Alasdair Gordons Story
Alasdair Gordons
1956
The sun was pouring down, and the sweat was drying in a salt cake on my unprotected forehead. I was accoutred in full Scottish rig; kilt, stockings, brogues, jacket; and even a tie. I prided myself on looking both Scottish, and presentable.
A car was coming along the very straight road. I threw it a practised glance; too grand, the French equivalent of a Rolls Royce. But, it drew up a few yards ahead of me, and I broke into a run; this could be luck indeed.
A gaunt gentleman with a grey, hang-dog moustache was driving, and a plump, ivory white old lady opened the door for me. "Would you like us to give you a lift?" (Yes!) "We can take you as far as our village." (Yes!); perfect English in an ivory-white voice. "You are Scottish, of course?"; the usual questions. "One of our ancestors was Scottish. She was an attendant of Mary Queen of Scots. I met your queen last year; such a charming lady."
A quick colloquy with the old man, in harsh French. "You must come to have dinner with us; It won't take you out of your way?"
Along a sandy rutted avenue, then a full blown French Chateau, complete with moat. We trundled over the draw-bridge, and rumbled into the cobbled courtyard. I was bidden to refresh myself in a superbly modern bathroom yet set in a cell-like chamber.
We sat ourselves at a long, polished table in an even longer, dimly lit banqueting hall, cool by comparison with the glare outside the latticed windows. There were tapestries on the walls, and a man servant, with slicked down hair, a tight white jacket and an air of complete, professional negativity. We ate seven (though small) courses accompanied by various wines. The last course was a massive slab of ice cream, "of our own making," accompanied by a salver piled high with strawberries, "picked this morning of course."
Replete, I repaired to the adjoining room for coffee. In 1956, real coffee was heaven. Easy conversation, entirely between the lady and myself; he apparently spoke no English, or like our upper class older gentlemen wouldn't be bother to expose himself to another language. It transpired that they were the Comte & Comtesse De Montalembert; a name featured in the history of France.
Finally - and it had come to this - I stumbled back along the avenue, slightly light headed, by the even-hotter sun, and by the liquor I had imbibed, during a memorable meal.
That night, I spent in a Youth Hostel near Lyons, on a hard canteen table, pestered by mosquitoes. Did I care?
