..where
you might be going. A period, or even a singularity, when one realises that
this is as good as it gets. When you have achieved the right balance between
youthful folly and the wisdom of age - a brief moment in time – such as
when Goldilocks found the best porridge, chair and bed and surmised that, just
for a moment, all was well with the world. Not too hot or too cold, too big
or too little, too hard or too soft. Just right.
Points in time when everything about oneself and the environment are in in perfect
harmony; and you have the wit to realise that this is now that moment. A period
of self-awareness, of human weightlessness before gravity takes over and you
slide down life’s rainbow in folds of decrepitude and weariness, vaguely
bemused as your mind and memories turn into motes of dust floating in the air
containing never to be recaptured thoughts and memories.
Life can be a case of either not having arrived - or of being too late. Either
discovering oneself still to be covered in a greasy layer of immaturity, pimples
and unremitting anxiety, or standing alone on the empty platform with grey thinning
hair, wine stains down the front of your shirt, wearing unfashionable trousers
and seeing the train of life vanish in the distance, leaving only the sound
of champagne flutes tinkling faintly in the distance and the fading susurration
of other people having a good time.
So, as an alternative life grants you what might be called happy moments, a
few minutes, perhaps even a few hours here and there when you can say to yourself
that this is just right. We are definitely not talking about Technicolor, Cinemascope,
fully multi-channel symphony orchestra moments scored and orchestrated by Erich
Korngold, where the Red Sea parts before one and the Promised Land can now be
seen clearly indicated by a giant pointing polystyrene hand in the full regalia
of a leading supermarket chain. That can only be achieved under the influence
of assorted chemicals, participation in an orgy of mass delusion and hysteria,
or Hollywood.
In 2004, many years after my minor epiphany in New Zealand, I am with my dear
friends Greg and Jill staying at a Château du Broustaret, which is actually
closer to a large farmhouse, in the Bordeaux. Having slept late and demolished
a magnificent breakfast we drove off, with myself as the uncertain and occasionally
terrified navigator through the Sauterne district and around and into many a
Chateaux and village. The roads were narrow and separated from the vines by
a narrow strip of grass. We stopped, gawked, and were studiously ignored at
Chateaux Suidurat, Giraud and Filhot makers of some of the greatest sauternes
whose exclusivity was enhanced by not being offered to us. The first sign of
Noble Rot could be seen on the vines. And in the car.
We lunched at a place called Cazeneuve under the trees with wine, cheeses, pâté,
ham and all other manner of fine food. The weather was idyllic, the sky high
and blue, the shade cool and the temperature could only be called as bamy as
we were. The food was delightful, the wine excellent and I confessed that, after
forty odd years, this is the only the second moment of happiness that I could
recall - an occasion that resulted in my happiness being toasted at length.
This made me even happier, though I may have been exaggerating just a little
about the scarcity of happy moments. Incidentally, Cazeneuve has a large park
with the castle that we ignored when we found that it required parting with
money, for parting with money and happy moments are not necessarily to be countenanced
at the same moment .
We returned to Broustaret armed with more food and wine and, miracle of miracles,
I had another happy moment, which made me think that being in France with food,
wine with good friends might be a good start to feeling good about the world.
I am prepared to continue testing that hypothesis for as long as I can.
Anyway, you can’t plan for happy moments, you can’t buy them, win
them or compete for them. When the rather gorgeous Cristina Campbell slid across
the bench seat of my grandmother’s red and cream FB Holden with its three
speed column shift and nestled against my side as we drove off for our first
date, that qualified as a happy moment. Rather exciting too I recal,l as I thought
she was rather out of my impecunious league.
So when these moments occur unbidden at the touch of a hand, a gentle shower
of rain, or the weightless pressure of a snowflake, take the moment for what
it is and walk on with a high heart. It probably is as good as it gets.