Old Farts and a Buddhist at Bardies

Well, what a whacky week we've all had. It was born of an idea mooted at last summer's blues festival that a select group of us old Hull University alumni would reconvene chez nous for a rather more tranquil exchange of views, work and family updates and reminiscences. We have three ex presidents, one vice president, a treasurer and the chairman of our debating society among our group so, of course, our time together can hardly be described as tranquil.

The Buddhist amongst our number was the first to remind me of my casual invitation. When I answered the phone, way back in the depths of winter, he said in his deepest bass Yorkshire drawl, "Lola, I've got something to tell you." My heart sank, especially as he is now seventy [he was a very mature student in 1970!], as I considered the potential severity of the various medical diagnoses that he might be about to impart. "I've become a Buddhist," he continued, slowly as ever. "Thank God for that, Tom," I replied, "I thought you were going to tell me that you were terminal!" Big mistake to a Buddhist!

Six months later, flights booked, ferry crossings organised, children farmed out, cats and dogs kenneled and laptops packed away, here we all were at Bardies ready to recreate our very own decrepit version of 'Life on Mars.' Tom and Areta, their daughter Jane, who had been our thirteen year old bridesmaid in 1983, and Jane's young son were the first to arrive on Monday. They had driven up all the way from Andalucia, where they now live, to holiday with Tom's brother before coming on to us. We were very touched, even more so because we all know how slowly Tom drives. A two day drive at either end of one's holiday is effort indeed to catch up with old friends.

They were followed a couple of days, and a storm or two, later by Peter, who had been delayed by a flare up of his once a decade gout, and two more friends. The others arrived on Thursday in time for a grand celebratory dinner for our wedding anniversary and our best man's birthday. As each new arrival strolled through the door, the alcoholic contents of our fridge multiplied in both quality and quantity! It was a heavy duty night worthy of the occasion but possibly one more suited to the twenty year old livers of our youth. Out wonderful butcher in St Girons had prepared a filet de boeuf fit for a dauphin, and to follow we gorged ourselves on a selection of Madame Gilbert's delicious fromage and my best and richest chocolate cake recipe. Even a Buddhist like Tom was in awe of the quality of the meat, though, of course, I served him pasta and fresh pesto.

And so it continued! It struck me as we lurched from one 'repas' and load of washing up to the next, that slow living and Buddhism is a marriage made in [oooops!] heaven, at least for a man! Time and space are infinite, I think, and one's concept of time is immaterial, except when lunch or dinner has to be put on the table. I am very open about the endless possibilities for the explanation for our existence, but the gap between this life and our expectation of the next seems to me to be dependent on the kitchen. Such routine mundanities as picking, peeling, washing, chopping, stirring and cooking are the very stuff of life and without them we will eventually die. I know the great mystics could survive on the top of a mountain with nothing but a loin cloth and and an apple, but my Irish Catholic heritage has drummed into me the need to provide. I cannot have my guests meditating on empty stomachs! Food is life and the provision of it part of a great karma.

But I digress. Tom had read philosophy and had always assumed the role of intellectual mentor to us lesser mortals concerned with the rather more mundane choices of economics, history and politics. You could not get away with a casual throwaway comment in 1970, and it was good to see that nothing has changed since. We honed our debating skills at his knee and he taught us a lot. It is hard to believe that so many years have passed by and that now, at seventy, he really is a sage. If you're not into Buddhism though, or like some of our number positively agin any religious belief at all, it's the stuff of late boozy nights screeching amicably at each other!

He is now beginning to look like a Buddha. My greatest fear for him is that he may be re-incarnated as Pope in his next life, which I would be very happy with but he would consider hell on earth. One of the most memorable moments of the week was sitting under the trees in our garden, all bar Tom hungover, as we meditated quietly in front of the white agapanthus flowers. The sun was dappling through the trees and, as Tom hit the gong and the birds sang out in unison, peace and love abounded. Cliched, I know, but the communion of old friends is something very special indeed.

There were many other memorable moments too, boring to recall for anyone not witness to them, but they all involved people working together. It is a massive logistical exercise to keep everyone fed, watered, wined and happy but, I'm pleased to say, a joyful one when everyone mucks in and does their share. And, as so often happens with a house full, I've discovered new recipes born out of a need to be creative with leftovers. My 'not quite quiche Lorraine' was made with strips of leftover Bayonne ham gently crisped before being put into the pastry case with four egg yolks whipped into some 'creme de Normandie', only slightly spoilt by my slip with an oven glove whilst it was still runny and renamed by everyone 'Lola's drunken quiche'! The green beans with pesto and grated parmesan were rather good too.

So now the house is quiet and the old farts and the Buddhist wending their weary ways home. We already have a re-match planned for Norfolk in the autumn. I have time to think, reply to my emails, return phone calls, tidy up the borders, laze in the sunshine and, best of all, practice my expertly taught new meditation skills. I miss them all already but the upside is that I am looking forward to a few early nights off the booze. And, best of all, Freddie arrives on Tuesday. It will then be just the four of us together for a few days, days to cherish as our children grow older, for I suspect, as the years go by, there will be fewer and fewer of them. More glorious summer days to savour at Bardies and I do not want them to end.