Martin asked whether we would like to spend one final weekend in the magical home in the English countryside that he and his partner, Peter, spent years creating (cue the sound of my bags being packed rapidly). It’s a house dating back centuries that they filled with art and considered furniture – and life.
Diligent readers of this column might recall that, in the summer of 2022, Peter and Martin did an amazing thing. They rented a house in Provence and, over the span of a couple of weeks, invited a succession of us to join them for a few days among the lavender fields. It was, said Peter’s invitation, a moment, as we edged away from the coronavirus pandemic, designed to “celebrate life and making it through”. The remarkable thing wasn’t the renting of a sprawling villa but that someone who knew that cancer had marked their card wanted to be the host, wanted to celebrate being alive. It was a few days packed with fun, good conversations, wine and meals eaten together in the cooling evening air. Now with Peter gone, Martin has decided to let go of the home they owned, so it was his turn to be the convener of friends, to ask some of that south of France crew (and a pack of our various dogs) to gather again.
The weather in the UK wasn’t totally Provençal but it was hot enough for rosé to be the weekend’s go-to drink. On Saturday afternoon we manoeuvred the garden chairs – and the wine buckets – into the shade of a tree and the conversation, just as in that summer of 2022, drifted from topic to topic. Someone asked us what we would like to have been had we had a different career. One person said rugby player, or perhaps warden in a wildlife reserve in Africa, or interior designer (talk about hedging your bets). I didn’t have a clever idea for an alternative career; I love what I do and I can’t imagine anything else. One thing that everyone seemed to agree on was that they wish they could have found their confidence earlier. Self-doubt is the impediment to so many dreams.
For the Friday evening, Martin had bought everyone tickets to the races at Newmarket. While one of us has links to this world, it was the post-race entertainment that had caught his eye. The DJ Pete Tong would be playing a set of Ibiza classics accompanied by a 65-piece orchestra. Peter and Martin had also once owned a very nice spot in Ibiza, so this would be another bridge back to the past. I stood in the stands (easier access to rosé supplies) and found myself taken in by the crowd – thousands of racegoers, many with children, suddenly swept up in the music. Women with high heels now in hand, men easing the knot on their ties. It was also amazing how many local teenagers had come for an evening at the races (later we saw them walking back to town along grass verges). I always used to like that moment in a club when you surveyed the dance floor and it felt as though everyone was in the same moment. And here it was again.
Yet. By the time next week’s column lands, the UK’s general election will be over and there will surely be a new prime minister. Few now doubt that there will be a Labour victory but you don’t sense the sort of energy that led up to that first Tony Blair landslide in May 1997. People want change but the level of disenchantment with politics, and politicians, is just too high. There are always people who feel disenfranchised but my sense is that this increasingly includes many folk who would once have been passionate about politics. Looking at the dance-happy racegoers, I wondered what marks all these people would be putting on their ballot papers.
We drove back to London with a longtime friend, Paul, and Jan, who had known Peter for many years. The talk was of Peter, of course, of how friendships endure and interconnect, of being a host, of being grateful for lives well lived. It had been a final weekend in some ways but one that looked ahead too – accepting that change will happen.