LONDON â Europe’s political leaders are taking their summer holidays and both Angela Merkel and Theresa May have chosen to get away from it all this week in the Italian Alps. Che coincidenza!
The high-altitude footpaths of that glorious part of the world are not exactly over-burdened by feisty, 60-something ladies accompanied by trudging husbands and camouflaged security details. Is it unreasonable to imagine the two sojourning stateswomen bumping into one another?
Scene: A mountain pass high above the icy, blue-green waters of Lake Como. The skyline is defined by white-capped peaks glistening under a clear sky in which griffon vultures slowly circle. One of those vultures, from its height, can see both sides of a promontory and notices that two human couples are walking toward one another, as yet unaware of their mutual existence.
May (for it is she on one side of the promontory) is discussing with her husband Philip the quality of the guesthouse salami they have packed in their rucksacks. “Itâs as chewy as that old boot Merkel,” says Philip May. Theresaâs tinkling laughter echoes across the mountainscape: “It almost repeats on you as much as Angela. Oh, she just says the same thing time and again â ‘no change to freedom of movement, no change to freedom of movement.'” She adopts a jokey robot voice, like a Dalek from the British TV show “Doctor Who.”
The women, being more serious about their walking, notice a promising side path and announce that they are going exploring.
How liberated she feels to be on holiday. The terrible blackness of work has briefly left her. But then she notices the vultures. “Those birds give me the creeps,” she says. “They remind me of Philip Hammond.”
Merkel (for it is she, on the other side of the promontory) has no salami, nor even a lovely Kartoffelwurst, in her rucksack. Instead, she has filled it with boulders to help her lose weight. Angela is on a diet again and she is not in a sunny mood. Her husband, Joachim Sauer, who would have much preferred to go to Bayreuth for his holidays, is struggling to keep up with his striding Frau. “Liebling,” he pants, “Why must we walk so fast? How about resting on the next bench?”
His beloved gives him a withering stare. Men! So feeble!
The Isola dei Pescatori (Fishermen’s Island) at Lake Maggiore in the Italian Alps | Gabriel Bouys/AFP via Getty Images
The two couples round the promontory. They are separated by about 100 yards (91.44 meters in European measurements). The Merkels have stopped to look through their field glasses â Angela for interesting fauna in the pine-scented forest, Joachim for any sign of a bench or, better still, a mountain bar. He could drink a mountain lake.
“Mein Gott,” mutters Angela.
“What is it, Schnucki?” asks Joachim. “Have you spotted a wild boar?”
“Worse,” barks Angela. “A wild bore!” She would recognize those enviably long, luminous-white legs and that slender waist from any distance. The May woman!
Philip May, who is more observant than his wife (not difficult) spots the approaching walkers and burbles amiably: “I say, old horse, thereâs a short, stumpy figure coming towards us in the most terrifying pair of Lederhosen. The bloke behind is a ringer for good old Joachim Whatnot. We had a great night out at the last G7 spousesâ booze-up. You donât suppose ⦠Blimey! It is him!”
Theresa, being English, is naturally inclined to walk past the Sauers with little more than a nod of acknowledgment and a faintly gaseous smile. Angela, likewise, contemplates escape routes. “Have they seen us?” she wonders. Maybe a quick shin up the nearest conifer. Anything to avoid having to speak to the interminably dull Theresa. If the Reichenbach Falls were only nearby, she might even be tempted to wrestle her over the edge.
But their two husbands make evasion impossible. “Coooeee!” shouts Philip, waving his arms. Joachim is delighted by the prospect of a rest and hopes Philip might have a hip flask on him (he knows the English and their ways). He does a little schoolboy yodeling that resonates around the valley.
British Prime Minister Theresa May, left, walks with her husband Philip close to Lake Garda on July 25, 2017 in Desenzano del Garda, Italy | Pool photo by Antonio Calanni/Getty Images
The unplanned summit â and, amid these peaks, that overused word “summit” is for once apposite â proves an unexpected success. The two husbands break the ice, slapping each other on the back. Philip has indeed got a large flask of barley wine in his pocket and he and Joachim are soon comparing blisters from their walking boots.
The women, being more serious about their walking, notice a promising side path and announce that they are going exploring. Angela lends Theresa some sun cream â “you need some protection, especially after losing your majority.” Theresa finds some Kendal Mint Cake in her pocket and tempts Angela with a small square. She has soon wolfed down the whole thing.
The smallest mention of the new French president’s wife and her hemlines sends them into spirals of pealing merriment. Honking laughter!
All it takes is a half-hour detour in this Alpine fastness. By the time the two women return to their (now snoring) husbands, they have resolved most of the Anglo-German/Brexit-EU problems. May has promised to allow the German motor industry to continue to sell smoke-belching diesels to the Brits at inflated prices, but has agreed to impose tariffs on Renaults and Citroëns. Angela has agreed that Michel Barnier is a vain nincompoop who talks baloney about the European Court of Justice and “all those billions the Mediterraneans want you to pay â they are hooked on our Northern European money.”
Amazingly, the two women have also made each other laugh. Angela asked Theresa for the latest update on Borisâ japes and Theresa asked Angela for Jean-Claude Junckerâs latest antics at the lunch table. What did Angela really say to Trump? And is it true that David Davis spends his office hours doing Sudoku? The smallest mention of the new French president’s wife and her hemlines sends them into spirals of pealing merriment. Honking laughter! What is this strange emotion? Neither of them can quite remember feeling so tipsy on life. And they have not had a drop to drink. The hills are alive with the sound of political progress.
The mountain air of the Tyrolean Alps: truly miraculous.
Quentin Letts writes for the Daily Mail.