Polo and me. Well, that’s an oxymoron to start with. I don’t like horses and a sport that involves a bat (ok, mallet) and a ball is so far beyond me, I’m almost a natural. Watching me try apparently resembles a handcuffed crab with a blindfold on, so I don’t try anymore. It’s now officially summer in Victoria, but not so as you’d have known it today as it was close to 16 degrees. Last weekend it was much nicer weather and thanks to a friend in marketing, we had free tickets to the local polo and access to the clubhouse, which meant free food and booze.
I hadn’t been to the polo in years and actually, the last time I had had been was at Smiths lawn at Windsor in the UK where I had met Sarah Ferguson’s father. I’d like to claim I was one of the members there, but I’d actually been delivering some advertising banners on behalf of one of the sponsors. I scammed a glass of pimms and hung around for a while, soaking everything in until it became very obvious that I didn’t belong at all. This time, being Australian polo, it was a slightly more egalitarian affair, if you discount the folks that arrived by helicopter and the Porsches parked in the car park. There was a smattering of ‘names’ there and a well known TV presenter, who took a turn on horseback.
Between the chukka’s (they are seven minutes long and there are between four and eight of them in a game) it’s traditional to get out there on the pitch and ‘tread in’ the divots caused by the horses hooves. It’s hard to be doing it without thinking about Julia Roberts character in the movie Pretty Woman. The yanks call it ‘stomping the divots’ but ‘treading in’ is the proper British terminology according to a very knowledgeable friend who was an officer in the Welsh Guards.
My well hidden but naturally larcenous nature came to the fore when I saw a couple of unaccompanied polo balls loafing around on the ground and I took a fancy to one. I exploited the competitive nature of my host and dared him to souvenir one for me. A little later, he slipped one into my hand with a request for some home made alcohol in exchange, which I will happily provide as soon as I can figure out what kind of redneck hooch ‘apple pie moonshine’ is. Not wanting to get caught with my swag and not having a pocket large enough, being the gentleman that I am, I slipped it into Mrs Jerry’s handbag.
I’d been lucky enough to have been at home for a few days and to have spent an hour or two as a garden slave to Mrs. Jerry (I was going to fib and say I’d spend days out there, sweating and toiling but I was caught typing this). She’s a really keen gardener; me not so much, but when cornered with no excuse or escape route, I’ll get out there and get my hands dirty. That said, I do love being in the garden but more specifically; sitting out there in the evening with a tall glass of my home distilled gin. A quick update on that score – from the first trial batch, where you really had to apply yourself, the second is a much more mellow affair and definitely worth drinking, without a major fear of organ failure.
A few days later, on the morning of the Ballarat rowing championships, we were standing admiring the garden and fine tuning the irrigation for the recent planting. The Bees were out and active, which was lovely to see as they hadn’t done very well over the winter. In fact, along with most local beekeepers, I haven’t had a honey harvest of note for several years and its been a job just keeping them alive. I’d been of a mind to try making mead, but you need an awful lot of honey and I just don’t have enough to spare.
Later that morning, I went out to nearby Lake Wendouree to see the rowing armed with a folding chair, a paperback, a lot of water and a couple of sandwiches. I found a shady spot and almost immediately had to loudly “excuse me” to several Chinese rowing fans who quite obliviously decided to stand right in front of me, in the 2 meters between my chair and the waters edge. The races started and as I was just by the finish line, I was in the position to see the rowers up close. I don’t know if you have seen the size of Australian school kids lately, but many of them; especially the farmers kids are huge. They look like blokes in school uniforms and I swear I saw one with a Ned Kelly beard! I almost felt sorry for #2 son, who mind you, is absolutely ripped and a very respectable 5’8″ (and still growing), but he looked like the cox compared to some of the others. I have to say that it didn’t seem to slow him down at all as his boat came first in both heats.
Despite lathering on the sun screen and donning a large brimmed hat, I had managed to unaccountably burn my wrists, as they had obviously been exposed as I’d been holding up the book. I felt less silly when I saw the bare shoulders and necks of the rowers, as some of them had really been roasted. I’d really enjoyed the day out and although I was going to miss the following weekends ‘head of the lake’ competition, due to my next lot of travel, I was glad to have been out there and supported #2 son. This was the first trip home in a while where I hadn’t worked solidly on the house and it felt good. Stay safe.
Jerry.