The V&A go on tour…

Rather late in the day, here is a note on our first tour abroad, to the South of France. I don’t have a score book, I think we forgot it, but my memory is as acute as ever.

We met at Heathrow or Gatwick, and miraculously were all on time. I was forced to travel Club on account of claustrophobia, not snobbery as some of you suggested. I mix with you lot in the pavilion at Stonor and even share a toilet, democracy doesn’t go further. You lunched on sandwiches, I fared better but you can have too much smoked salmon and I don’t like champagne before 6.

We picked up two cars at Nice, after Martin and Lucinda had enjoyed another lunch at the airport. Martin drove one car, I drove the other. He drives like Mr Toad on speed, taking bends at 80, heedless of the vomiting in the back. I drive like a deceased nun, with decorum. He got to our house first, but we went the wrong way, due to an aggressive Sat Nav lady who hated the British. The huge house had spectacular views in a dramatic landscape with a river in a gorge below, which was either ‘soothing’ to sleep by (Adam) or ‘fucking noisy’ (me). It had poured all week and did so all night but God, a cricket lover and decent all-rounder, brought out the sun on the morrow. Rooms were capacious, mine was a bit superior which might have been chance. Our charming landlords (Nick and his wife) had lit fires and bought dinner (and vin ordinaire), all we had to do was cook it. The kitchen had a walk-in fridge, and about three ovens. The P-Gs and myself fannied about chopping things, aided enormously by Adam Jacot who watched and commented. The weekend was a catering communal effort.

Before dinner I was just about to pop to the local village to purchase whisky when Ross produced a bottle of Laphroiag as a gift. I could have shagged him on the spot but for Octavia on his lap. After dinner there were the usual party games, some brainy, others brainless. Cath P-G announced she was not likely to excel at literary games, but then did. Ross, a clever clogs, turned out to be a bit dim guessing the name he had on his forehead (Mandela? Dracula?), but drink could have befuddled him.

Next day, Saturday, Cath P-G and I motored up to the village for pain, croissants etc. while Nick did the full English. Mrs P-G is very efficient but unresponsive to flattery. Frankly, if the group lacked anything it was totty; Mrs P-G gave an impression of being unavailable, Mrs Ashcroft was pregnant, Lucinda had a tummy upset…

Both games were played at St Vallier-de-Thiey, a hair-raising 20k away (if driven by Martin) or an interminable drive (if driven by me). The pitch is shite. But no-one minded, this is France not Oxfordshire. One end had been dug up by wild boars, unfamiliar with Rule 87 about straying onto the outfield. The track is artificial. We were guests of Tony Bloom, that ex-V&A stalwart who emigrated to France three years ago. I was embarrassed to meet him because in a videoed 60^th birthday greeting I had called him a mean fucker ‘cos he didn’t buy a round in the pub. But all was forgotten and he and his gorgeous wife were most welcoming and provided a wonderful lunch. We played his team, the Riviera Club, on the Saturday. Some of them are even more decrepit than us, although Martin and I still stood out as major cripples – yet we fielded throughout. Martin came to be sociable, his knees were buggered (but he seems on the mend).

I don’t recall much about the game. Short boundaries meant a lot of runs. Tony scored a few for them (next day he played for us). Chris M-T, Tom, Christiaan and Dennis were among the wickets (Riviera batted first), although M-T’s radar had problems and he was generous with wides. Dennis and Estelle joined us for the games but stayed elsewhere, alarmed perhaps by the prospect of charades. Dennis went to mass on Sunday at the Matisse chapel, a ‘stupendous’ experience. Adam said he didn’t know Dennis was Catholic. The name ‘de Caires’ seems to give it away. As ‘Jacot de Boinod’ indicates Frenchness.

They scored about 180 in 35 overs. We responded by losing quick wickets, unfamiliar with the unnatural pitch. But Nick P-G steadied things with a chanceless 50, and thinking the game secure got himself stumped at the third attempt, to give others a bat. His confidence was premature, wickets tumbled. We looked beat. At crises like this you need Trevor Bailey to stick around and cut and drive the loose one. So N. Bird hobbled in to play the Bailey role, and scored the winning runs.

We returned with vodka for Lucinda, hors de combat back home, who had kindly prepared the table for dinner, which was excellent gigot d’agneau. More après–dîner games ensued, Martin being a masterful Master of Ceremonies, and sober as he does not slurp wine like some of us.

Next morning, after a mercy dash with Cath to the boulangerie with a V&A sweater over me jimjams, we zoomed off (or in my case meandered off) to the game against Beausoleil CC, a team of Sri Lankans, who had replaced (at the last minute) a brewery XI who failed to raise a side. They were soon in deep doodoos, not the sort on the pitch (plentiful) but in the sense of being 30 for 6. The damage was done by Adam, Tom, Chris and Christiaan. Then everything changed in an instant. A bloke came in who had never played with them before. He whacked balls to every boundary (local rules forbad a 6 to a stroppy neighbour’s garden, it was 0 and out). He turned the game round and was about to put it beyond our reach when he heaved a ball straight to the long off boundary. Christiaan, our skip (I skippered on the Saturday) was standing at long on. He reacted quickly for a big man, and bibliophile. But the ball was seemingly beyond him. He ran like Jesse Owens but no-one thought he would a) compute the trigonometry b) actually catch the thing if he reached the apex of the triangle. But fuck me he did! And what’s more it wasn’t a fluke.

They made 216. We were up against it but I recall Ross and Dennis getting runs, and Chris M-T steering us towards the total – so that in the last over we needed only 4 runs to win. It was to be bowled by Kalith, their captain, a tidy bowler. Chris M-T faced the first (with Tony the other end). It hit him on the pads. A loud appeal. Out! Plumb. Never mind, short boundaries and only 4 to get. Christiaan had insisted those who hadn’t batted on Saturday got a bat, and so Tom P-G walked in. But was bowled first ball. Oh dear. Enter Adam, wily old pro. Also bowled first ball! Bugger. Kalith had got a hatrick! But Christiaan came in, with three balls to go, surely no problem even now. But wait! He swiped at the first ball, and missed. Two balls to go. He did the same to the next ball! One ball to go and four to win. He looked determined. And so he was. Deathly hush. Kalith bowled, Christiaan heaved. And missed! Fuck!

We had lost from a commanding position. Poor Jonkers was gutted and in the evening needed strong drink and silly games to distract him. Ross and I barbecued rib of beef, that Cath and Megan had purloined at a discount from a friendly, perhaps too friendly, butcher.

We had two days of sun, grace à Dieu, and on the Monday it rained again. This year we are going earlier to get the heat, and avoid rain. We are playing two games on a (different) picturesque pitch in the Var, with more time on the last day to explore. Flying from Heathrow to Marseilles. The dates don’t suit Martin, Sunil or Christiaan which is a pity and we may need a chauffeur to replace Martin, perhaps Octavia would be steadier.

Nicky Bird