A Religious Experience

In the beginning, God created all manner of stuff...

(then, several days later)

God said, "Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: the livestock, the creatures that move along the ground, and the wild animals, bacteria, parasites, mosquitos, arachnids, each according to its kind" 

And it was so.

(the very next day)

God said, "Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness (especially Trump), so they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, bacteria, parasites, mosquitos, arachnids....

Thus veterinary surgeons were created.

Then, around 1977, it all started going wrong...

Every year since then, many of us get together to celebrate the fact that our livers have survived another year. 

This was to be our 42nd pilgrimage. 

Kev & Jane had been given the cruel and unenviable task of following on from last year's extravaganza in the South of France (in that evil place called Europe). 

In desperation, in a radical attempt to compete, they called upon the intervention of Trump God himself. 

This years reunion was to be held in monastery.

Stanbrook Abbey in Worcester to be precise.

It's an impressive building, onto which, to uphold its long monastic tradition, a large concrete block has been attached.

The first evening was spent in the traditional christian way of topping up alcohol levels. Here's Phil explaining that all the bottles belong to Judy...

That evening's food was monastic. I was impressed. I thought only British Rail could reach such dizzying heights.

The next day, after a hearty breakfast (I love it when I ask for an espresso and get what is obviously their normal coffee in a small cup) we were led on a stroll up the Malvern Hills.

Wick was given the honour of carrying the crate of holy water.

We walked at various speeds with various heart rates. Thank God there was an electric fence to keep us on the straight and narrow, and to kick start our tickers when required.

After an hour of stumbling along, we gathered near the summit for prayer. Not everyone was kneeling in supplication.

Spot the difference.

 On reaching the summit we searched for enlightenment a bar.

 even asking a passing monk,

 but no pub could be found.

 Nice view of the local pollution though...

Someone did, finally, spot a pub where we gathered to give thanks.

 Clearly a sign of our devotion.

Fasting seemed appropriate.

That evening we all went to church to repent our sins.

This part of the abbey was kept solely for deeply meaningful contemplation

 We contemplated soulful replenishment.

 We sat to pray that the food would be good. We ate flesh and drunk red stuff.

 Touching was encouraged, as in most Catholic Churches.

Our souls fully replenished (the meal was bloody good, BR must have been on strike), the next day we searched for further rejuvenation. In another pub. Not that it shows any signs of revitalising us as yet...

And so, to the end of another three day liver-enlarging sojourn. Kev and Jane did us proud. Thanks both for all your efforts and your attempts to convert us from the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
See you all next year, by the grace of God, or shear bloody luck...

May your god go with you...

Postscript

Bellow the abbey can be found the dungeon realms where the spawn of hell hang out. Here are the wine cellars, games rooms and lost souls wandering in a state of delirium.
I half expected to find Mike Hayes...

An After-Dinner Stroll

This year, we've not been up to our 'Pad in the Pyrenees' as often as we would have liked. This has mostly been due to me being a temporary hotel manager with guests that insisted I keep up with them in the food and drink department.

This has done my overall health and wellbeing no good.

No good at all. 

As I was about to find out.

As some work needs to be done on our pad, we popped up there for a couple of days for a 'site survey'. Oh good, only new stairs and a garage door...

Whilst there, we were invited by friends (Peter & Babette) for lunch in their new abode, an old farm they moved into a year ago.

After a lovely meal of sea-food starter, magret de canard followed by tiramisu, swilled down with a good belgian beer and a 'couple' of glasses of decent plonk, all was well with the world.

A walk was suggested.

This took me back to my youth when, after Sunday lunch with Aunty Win and Uncle Louis, we'd go off for a walk beside a local canal, ending up with tea and jam sandwiches on a tartan rug. 

The walks were always agonisingly slow, complicated by Uncle Louis' penchant for taking photos of old disused industrial sites. This would always be further aggravated by an evening spent looking at slides of the last walk... 

Yawn...

Oh dear, I've just realised that is exactly what I am doing now...

"Well", I thought, "what could be more pleasant than a slow country walk after such a wonderful lunch?"  The trouble is, canals are kinda rare here, due mostly to those big pointy things that were all around us. Still, no worries, their abode was surrounded by rolling hills.

"This will be easy" I thought.
Uh, no.
We were taken further into the mountains, up to Portet d'Aspet (one of the Tour de France hot spots), where we would start our afternoon stroll in an upward direction.
It started easily enough, peaking through breaks in the trees to see the peaks beyond.

This was to be a long uphill walk,

up the mountainside through thick forest.

There were certainly a lot of trees. 

Until there weren't.
We'd reached the tree line.
I now know why trees don't grow high up mountainsides.
Their hearts give out.
Mine certainly had.

Both I and Aros (the pyrenean mountain dog and erstwhile god of love) were completely cream-crackered. Carrying all that extra weight was taking its toll.

The sun was going down as we reached the top.

We needed to get down fast. Our intrepid leader once more led the way. This guy is somewhat fitter than Eros and I. You can go off people...

Going up was hard for me, going down was harder for Annick. She had broken her knee less than a year ago, and although well healed, it was somewhat painful for her.
I would've carried Annick if my heart wasn't also giving up.

I need to get fit.
We arrived back at base camp in time for the sunset.

And so. If you're looking for a gentle canal walk, the Pyrenees are sadly lacking.
For me? Back to jogging.
And maybe keep out of the food and drink department.
Eesh.

In Search of the Painted Wolf - The Book

You may have noticed that the last few blogs have been dedicated to wild dogs. This, fear not, is the last of them, only now I feel that it's time to rename them 'Painted Wolves'.

No, this is not a European Regulation, yet another daft excuse to get out of Europe.
These incredible animals get blamed for a lot of livestock killing in Africa, but they are usually not the guilty party, usually the killings are done by Hyenas. Not Wild Dogs. Not Painted Wolves. But because of this, they frequently get shot.

So, does the name 'Painted Wolves' sound less dangerous? If you are an antelope, no. If you’re a goat, yes. If you are a local farmer, yes.

The only slight failure of logic here is that the local farmers speak Swahili...

Anyway, I've written a book called ‘In Search of the Painted Wolf’ that explains it all. If you fancy reading it, you can download it here:

In Search of the Painted Wolf

It’s about 200Mb so make sure you have a decent connection. You'll need to download it. It’s a pdf file, best read in Adobe Reader in ‘Single Page’ mode.

My favourite photos of Painted Wolves from the last trip to Africa can be found here:

Photos of the Painted Wolf

Beware, there are over 50 of them.

I hope you enjoy it. Any comments welcome as long as they are good ones...

Phil