There could be no better place to be dressed in whites while being humiliated by some 11-year-old sporting prodigy
I can’t play tennis, through a combination of cack-handedness and sheer laziness, but I can build a cracking tennis court. My most recent, where I am standing, lies among the vineyards on a hilltop overlooking the Dordogne valley at Bergerac. Even I could enjoy playing here, spending my time between losing points and marvelling at the surroundings. There could be no better place to be dressed in whites while being humiliated by some 11-year-old sporting prodigy. No excuses either as the surface is billiard-table smooth and the white lines crisper than linen in a three-star restaurant. You could even play in the rain as the water simply disappears through the dark green porous concrete surface, and in the sunshine, its north-south axis means nobody gets blinded by the golden orb setting in the west over the grape-laden vines.
We’re going to landscape the lawns to sweep down elegantly to the court, but I can’t show you a photo of that as the digger driver hasn’t come back yet dammit.
Anyone for tennis?