and gradually – proudly – achieving the weathered complexion of a Norwegian fisherman. Such is the variation in outdoor complexions in rural parts, Farrow & Ball could start a new range: shepherd’s sunburn, builder’s brick red, farmer’s frozen snout.

One of the loveliest towns in Italy is the walled city of San Gimignano, an hour’s drive from Florence. When I first visited it was bleak midwinter and all but a few shops and cafes were shuttered against the sleet. Its claim to fame is a profusion of medieval towers, hence its hyperbolic label as the Manhattan of Tuscany. When I arrived these fortresses soared overhead, making shadowy streets even darker.

In search of peanuts for the birds, I stumbled across an agricultural shop in a nearby village. From the outside it was unspectacular, but opening the door was like stepping into an episode of The Archers. They did indeed have peanuts, in sacks the size of whisky barrels. I wouldn’t have been able to drag one as far as the till, and I wondered if other weaklings had ever secretly slashed them open and let nuts pour into their pockets, gloves and wellie boots, before staggering out like overstu

There is little to like about the present predicament, but one thing I don’t miss is checking my diary every evening for a reminder of what tomorrow will bring. Our social life is not what you’d call a whirl, so usually memory can be relied on for the occasional gatherings. Here in Hoolet, socialising is often impromptu, a random encounter leading to a casual evening drink a few hours later, or a last-minute supper in a kitchen, so soon after the invite that nobody could possibly forget.

Sunday, April 19, 2020.

Caerlaverock Castle

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