Willy Poole column
Aug 17 2006 By Willy Poole, The Journal
I touched last week on French weakness over whisky. This week I want to mention their failings over port.
I was brought up to have a great affection for good port.
A port wine of good education and pedigree must be approached with care and respect. The French have no concept of this, but then they never meet good port.
The port that I have met in France comes from no Port House that I have ever heard of and tastewise I can only compare it (unfavourably) to cough syrup. It would never be allowed out of the kennel in Northumberland, not even in a hunting flask (and that is saying something).
The French with great pride describe it as an "aperitif" and call it "porto". There is only one way to cope with it: you take a cold cantaloupe melon, cut it in half and fill the hollow with porto. Not bad. With good port it would be desecration; for porto it is absolution.
SOME of you may remember my problem with the taupe, the French mole, and my unsuccessful attempt to blow it up, which resulted in nearly blowing up Pip the terrier instead.
Since then I have tried all sorts and conditions of remedies, but the moles marched (or tunnelled) inexorably on. Every day a new cone of earth would appear and every day the dogs would dig it up, so that the lawn came to resemble the "after" pictures of the Somme battlefield.
It seemed only a matter of time before the black blighters appeared through the floor of our bedroom.
But now I have got the beggar and got him with a good old sort of trap that I sent to England for.
The French version is so complicated to set that the only thing you would be certain of catching would be a finger (yours). A kind friend sent me out a couple from England and I came out the other morning and saw that one was sprung. I had caught my first mole.
I turned to the surrounding spoil heaps and addressed them, telling all the moles that they could dig but they could not hide. I'd have 'em, I told them. Then I reset the traps andÂ… nothing. The traps remain empty and the smooth velvet surface of the lawn remains unsullied.
I found it hard to believe that one mole could make so much mess. Then I remembered Old John Smith, who "did" my moles at Powburn. He always said that yan mole could shift a muckle of earth. I hope he is right.
I actually have a sneaking affection for the mole. The mole in the orchard may continue his worm hunt unmolested by me, but just one pawful of earth on the wrong side of the fence and the taupe will be toast.
GARDENERS and wildlife are not always a happy combination. There were some nice people who had moved out of the town and into a chocolate box cottage with a thatched roof, holly hocks, the works. It also had a very beautiful and well established rose garden.
The nice people were exceeding proud of their roses and tended them with care and affection. Everyone admired the roses. One of their greatest admirers was the local roebuck.
On the first occasion that the nice people saw him in the garden they were terribly excited and got that wonderful warm feeling of really being at one with nature and of forming a symbiotic relationship with the creatures of the wild; soooooooo exciting! They spent all that morning ringing up their friends in London and telling them.
Then they went out to where they had seen the dear deer and perhaps to feel a sense of fellowship with such a beautiful animal. Then they saw what that beautiful animal had done to their beautiful roses. They looked up, yea, even unto the hills and shouted a word not fit for a family newspaper.
They tried all sorts of sprays and patent doovreys from the garden centre, which rubbed its hands when it saw them coming. But at last the wreckage of roses became too much and a neighbour suggested they consult Jim. Jim, it was said, knew a lot about deer.
Jim listened to the tale of woe and said the he would sort it. He sorted it two mornings later with a ballistic tipped .30-06 round. The nice people heard the "ker-boom" and popped their heads out of the window just as Jim was dragging the carcass across the lawn.
"Oh no," they cried, "you've killed it! We thought you would just catch it and take it away."
Jim, very sensibly, said nothing.
