The candle flickers on the table as I sit here and begin my meditation. However, I am not focused on its flame, but instead I am thinking about sheep. I am not counting them to help me go to sleep. This is not an exercise to write down my thoughts in a somnolent state, in those limpid moments before we drift into unconsciousness. I would hardly manage to write an opening paragraph before dozing off, if that were the case. I ask myself how many of my readers have dozed off while reading my first sentences – none I hope! 

The sheep in my thoughts are Scottish sheep. They are one of my memories of a recent holiday in the Scottish Borders. I would look out at them every morning from the window of my apartment as they grazed contentedly in a huge field opposite. I would also observe them at closer range as I trudged up and down the driveway on my walks.  They would graze away or sit under the shade of a tree or lean, totally relaxed, against a fence, paying no attention to me or if they did, it would only be for a moment with a bewildered look. They reminded me of some of the classes I have taught!

My Scottish break was a luxurious holiday to finally celebrate my retirement. Originally it was to take place in late March 2020 and in Puglia in Southern Italy, with a friend who had suggested the idea to me. So here we were in Scotland instead and not on a farm, as might be suggested by the last paragraph, but in a castle. 

We had an apartment in Castle Thirlstane, the home of the Earls of Lauderdale since the 1590’s. Our stay included a private tour of the castle itself.  Much to my regret and the dampening of my gothic sensibilities, according to our guide, the castle does not have its own ghost. But it does have sheep – lots of them – and cattle and beautiful horses too. 

Our well-appointed apartment was in the Victorian wing to the right of the main entrance with its sweeping staircase of rose-coloured stone. Our lounge overlooked a gravelled forecourt at the end of the approach to the castle. Beyond the forecourt was the large field, where the sheep were penned and beyond that, behind the trees, the little town of Lauder.  

We had been informed before arriving that there would be two car rallies at the Castle during our stay.  We were of course unaware that the cars would be assembling under the window of our apartment. The first rally took place the morning after our arrival and was a parade of Porsches. It was quite an exciting sight as they zoomed up the driveway and took their places under the window. As might be imagined, the sheep paid no attention, as if unimpressed by this show of status. 

For an hour or so, the Porsches gathered on the drive, all different models and colours gleaming in the sunlight, while their owners and families chatted away and took photos. Children ran around while parents inspected the other cars on show and peered with forensic interest into engines under pristine bonnets. The sheep remained unimpressed and grazed on. 

I must confess to having little interest in cars, as I have never learnt how to drive. I think my interest in cars ended with my little ‘Matchbox’ and ‘Dinky’ models as a child. However, when I was a small child, I did immerse myself in a Ladybird book about Tootles the Taxi and Archie the Ambulance. I do not recall a Peregrine the Porsche in its pages, however.

Though the overall effect of all these Porsches assembled under our window was an impressive sight, yet, apart from their variety of colours, they all looked the same to me. My friend agree with me.  Although, secretly, in our heart of hearts, I am sure we would love to own one: my friend to drive one, myself to sell it and have a regular box at the opera on the proceeds.  

After their deliberations about engines and chassises had ended and they had purred in delight at each other’s models and sampled the culinary delights of a mobile burger and hog roast bar under an adjacent tree, the Porsche enthusiasts slowly drifted off, or should I say, zoomed away.  The Porsches left the sheep in peace at last, not that their peace had been broken by them anyway. 

The second rally, on the next morning, was of Vintage cars. Their approach to the castle was more sedate than the brash contingent of the previous day. There were models going back to the 40’s, 30’s and there was even a 1920’s Bullnose Morris. As they sauntered up the drive, it looked like a scene from an Agatha Christie TV drama: Miss Marple or Poirot. My friend Simon and I may have been characters in the drama, gazing out of the window as someone arrives. Who could it be – suspect, detective or victim? I must admit to having a secret ambition to play Poirot, though I would be unable to match the incomparable David Suchet in the role.

I found the assembly of vintage cars more impressive than the plethora of Porsches on the morning before, perhaps because the cars were from different manufacturers and decades. I would far rather have gone for a spin in the Bullnose Morris than a Porsche anyway. It would be interesting to find out what being a passenger in the 1920’s was like. I would imagine myself to be in a P.G. Wodehouse novel as we sped along the narrow roads. With a Bullnose Morris standing outside a castle that morning, I could have been in a Wodehouse story anyway. My friend Simon would be an excellent Jeeves.

Sadly no vintage Rolls Royce, Bentley or Jaguar skimmed up the drive to look resplendent beside the sweeping stone staircase. There was a Morris Minor or two and a Sunbeam Rapier and Triumph Herald in the rally, cars I remembered from my childhood. I wouldn’t have considered them to be vintage, but then,  my childhood was a long time ago.

As I looked out of the window, I was reminded of a meal at the end of the Educational Drama course I took, when I started teaching Drama, many years ago. All the group were there with our tutors in a restaurant on the Kingston waterfront. At the end of the meal, we played a table game: ‘If X was a car, which model would he or she be?’ Someone decided I was a Morris Minor. Why? Because I was ‘small, homely and old fashioned’. I’ve never forgotten that and I remembered it again at the castle as I looked down on that Morris Minor in the forecourt. 

At the time I was quite affronted (though I didn’t say so) but I suppose the person was right. We had spent a year together on this evening course which was very intense so she had got to know me a little. Besides I’ve never been brash like a Porsche, I hope. It does seem like an aggressively self-assertive car. ‘Homely and old-fashioned’ fits the bill as far as I am concerned, I suppose. There now – I am playing the game again, after all this time!   

This rally had a more homely atmosphere than the other one and the cars dispersed more quickly. Perhaps that was because there was no burger bar this time, probably because it wasn’t quite the ‘right period’.

The sheep grazed on, as oblivious as ever. Just as they were oblivious to their stately surroundings with the grand castle opposite them. And to the pandemic raging round them over the last year and a half.    

Yes, ‘homely and old fashioned’ that is me. But not the whole story. And I am sure I have changed as a person since then. Over the years I have learnt to be accepting of myself. Not necessarily happy with myself because there are things about myself that I am unhappy about and happiness is fleeting anyway. But accepting of myself and therefore content. 

As content as a sheep in a field. 

Ave atque Vale – Hail and Farewell– until the next blog!

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Neilus Aurelius