Julian Roup – Covid-19 becomes very real; and how my horse almost did the virus’ job Ep1

In Episode One of his new book, author Julian Roup explains how he almost came to a sticky end on the day Covid-19 became very real, shaking up his safe, secure existence in the English countryside.

Life in a Time of Plague

Sussex, 10th April 2020

By Julian Roup

These days in lockdown pass like a riffled pack of cards, each subtly different yet all much the same in shape and form. But the world as we know it is turned on its head and yet the sun shines down on us endlessly in this strangest of springs.

The far off deaths in China, then Italy and Spain are now suddenly here too. For 40 years we have lived in the English countryside in comfort and safety, observing war and famine and plague in those parts of the world subject to such things. Bizarrely, surreally, now it is our turn. And we are not ready, not prepared. This sort of thing is not meant to happen here in this green and pleasant land. But the world is truly become a global village and our distance from disaster is seen to be a thin and arrogant conceit.

I wake each day now with a sense of foreboding. Yet on reflection, I am ashamed, as I’m gifted the most precious gift of all – my life. Another day of healthy life. And I am grateful and glad of it.

Why live beyond 70, I have often thought? My body is getting creaky. I have some medical issues and arthritis is twisting my hands out of shape and making it more difficult to walk on broken knees. And yet, now that my 70th birthday approaches, with a plague death knocking at my door, a Horseman of the Apocalypse, I find myself reluctant to join the throng of refrigerated corpses the evening news shows us, wrapped in their cloth of death, trussed up like turkeys. I find that I very much wish to live.

I can remember clearly when it started, this lockdown, it was on the day my horse nearly killed me. I had overfed him to replace weight he’d lost after stepping on a nail and then getting colic. He was feeling his oats and kept whipping round, almost unseating me, until I lost my temper and gave him a crack with my crop. He went berserk, jumped into a ravine, hurdled a stream and galloped into dense woods. My left hand, which I instinctively used to protect my face from branches, was bleeding and felt broken. I laughed and laughed once I was able to pull up, happy to be alive.

I managed one last supermarket shop before lockdown and observed the empty shelves, the result of panic buying, the missing racks of toilet paper, the new gold. I wondered about the wisdom of crowds, and in this instance felt they were ahead of me. At the checkout, a number of items were removed from my basket and I was told that I was only allowed two each of coffee and dog food.

Each day I sit in the garden for a time and watch spring green the trees while reading Tim Dee’s ‘Greenery’, a blessed gift from my sister Jay in Cape Town, and I wonder if this silent spring will be the last I see?

The skies overhead are silent at last but for birdsong. The drone of inbound flights to Gatwick and Heathrow has stopped. Higher up, the con-trails of flights to every part of the world are gone for now. And in this blessed silence, the natural world is healing itself even as we die in our thousands. This is a chilling insight, a final warning, a midnight strike, of how we may end as a species, the world breathing free at last, free of this human plague.

There is a macabre black humour abroad in the world, friends and family share jokes and cartoons and comic videos over the internet. And Trump does his wicked dance of death, his plague posturing, his deceit-engraved face ever before us. And Boris making his most brilliant political move yet – coming down with the virus and in intensive care – uniting the country at last with the good wishes of friend and foe alike. And then a mistake, emerging from intensive care on the same day as the death toll tops 1,000 – worse than the worst day in Italy or Spain.

And the medical professionals dying for lack of protective clothing. One hopes fellow citizens are making a judgment, and that the day of political reckoning will not be too far off. It is Easter and this year it is Man that is now the Paschal Lamb. It is Passover, and as in times past, we pray that we will be passed over by death in these days.

I find myself abandoned by the Government which has seen fit to exclude me from any financial help, one of three million self-employed. Big business, small businesses and salaried workers are all supported, but not me. I make a mental note to tell HMRC something of this, if I survive, next time they come seeking my tax.

I now get texts from the NHS saying they have classed me as among the most vulnerable, but if I get ill, help will not be available in hospital for me, just advice over the phone. And I am to self-isolate for 12 weeks. A classic case of don’t call us, we’ll call you. Die at home. This message makes me laugh out loud. But it gives me pause too. If I get ill, Jan, my wife, will doubtless get ill too, and how will we then cope?

Those taken into hospital with Covid-19 are not allowed family visits and those who die, die alone, with no family member by their side, just the medical professionals, who must be exhausted. So maybe a home death is preferable after all.

We are lucky, so lucky. We live in the countryside and can exercise with ease. Jan has spent hours online and on the phone arranging for fruit and veg, meat and bread, coffee, butter, eggs and cheese to be delivered by small suppliers and those who normally supply the schools, which are now closed. Our son Dominic and his partner Stephanie top us up with everything else we may need and speak to us sternly about staying home. A strange generational shift has occurred. We the parents are the children now. They have taken on the mantle of adult responsibility for us, these two 30-year-olds. It is both a good feeling, and also an indication of the loss of independence that lies ahead if one survives.

And work continues much as before, thanks to the internet. I work from home on client business and send press releases about art and classic cars and university education to the media. There is a new camaraderie. Journalists ask how you are and wish you well and I ask about their wellbeing. I realise how good it is to work, to keep the mind occupied, to stay connected to the working world.

It is now April 10, and still the swallows have not arrived. I scan the skies, eager for the a first sighting, but though there are many other birds about there is as yet no sign of that joyous, darting, swooping flight. And I breathe deep while I can, and wait.

Click here for Episode 2.