leisure
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN A deal too good to be true.
BY ANDREW LICUDI DIPWSET
C
all me lucky, but I had never met a con man until I met David Mullin. I remember it was a Friday morning in August when a persistent levante had finally lifted its ugly head, leaving the town to sparkle and the inhabitants cheerful with a spring in their step which had been missing for weeks. I was in my office in Portland House doing nothing much. Work had been slow and I sat back with my feet on the desk enjoying the cool breeze of an ancient fan and the thought of the weekend ahead. I was due in Sanlúcar where my host had managed to book me into Las Arenas, a cheap but clean hotel with a sparse breakfast and walls which left little to the imagination. Being August, the town was choc-a-block. The annual horse racing along its sandy beaches was in full-flow and I was looking forward once more to the incongruous sight of horses charging down crowded beaches, their tiny jockeys in colourful silks urging their mounts mercilessly towards the finish line. 66
It was a tentative knock on the door that brought me back to Friday morning at the office. Looking up I was met by a head poking through the partially open door. Whether it was the untidy blonde hair, the cheerful smile, or ears too large for classical symmetry I don’t know, but irrationally I immediately took a liking to the stranger. “Hi. I am David Mullin. I am told you may be able to help me.” he said cheerfully. I beckoned him in. He was taller than me at around six foot. He reminded me of one of those characters from a Graham Greene novel blissfully unaware that Britannia no longer ruled the waves. His crumpled linen jacket labelled him more traveller than tourist and an accent which sounded honed at one of those privileged schools in Windsor or Surrey. To complete the picture of an Englishman
abroad, he carried a genuine Panama hat in one hand. In the other, a scruffy canvas bag with a bottle of wine. I had never seen him before and wondered what he wanted. “I want to sell the contents of my father’s wine cellar. Would you be interested?” Before I could answer he placed several A4 sheets of yellow-lined paper on my desk. Whoever had produced the list of wines in front of me had beautiful handwriting.
"I was a disappointment to my father in many respects. Wine was just one them."
It was a wine-lover’s dream. Haut Brion, Mouton Rothschild, Lafite, Domaine de la Romannee Conti, Cheval Blanc, ancient Vega Sicilias , dripped off the pages like gold dust on to my vivid imagination. I could almost smell the iodine of the Cheval Blanc and the graphite of the legendary Mouton 82. Two wines whose tasting notes I knew by heart but unlikely ever to taste!
GIBRALTAR MAGAZINE SEPTEMBER 2020
