Yule regret it
by Nick Foulkes22 December 2009
Rummaging around in the further recesses of my memory I seem to recall a snatch of erudition that was not overwritten in the palimpsest of my mind or obliterated by the unhealthy appetite for refreshment that characterised my years in the grove of academe. It is only an imperfect recollection, rather like some shard of information retrieved from a damaged hard drive; something along the lines of there only being a very few stories concerning a handful of eternal themes. I think that this educational nugget was vouchsafed me in relation to the Chanson de Roland, or Mallory’s Morte d’Arthur. But at this very moment I find it applies equally well to my current predicament: marooned in an Airbus A319 on the ground at Heathrow’s Terminal Five, trapped not so much in a literary epic, but rather one of those quest movies grouped under the working title ‘going home for Christmas’.
I am sure that FQR’s esteemed film correspondent Adam Dawtrey would be able to enumerate each and every one of the cinematographic entertainments in this genre, but I have only a vague idea of a generalised narrative concerning a hapless protagonist who has to battle his way past numerous emotional/physical/climatic/legalistic/diplomatic obstacles in a desperate race to make it home in time to celebrate the birth of Santa on Christmas Day in the company of loved ones.
My ordeal began innocently enough at 5.30pm on Sunday December 20th when, having enjoyed a fabulous lunch at Riva in Barnes, I returned home, slipped into a three piece Donegal tweed suit by Terry Haste circa 1997, shrugged on a Vincci double breasted overcoat, with redingote, of cashmere, wool and angora and headed out to Terminal Five. My final destination was Le Locle, a blameless watchmaking town, where I was to make a state visit to the Zenith watchmaking factory.
For many years Zenith was run by a colourful showman called Thierry Nataff, but he has since gone on to work for FQR contributor Simon de Pury and freed up the post for a young man called Jean Frederic Dufour, a protégé of my old friend Jean Claude Biver and any friend of Jean Claude’s….
I should have turned back when I got the call from Lara Mingay spin doctor and propagandist in chief for the LVMH watch and jewellery group in the UK, telling me that our flight had been cancelled. Instead I rather foolishly continued to Terminal Five, only to discover that yes indeed, all of Europe was closed, either due to lack of interest or a surfeit of snow – it was not entirely clear which. Summoning up all the self-importance at my disposal, I instructed the charming young ladies at the BA First Class counter to get me on the next flight that was going anywhere near Geneva, and, having dismissed suggestions, however tempting, of HongKong and Buenos Aires I found myself occupying the last seat on the last flight to the last airport that remained open in Europe: Lyon.
Lyon is a sleepy place, at least the border police seemed to be off having a nap or a quick Gauloise as a disgruntled plane load of passengers muttered darkly waiting for the gendarmerie to turn up and check passports. Having negotiated the rigorous border controls I proceeded to the arrivals hall where my driver was waiting with a large sign bearing my name: the only slight problem that he was in terminal two and I happened to be in terminal one – a flurry of texts and calls ensued and I believe at one point Monsieur Bernard Arnault himself was woken to see if he could help my driver locate me.
And so it was, eventually, that I found myself in a four wheel drive Cadillac, that seemed to be in need of having its wheels balanced – as my teeth rattled against each other when the car topped 110 kmh – happily this did not occur too often as drifting snow kept speeds down to a more humane 50 or 60 kmh. I thought I was bound for something called the Palafitte, but instead I found a bed for the night at La Reserve, a very pleasant and extremely well run lakeside bed and breakfast that I highly recommend, even though the room service Salade Nicoise that I ordered for late supper/early breakfast seemed to be tuna-free…doubtless the kitchens were doing their bit to conserve stocks of this valuable fish.
Any way after a short doze and a sustaining breakfast the nice Mr Dufour came himself to convey me into the mountains and the next few hours passed sufficiently well for me to think that my luck might have turned: I carried out my obligations faultlessly, nodding sagely as I watched hard working Swiss people lifting small toothed wheels with tweezers and squinting through loupes at watch movements.
For what it is worth, Zenith seems to be in very capable hands and has a bright future. Then, after a salad that boasted some extremely tasty bufala Mozarella and with an entire cheese that Monsieur Biver had given to Monsieur Dufour to give to me, imparting its unique aroma to a prototype sac de voyage that Zenith is trialling, I waved goodbye to Le Locle and set off in good time to Geneva airport.
I was due for dinner with the Chows (Michael and Eva) and was keen not to miss the opportunity as they are seldom in the UK. As well as being an FQR contributor Michael is one of the most tasteful men you are likely to meet, he is a world expert on Art Deco Cartier, moreover he has written an extremely moving screenplay about his father’s life in China that I would like to turn into a book, so all in all I was looking forward to a supper of green prawns and a chat with an old friend.
However God and British Airways had other plans, while I was 30,000 or so feet above Europe, almost every airport around London closed and we were apparently lucky even to find a patch of Heathrow on which to put down, but while down, we were certainly not out (of the plane). So far I have been waiting for upwards of two hours for a stand to become free. I have started and finished Our Mutual Friend and tried to translate it into Ancient Greek, I have read the Daily Mail four times, written a novella and composed a memo to Monsieur Arnault stipulating that next time I visit one of his factories he places his entire fleet of personal aircraft, yachts, limousines, bicycles, rickshaws, sedan chairs and palanquins at my disposal to make any upcoming LVMH adventure even more varied and surprising.
