Hoc opus, hiç labor est ...

I remember with a shudder those double Latin periods on a Monday after lunch. It was torture – unseen translation time. Caesar was easy: he was always crossing some Rubicon or other, or capturing a Gallic fortress “by force of arms”. Catullus was raunchy: just the thing for a repressed young man at a boys only boarding school. Cicero was devilishly hard: but his complete evisceration of Gaius Verres, the former governor of Sicily for gross mismanagement, was a joy (once someone had helped you translate it). Virgil was my sweet spot: I loved the Aeneid, particularly the story of the flight after the sack of Troy.

I particularly remember the famous passage from Book 6 when Aeneas asks to visit the underworld to look for his dead father. The prophetess tells him:

… facilis descensus Averno; 

Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; 

Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras, 

Hoc opus, hic labor est.

A rudimentary translation is as follows: the descent into Hell is easy, it’s getting back that’s the problem. In the current context, buying a farm is a piece of cake in a low interest rate environment, but when you spend a couple of days walking around and doing some hard work you realise that “the task, the mighty labour” still awaits you.

The paddocks are overrun with thistles, the topsoil is washing away down the hill, the area covered by blackberries runs to acres and the fencing is in dire need of repair (as is my back). Meanwhile Pepper is exhausting herself chasing birds and refusing to come when called. 

But when the sun peeps over the mountain in the morning and illuminates the valley, I guess we will be up and at it again. But perhaps Pepper may choose not to join us  …