A Tuscan View - from Umbria

The colour of earth

The first coat of calce (lime-wash paint) is diluted to the consistency of milk.  As I slosh it on to the walls it streams down my arms and splashes on my feet.  It barely covers the newly finished plaster in a thin pale wash.  This is the ‘primo mano’ or undercoat in pure chalk white.  
The idea of calce is that it breathes. 

I love that idea, a house with a soul and walls that breathe.

After the primo mano you can choose a colour, if you wish, to add to the chalk base.  You are given a tin of pigment, which you mix in, and the broken colour is achieved in 3 coats each diluted to a lesser degree with water.  The end result is a colour that appears to move in and out of its own intensity, changing with the light and the undulations of the walls.  Well, that’s the aim anyway.

Since I first visited Italy, years ago,  I have been infatuated with its colours; the warm rosy apricots and rich terracottas of the peeling stucco in the piazzas.  Faded frescos with the soft tinctures of the Renaissance, ghosts of vivid lapis blues and true clear reds. 

In the countryside, the ever-changing grey green olives and inky dark cypresses stand against the ripened gold of wheat. And the land itself, its ploughed and fallow fields with great clods of soil like raw siena, the fertile colour of earth.

In the cavernous warehouse where we have come to buy the paint I feel suddenly nervous, almost overwhelmed by colour, but I know I haven’t come this far to paint yet another stark white wall, so I hold my breath and choose…

The best thing I ate;

Bruschette con pomodorini e ricotta or (less romantically) tomatoes on toast!

I have been making these a lot recently. They are great for lunch but even better as the sun sinks behind the hills, served with a gently fizzing glass of chilled prosecco. I think it is the intense tomato taste of summer, the piquant edge of the peperoncino,  or maybe the mellow sweetness of the balsamic contrasting with the crumbling cool ricotta that really gets me.  Enough already!  Just try it.

Serves 4

cherry tomatoes (about 30)
Balsamic vinegar (1 and a half tablespoons)
Extra virgin olive oil
A peperoncino  chopped really finely
Sea salt and ground black pepper
Country bread sliced about 1cm thick
Garlic
Fresh ricotta cheese (try and get the good stuff made of sheep’s milk from the deli counter)
Fresh basil

 Leave the tomatoes whole and put them in an ovenproof dish and spread them out in a single layer. Season them with a little salt and pepper and drizzle generously with olive oil and half a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar.  Roast them in a hot oven for about 10 minutes or until the skins have burst and the juices started to caramelise.  Take them out of the oven and add the peperoncino, then add another tablespoon of balsamic vinegar and stir gently to mingle the flavours.

Meanwhile, slice your bread and toast it on a hot griddle until it is crisp on both sides.  Rub each slice a couple of times with a cut glove of garlic.  Drizzle with some olive oil and sprinkle with a little sea salt. 

To assemble your bruschette, spoon the tomatoes on to the toasted bread and top with a little ricotta.  Serve on a large white platter with some torn basil strewn around. 

20 more days

So much to look forward to here when Summer arrives, as it finally did a few weeks ago. We endured a long Winter this year and it was difficult to imagine the heat, as today it is difficult to imagine pulling on a second pair of trousers as a brace against the freezing cold. But a part of this Summer has been put on hold and tempered by the fact that our youngest child, the (not-so-small) small one, fell off her bicycle and broke both bones in her right arm.
She knew, we all knew, just by looking at it.

We took a tearful drive to the hospital and then had to make a longer journey to Perugia, as the nearest orthopaedic specialist was there on duty that afternoon.
The afternoon soon became the evening and we finally emerged, bleary eyed and blinking into the dark carpark, one of us wearing a heavy plastercast all the way up to the shoulder, set for 40 long days. Our little girl had no idea at the time what lay in store as the Summer began to take it's toll, but as we have now arrived at the 40th day, we are all at the end of our proverbial tethers.

I have been fortunate to have been otherwise preoccupied of late. Not surprisingly, things of a building nature are my immediate concern and it's a little like firefighting as I lurch from one emergency deadline to another. The stress of that is, though, tempered by allowing myself time every so often to go out in the car and 'discover' new and interesting places to draw and paint.
I call it research, and it is, but it also gives me a chance to stop for a time and focus on something other than power tools.

I just do quick sketches or small paintings to get a true sense of what it would be like for a group, then move on. So far I have a little 'library' of good places for morning painting, good places for afternoon painting, and loads of good places for lunch.

I've been busy.

For the patient back at home, unfortunately it's not quite as simple as just 'taking it off' today. You see, the bone hasn't quite set correctly and we will have to wait for the results of a final x-ray to confirm that she is now free to swim, ride her bicycle, draw, and do homework with her right hand. Our supportive, collective family-ban on all such activities seemed like a good idea at the time, but 40 days is a long time for anyone, certainly long enough for our wheatfields to turn from vivid green to golden brown.

So today has been a long time coming and, hopefully, the real Summer will start, for one little girl at least, very soon afterwards. We'll see.

The stupidest thing I did today;

I said, rather foolishly, as we went in to see the specialist, "I'm sure it'll be alright, then we can go swimming this afternoon!". Not according to the doctor.

He simply shook his head and said, "...ancora 20 giorni..." Aaaaaagh!

The early morning ferry

As usual we have a million things to do; lists, sub-lists, goals and deadlines and sometimes the hours just seems to slip away like sand.  But something subtle is happening here, Summer is weaving her hot magical spell, the children are in holiday mode and it’s catching.

Arriving early in Castiglione del Lago to run some errands, we happen to see the early morning ferry to Isola Maggiore heading for the jetty.  The water ripples silver in the sun and a cool reedy breeze blows gently from the lake.  Before we even hear the pleading cries from our offspring, Marito and I have exchanged ‘the look’.  Errands and lists will have to wait - we are getting on that ferry.

The spontaneity of it seems somehow thrilling and the children are half wild with excitement. The dog, a little unsure of his sea legs, is carried awkwardly on board and suddenly a very different kind of day is beginning to unfold.

Little waves slap against the wooden hull and the ferry heads out across the opalescent water to the island of Maggiore shimmering in the distance.  There are only a handful of other voyagers on board and in the quiet of the early morning the chug and pull of the engine is mesmerising.

Of the three islands that rise out of Lake Trasimeno, Isola Maggiore (close to the northern shore), is the second largest and the only one permanently inhabited.

We disembark and walk up the landing stage past some huge and mutant looking cats towards the Islands only village.  It is enchanting, the village consists entirely of a single street.  The quayside houses are built of mellow crumbling stone and behind them is the shifting grey green of olive groves rising up to the Church of San Michele at the island’s highest point.  Swallows swoop crazily in and out of the bell tower and the rasping cry of a thousand cicadas vibrates through the air.

Early in the morning (before the tourist rush) and with a population of less than 100, the place seems almost deserted - locked in time.  We walk up a rough and scorching track, the sun now blazing overhead through the olives and past a wild, abandoned castle towards the church. The sweeping views out across the lake make up for all the predictable moaning and the rather unpredictable gradient.  At last we reach a resting spot with a bench and a tap.  We drink, splash the dog and stick our heads under the flow of icy water.

It is said that in 1211 St Francis landed here and stayed for a 40 day sojourn during which time all he ate was half a loaf.  There is a little chapel marking the spot and a small Franciscan monastery.  The thought of only half a loaf makes everyone’s stomach start to gnaw and we retrace our steps in search of breakfast.

Back in the timeless main street I am struck by how much it resembles a film set, with it’s fishing nets drying in the sun and, inside dimly lit doorways little old ladies on rickety chairs making lace.

Half way down the street we stop to look inside the church of Buon Gesu, it has some wonderful, peeling frescoes from which baroque cherubs smile down from the faded lapis with naïve exuberance.

We see battered goal posts tucked into an alley way and imagine the island at night with children playing football in a street free from the noises and dangers of cars, and the old boys calling to each other across the way.  There is a solitary hotel and I find myself thinking, rather wistfully, how romantic it would be to stay the night.  To watch the sun set over the lake and slip down behind the distance mountains while dusk whispers in the olive groves and the hush of darkness descends on this tiny enduring community.

The best thing I ate:
Gelato, gelato, gelato.

After much experimenting I have to say I have found my favourite (local) purveyor of the cold stuff.  Caffé Venezia, via Porsenna, Chiusi.  I have tried lots and lots of lovely flavours here from the dewy coral coloured watermelon through various intense and smoky chocolate combos to my personal favourite, the creamy pale and elusive ‘gorgonzola and honey’ (I promise you, it’s delicious!).

The maker of these divine confections is the wife of the owner, and she is, quite simply, gifted.  She only uses proper ingredients (never any syrups) to produce the most sublime, silky gelato imaginable.  At once rich, voluptuous and also completely addictive. At the moment I am averaging about one a day and I freely admit I’ve lost my head as well as my heart. Is that too many?  Is that enough?  How many is too many?

Where to get it:
See above, if there’s any left.

Spellbound.

23rd June 2008

It’s 5.45 on the morning after the longest day of the year.  It’s warm but the sky still has the soft pale blue, almost white, look of dawn.  The sun, low and hazy, has yet to stoke and build up her heat.  The brick steps are still cool and there is freshness in the shadows.  We are up, the whole family and, with barely a tussle, have managed to assemble - bleary and blinking - by the car.

We drive through the sleepy, breezeless countryside past putty coloured olive groves and inky cypress trees standing still, silent and spellbound as the Sunday morning bells ring in the day.  Soon we arrive at Citta della Pieve keen and hungry.  Here the streets are being carpeted with flowers and it is this that we have come to see, the Festa dei Fiori in honour of S.Luigi Gonzaga, protector of the Casalino Terziere.

These beautiful decorations are made once a year on the nearest Sunday to the Summer solstice.  The festival’s origins are lost in the mists of time but some say it marks the solemn procession of Spring.  Many of the designs are traditional, taking their inspiration from the Renaissance and the local master Perugino, but every year new designs are added in rich and subtle colours.

Flowers and scented herbs are grown in the surrounding countryside specially for this extravaganza and for 3 months prior to the day locals collect and dry the blooms and seed heads in preparation.  No money changes hands, it is simply the Italian way.

 We wanted to be in Citta della Pieve early in the day to see the work in progress, volunteers have been up through the night creating these vibrant scenes.  Ordinary people, nonnas and nonnos with their grandchildren, the man from the bar and another, the big gruff man who sells tickets for the Perugino and hides his broken smile. Today he walks up and down spraying the flowers with sugar water which will harden and set the blooms.

There is an atmosphere of hushed business and an up-beat vibe.  The whole place glows in the intensifying sunshine, the vivid colour of the petals radiant against the old stone and red brick of the town.

This wonderful show of dedication and artistry is made all the more fascinating by it’s fleeting nature, later this evening a procession of townspeople will walk over the flowers to the main piazza scattering the blooms to the gutter in their wake.

As we walk between the images taking photos, laughing with our girls, chatting with the old guys, restraining the dog and stopping for cappuccio and cornettos, I have to admit it was well worth the wake up call.

We so enjoyed photographing this glorious event that you can find more pictues of the flower designs in the side bar, just give me a day to sort it out...

The best thing I ate:
Risotto with roast fennel and peperoncino a casa

Yes it’s hot, but sometimes only risotto will do.  There is something so therapeutic about the making and eating of risotto, the ritual of adding the stock and stirring, watching while the little translucent grains grow plump and creamy.  Followed by the soothing balm of eating a bowl full of bliss.

  A good risotto can calm a frazzled spirit, comfort a fragile soul and even cure a hangover!  But for this magic to work it has to be made well and that means practice.
The rice should still retain a slight ‘nutty’ bite and the consistency be an unctuous oozing mass, not too soupy, not too stiff.

 Find a good recipe for risotto bianco and get practising, I suggest ‘The best of Anna Del Conte’.  It is this book that gave me a great tip for preparing risotto in quantity without having to stand and stir, red in the face, while others are knocking back the aperitivo.  ‘Jamie’s Italy’ also has a good variation.   Once you’ve got the knack there is no limit to the good things you can add to your risotto.

With a nod to Jamie (and for a big gutsy flavour) I stirred in soft caramelised roasted fennel and boosted it with crushed fennel seeds, lemon zest and the subtle hint of peperoncino and, what do you know, even marito’s hangover was cured!

Where to get it: 
Make it yourself. 

Zen and the art of the decespugliatore…

19th June 2008

 In London, when I used to hear a faint buzzing hum on a hot Summer’s day, it was more than likely a hovering helicopter, checking the congestion or searching for an escapee from the local prison.

When we thought of moving to Italy, one of the overriding sounds that I always imagined and hoped for was a similar faint, distant hum of Summer, but this time caused by crickets, bees, or simply the hazy heat rising.
Unfortunately I was wrong.

That sound here (especially at this time of year) is nothing to do with nature, it is the buzz of the ubiquitous ‘decespugliatore’. Americans know it as the ‘weed-whacker’ and, in England, it is simply called a ‘strimmer’.

To memorise and then to be able to pronounce this inexplicable word makes you an honorary Italian in my eyes and, despite the rising heat in Italy, my decespugliatore was hard at work today, along with so many thousands of others across the country.

Yes, grown men in orange boiler suits, you know the ones, spend hours each day strimming Italy’s countryside.

Some say Italians are a little obsessed with this method of weed control, I say no.
Once you’ve strapped on one of these beautiful machines with the correct mix of petrol and oil (‘miscela’ it’s called, available from country petrol stations on request) you can see why the hours seem to fly by.

You go into a kind of hypnotic trance, strimming away at anything that has the temerity to raise its head above about an inch off the ground. It’s mesmerising.

In England I used to feel quite sorry for anyone with that job, I just couldn’t see the attraction. Now I know that they are the lucky ones, not those fancy uniformed and sunglassed helicopter pilots.

The stupidest thing I did today;

Just got a bit carried away with my decespugliatore…now I have a little explaining to do.

Pedalo fun

10th June 2008

 It’s all about the lake.  The Etruscans farmed here and Hannibal fought here.  Lago Trasimeno is the largest body of water on the Italian peninsula, 54 kilometres around. A vast expanse of luminous water, changeable with the light and seasons; sometimes milky pale and silver, or azure blue and shimmering in the lazy heat of noon.  Ringed by misty mountains it makes a perfect backdrop for the fortified town of Castiglione del Lago.  The way the town juts out on a promontory means that it is almost completely surrounded by water and seems to dominate the lake.  This is the landscape of Perugino and for landlocked Umbrians, this inviting cool blue water has the magnetic pull of an ocean. 

Along the shore there are lakeside restaurants and bars, little grassy beaches and sandy lidos.  In summer there is all the buzz of Italian beach culture with swimming, sunbathing and pedalo fun.  Call me old fashioned, but I love a bit of pedalo fun, especially with young children.  I have always found the combination of manic aquatic cycling coupled with the risk of accidental drowning to be highly entertaining.  Meanwhile, blue and white ferries glide through the languid waters on route to the lake’s three tranquil islands Maggiore, Minore and Polvese.

The best thing I ate

Cake

I must admit (and it will come as no big surprise) to a greedy love of cake in all its many forms.  The cake, or cakes, in question were jubilant birthday offerings to celebrate the sunny age of nine.

Underneath fluttering bunting and pastel coloured balloons, by the side of the limpid lake we shared a festa with the tall one’s Italian friends.

Italian birthday cakes are blousy, flamboyant affairs.  There is none of the sturdy weight of the English counterpart.  Under the elaborate decorations the Italians favour light puffs of sponge sandwiched with softly billowing custard and cream, more like a deliciously corseted trifle.

The real stars of the show were the miniature tarts and ‘bombolloni’ that had also been made by Michele, a young and gifted Castiglione based baker, in his laboratorio.  They looked so pretty it was hard to choose.  Cute and kitsch, vanilla scented mouthfuls of pure extravagance.

Where to get it: 
GMB Castiglione del Lago

 

Sopranome

27th May 2008
 
 Football is a funny old game and, at my level it is full of funny old players. So it is with my team mates at San Fatucchio. They are a typical mix of men from various walks of life and the game is  all the better for that; some with a love of the game because of their skills, some with a love of the game despite their skills, some who feign injury week after week, some who don’t mind being so much better than everyone else. Some who shoot rather than pass, some who spend most of the game rearranging their hair and jewellery.
There is always argument and plenty of shouting, always a pizza afterwards and plenty of laughing.


But no-one had prepared me for the arrival of Jesus.

His real name is Simone. He has long hair and a beard which I assumed was the reason for his ‘sopranome’, but the other players also wanted to impress on me that he also plays as well as Jesus.

(Italians seem to enjoy the assumption that, had he lived in Italy, Jesus would have played football like Totti.)

Simone  holds the ball, never loses it, always has time to look, never speaks, is calm, assured and a pleasure to play with, unless of course he’s not on your team.

That was when I made my big mistake. I have one talent in football, and only one. It’s not much to speak of but it tends to upset the opposition and so I use it whenever possible. The ‘nutmeg’ or, as Italians call it, the ‘tunnel’. You simply pass the ball between the opposition players legs and he is left rooted to the ground, humiliated and  unable to turn and chase you.

At school you use to have to shout out ‘NUTS!’ or ‘MEGS!’ just before you did it, to add to the humiliation.

So, to cut a long story short, I managed to nutmeg Jesus, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

But then, you see, there is an unwritten law in football that you won’t find in the Rule book. If you can nutmeg the person who nutmegged you, then you, by definition ‘un-nutmeg’ yourself and can stand proud once more. That was all Jesus wanted to do. He had the skill, and the motivation to spend the next hour and a half humiliating me, nutmegging me, not once but 5 times.

He didn’t need to score, although he did, the game was all about revenge.

The stupidest thing I did today;

See below


Can’t really believe I was suckered into this one. Their names are ‘Maybe-Melven’ and ‘Mitzy-Mittens’.
Yes, two kittens who have leapt off their chocolate box and into the arms of our speechless children.
But, perhaps, not as speechless as the vet will be when I try to explain those names...

Ochres and Umbers

22nd May 2008

 The problem with finishing the website, offering painting holidays, giving out dates, and gradually getting towards the end of the building project is that I suddenly realised that I’ve not done much painting for quite a while. I’ve done plenty of other things; sandblasting, digging and worrying mostly, but there’s not been much time to paint.

So, the other day I determined to go out and do just that, in case I’d forgotten how.

 

When I took trips to Italy some years ago, we would often stop in the art stores to get materials and I was always intrigued by the difference between the palette of colours available here to those I routinely found in England. They reflect the landscape and the towns of Italy with warmer cadmiums for yellows and reds, and loads of ochres and umbers to make up the box set. I suppose it’s obvious really.
    
 

Anyway they give you a good head start and allow you to concentrate on what you’re looking at. These three paintings were about the different lights that fall on the walls and windows around here. They are small watercolours and perhaps a little fussy but, as with all representational paintings, they make you look that much harder and appreciate that much more of your everyday surroundings.

Problem now is that I really should get back to the digging…

The stupidest thing I did today;

Made two big mistakes at football tonight - firstly suggesting that we play 'old men' versus 'young men'. Whilst I was happy to concede that I would be one of the 'anziani', my Italian teammates were less forthcoming and rather reluctant to admit their ages. A bit embarassing. And we lost.
The second mistake would take too long to explain but, suffice to say, I nutmegged Jesus. I promise to expand in my next post...

Shameless

17th May 2008

Please forgive us for this shameless piece of self-promotion but, finally, after months of blood, sweat and tears, our website is finally on line, www.artistinitaly.com

It’s all about us and what we do, it’s about Italy and Art and about ‘having a go’.  We are hoping to fill our courses for this year with enthusiastic people who will give us some good old constructive criticism, so we are offering a generous discount during our first year to anyone who comes through the blog.
Please go over to the site and check it out and, if you know anyone who might be interested, please send them the link.

This is a bit cheeky, we know, but if any of you fellow bloggers or readers could help us out with a little promo, we would be eternally grateful.

PS. Don't forget to come back here to let us know what you think. Thanks

Guilty as charged

10th May 2008

Around 10 years ago there was a great deal of excitement about the 500th Anniversary of the death of one of the greatest Renaissance painters, Piero Della Francesca. I remember being on holiday in Italy at the time and tearing around with Marito to various churches, museums and small towns to see as much of his work as possible as quickly as we could, The Piero Trail.

There were so many highlights, including my personal favourite, the serene Madonna Del Parto , but the one that perhaps stands out the most in terms of its sheer magnificence is the Legend of the True Cross fresco cycle in Arezzo. As a story it has all the intrigue of The Lord of the Rings, spanning over 5,000 years from the death of Adam to the return of the cross to Jerusalem.

In the middle there is the search for healing oil from the Wood of Mercy, the theatrical angel appearing to Constantine in his beautifully illuminated campaign tent and two tremendous battle scenes. It appears exactly as it would have done, except for the damage caused by earthquakes, lightning, nearby building works and, perhaps the worst of all evils, if you're a fresco, damp.

I took some photographs, although I did get told off for doing so. Flash photography causes terrible damage to a fresco, I was once told that one flash was the equivalent of 10 days subdued sunlight, so I am always careful to not use it. So when I asked (politely) why it was wrong, it seems the reason is now copyright. After 510 years I doubt whether Piero Della Francesca would really care that much.

Anyway, guilty as charged, here they are. The idea is to make other people want to go and pay to see the frescoes, so I guess it all works out ok in the end.

The History of Art really is food for the soul, it's history with pictures, a wonderful subject for anyone with their eyes open to ideas and creativity and, whether or not you love the art, it represents an aspect of human endeavour which shapes the world we live in.

Seems like nature’s doing a pretty good job too, it being so juicy green and blooming beautiful around here these days.

Best thing I ate;

Panino

Sometimes the best thing you eat has less to do with the actual food itself and more to do with the location in which you eat it, or the company you're with. So it was with my Panino con Tonno e Capperi, oily and delicious indeed, but it would hardly have drawn a crowd. 
However, add to it the location, (a bustling outside café under Vasari’s gracious loggia in the stunning town of Arezzo) the company, (two of my favourite Italophiles and fellow bloggers, the olive notes) a little sunshine and the famous Fiera Antiquaria.

Mix it all up and stick that in a Panino – ‘perfetto’!

The birds and the bees

27th April 2008

Forget the bursting buds of Spring, forget the birds and the bees. For a sure sign that more clement weather is on the way check out this remarkable transformation.

It was with some trepidation that we took our beloved hound (one year old this week) for his first haircut warned, as we had been, by the vet that it might look “un po brutto”, (a little ugly) but, as temperatures started to climb, the hair had to go.

Just look at what a handsome and expressive face had been lurking beneath all that wool. At first he seemed more vulnerable and, strangely, slightly more intelligent however, after a brief identity crisis, he is now back to his normal stupid self and feeling mighty confident about his furry charms. Strutting his stuff down Chiusi main street with hardly a backwards glance at all the lady-dogs swooning in his wake.

Best thing I ate:
Bistecca alla Fiorentina

I am enamoured with my butcher. He has Al Pacino eyes and the lazy smile of a well fed wolf. I know he likes me and he knows I like him. Why? because we both like good meat.

Yesterday, when Marito was buying some bistecca (steak) and I was waiting outside with the dog (our noses pushed up against the window), ‘Big Al’ refused to cut marito’s steak thicker than mine, despite his protestations because, said Al, (gesturing towards me with his chopper), “I know she likes her meat!”
So… if you’re ever in Chuisi, and you require the services of a good butcher, you know where to go – 70, Via Porsena, Chuisi.

For a bistecca that’s butch and bloody with a salty crust, here’s how;

The steak (about as thick as your thumb)
Some olive oil
Sea salt, black pepper and a stem of fresh rosemary
A heavy frying or grill pan

Rub your steak all over with olive oil, use the rosemary to brutally brush it on, crushing the herb and releasing the fragrance. Grind the pepper over both sides and (controversial I know), a good grind of sea salt too. This gives a lovely salty crust to the meat.
Put a little more oil in your pan and get it nice and hot, (it must be hot for this to work), then slap in the steak and press it down into the pan, don’t move it about.
Let it cook for 2 minutes, then turn it over, grind a bit more salt over it and press down again.
Let in cook for 2 minutes more and it will be ready, (the faint hearted may wish to cook it for a bit longer). I sometimes add a couple of cloves of garlic, squashed in their skins to the pan, or throw in a little wine after removing the meat to make the beefy juices go a bit further.

Apologies to vegetarians. I like vegetables too, promise.

The rule of threes

20th April 2008

I know things don’t happen in threes, no more than they happen in twos or fours, but people keep mentioning my two recent building site incidents and mentioning this ‘three’ thing, and I am starting to wonder. So this morning I was extra careful, hoping the third thing might happen to someone else.

Me, being extra careful.

The second thing was a nasty cut to the head, requiring stitches.
My friend interrupted his holiday with us to take me to the hospital in Citta della Pieve, careful not to get my blood on his car seat. Once there I may have made a mistake. I assumed that because someone works at a hospital and wears a uniform, he or she must be a doctor.
Two men in bright orange uniforms quickly gave me a combination of; head-shave, local anaesthetic and stitches.

It was only later, when I was leaving the hospital after the obligatory cranial x-ray, that I noticed two similarly dressed men putting up a wobbly wooden fence around the town walls. Then I saw them again, on the motorway, painting white lines, quite badly.
Now I look at my stitches in a different light. They are the sort you draw onto a face when you’re 6 years old, or the sort you would do if you had absolutely no medical training and were having a bit of a laugh while the doctor was at lunch.
I will spare you the photos.

Spring, in our garden, seems to have sprung - by the way

The stupidest thing I did today;
Watched ‘Cloverfield’ – where do I go to claim those 84 minutes of my life back?

Dyed hair and false smiles

8th April 2008

It would be hard to miss the election about to happen in Italy, not because our tv is filled with grey-suited, bespectacled men with dyed hair and false smiles, and not because the adverts are punctuated by explanations of how the complicated voting system works. It is simply that every public place; car parks, piazzas and municipal parks, has suddenly been filled with large, metal, grey election poster boards, presumably designed to keep the unsuspecting buildings poster-free.

I won’t pretend to understand anything about Italian politics or the machinations of the voting system, but suffice to say that after the election there are a lot of ‘conversations’ in smoke-filled rooms as the parties form tenuous coalitions with each other to achieve a working majority. This then results in a government which is quite soon held to ransom by all the smaller parties until the tenuous coalitions fall apart and the working majority is lost and we have another election and the large, metal, grey election poster boards come out again.

Someone once told me that if you go to a dinner party in England, the subjects to avoid are religion, sex, and politics. But in Italy, whether at breakfast, lunch or dinner they are the only topics of conversation.

Political manoeuvrings are an Italian tradition, they have been going on for centuries, and almost every fresco, sculpture and painting in Florence owes its existence to the blind ambition or overt gratitude of a benefactor with one eye on the heavens and the other firmly over his shoulder.

This goes some way to explaining the appearance on fresco cycles of the faces of so many wealthy Florentines. As many as five hundred years ago, a little advertising and a little publicity did you no harm at all, you could even carve on the façade of a church the fact that you paid for it and, more importantly, how much it cost!

The stupidest thing I did today;
Momentary lapse in concentration whilst holding a chisel and swinging a hammer

The garland maker

29th March 2008

During the Easter break we shed our builders’ overalls and travelled by train to Florence for another quick fix of culture.

We chose Santa Maria Novella, not because it’s a stones throw from the station, nor because of it’s ornate green and white marble façade but because it really is a marvel. So jam packed with Renaissance goodies that at two and a half euros for the entrance it’s got to be the best value for money in town.

Green and white marble facade

Despite the lure of an early Masaccio fresco and the tormented beauty of Brunelleschi’s crucifix, what really does it for me is the Tornabuoni chapel, frescos by Domenico Ghirlandaio.  The name Ghirlandaio means garland maker and was a nickname passed down by his father, a goldsmith who made gold garland-like necklaces for the wealthy women of Florence.  From his father’s workshop Ghirlandaio was said to have begun his career making drawings of the passers-by.

His skill for portraiture is displayed at it’s best in these striking frescos commissioned by the banker, Giovanni Tornabuoni. Despite the subject matter being the lives of the Madonna and St John the Baptist there are no fewer than 21 portraits of members of the Tornabuoni family and their circle depicted here.  This might explain why certain illustrious ladies of Florentine society are shown as if present at the births of both St John and the Virgin.  These beauties include the ill-fated Ludovica Tornabuoni, the patron’s only daughter, who never saw her prominent portrait as she was to die in childbirth aged 15 before it was finished, making the scene even more poignant.

Ludovica Tornabuoni, 5th from the left, by Domenico Ghirlandaio

As a snapshot of 15th Century life in Florence, no frescos are more fascinating.  There is a strange, almost Disney-like quality to them and the interior detail is compelling.  Imagine the impact when these gaudy scenes were revealed to the god-fearing Florentine masses in all their technicolour glory.  Here there are no imaginary celestial settings but the real, elaborate halls and bed chambers of contemporary Florence, peopled by the wives and daughters of the rich.  In a world without glossy magazines, TV shows or shopping channels they were like a Florentine soap-opera, the first ever reality show and they caused a sensation. John Ruskin snippily said of them that “if you are  nice person they are not nice enough” and “if you are a vulgar person, not vulgar enough”.
To me they are nice and vulgar!

As you leave you may notice a large carved, wooden pulpit, it was from here that the zealous Dominicans first denounced Galileos daring realisation that the earth revolved around the sun and not the other way round.  And, in a dimly lit corner with no label or sign attached, is a small but exquisite water stoop carved by a young Michelangelo.  All this for two and a half euros!  What more could you ask for, (although marito remarked cynically that it used to be free).

The best thing I ate;
Asparagus.

It’s a little early I know (the true season for Italian asparagus being the end of April to the end of June) but I just can’t wait. Slowly, gradually it is beginning to appear on the market stalls. I’ve been holding back knowing my greed for asparagus knows no bounds, not wanting to waste the first taste of the year on  something lacking and inferior. But then, as luck would have it, I was invited to join some neighbours for supper and there it was, the first course. A large white platter, piled high with beautiful, glistening spears of silky green asparagus, briefly boiled and tender to the bite. The partner to this heavenly vision was a large bowl of lovely, fat, wobbly home-made mayonnaise. And so, I declare the asparagus season (in this house) has begun.

Where to get it;
Anywhere you can, before I do.

Moliere

20th March 2008

As he knelt on the cold stone floor of the dark, abandoned warehouse, Julian became suddenly aware of the strange noises echoing through the corrugated iron roof, and he began to wonder how he had got himself into this mess.

His heart sank as he remembered the initial conversation outside the school gates, being asked if sometime in the vague future he would mind helping design the set for a little play at Castiglione Del Lago.
It seemed such a good idea at the time…

My new office - the warehouse of the Lago Trasimeno Touring Theatre Company

Now, with a set of keys to the old warehouse, and not a soul in sight, he was faced with sixty square metres of set to design and produce single-handedly for a 17th Century Moliere play, ‘School for wives’, being performed in a month before going on tour around this part of Italy.

Yes, every night for the last couple of weeks, I have been wending my weary way to this old warehouse where they prepare the sets. It has to be at night because I am using an overhead projector, so the place is very quiet. It’s a little odd, as there never seem to be any actors rehearsing, or any lighting or sound people doing whatever they do. Nothing. No-one. Except me.

I must learn to start saying no.

The stupidest thing I did today;

Still couldn't say no when I got 'tagged' by Anne
and here are my answers;

What I was doing 10 years ago:
Living in London, teaching Art, wondering what I would be doing in 10 years time

Five things on my to-do list today:
Chip more render off the outside walls of the house
Pay a huge bill, in cash, for our permissions to renovate the house
Try to finish our website (that’s been on quite a few to-do lists recently)
Fix my daughter’s already-broken bicycle
Prepare myself mentally and physically for indoor football tonight

Snacks I enjoy:
Does red wine count as a snack?

Things I would do if I was a Billionaire:
Wear cashmere during the day
Get someone else to chip the render off the house
Get someone else to fix the bicycle
Get someone else to finish the website
Pay the huge bill, in cash, and laugh
Drink better red wine in the evening
Sleep better at night

Three of my bad habits:
You’ll have to ask my wife, I'm not sure I have any...

Five places I have lived:
Malta
Norfolk
London
Kingston
Italy

Five jobs I have had:
Paperboy
Barman
Book Illustrator
Teacher
Unskilled builder

and the list of those hapless few I now have to 'tag';

Chris - How to be happy
Miranda Taxis at Il Pero
Jeff in Puglia
Sally at Casalba
Maryann at Finding La Dolce Vita

Tufa

18th March 2008

I made a rather foolish decision a few days ago. The job was to smash down a small building attached to the house to make way for a large terrace. At my disposal was a very nice, orange digger (see picture) which is designed to knock down small buildings in a matter of minutes, or, alternatively I could choose to spend the rest of my life taking it down by hand to save the bricks for later.

Me and my digger

That was the first bad decision. Then, yesterday, when deciding where the drains and septic tanks need to go, it was decided that the perfect spot would be where I had just spent 3 days piling up those 562 big, water-heavy bricks (trust me, I did count them)
So now I have to move them to the other side of the garden, by hand, which gives me another chance to count them, I suppose.

Tufa - beautiful, but heavy when wet.

Who would have thought that the main topic of conversation at my 6 year olds parents’ evening would be the fact that of all the children in her class, only Lorenzo eats his vegetables and absolutely no-one eats the minestrone. Those parents who weren’t busy chatting on their mobile phones looked most upset except, of course, for Lorenzo’s mother who almost felt the need to stand up in her moment of pride. This was, fortunately, the only moment when individuals were singled out. Most of the parents were cowering in fear of the public humiliation at the hands of a teacher who was literally foaming at the mouth as she explained her exasperation at coping with such an ‘unruly’ lot.
However I managed to escape unscathed from both sets of teachers, now I just have to work out how our two children manage to transform themselves into little angels between 8.30am and 4.30pm.

The stupidest thing I did today;
See above...

Myrtle

After 18 years, and having put up with 4 different houses, 2 different countries, 2 small children and a dog, our little cat Myrtle has died. She was a lovely cat and, for the majority of my adult life, was an ever-present feature in the house. A warm, darkish blob with a beautiful face and a gentle manner. She will be sorely missed and has now found a nice, familiar spot in our garden, between two large rosemary bushes which, perhaps coincidentally, just flowered in the most magnificent way.

Myrtle (Miss) 14th February 1990 - 10th March 2008

Bones and stones

9th March 2008

Real life seems to be taking over from blogging here at the moment as, finally, the building work seems to be moving on a pace, which is good, as our first painting course starts in September and the apartments and studio need to ready for the summer.
Hard work, however, doesn’t come cheap and this is a point in the project when we seem to haemorrhaging cash.
The house is changing and evolving almost daily and it seems to me that sometimes it ‘talks’. By that I mean it makes it’s spirit felt. When you take a building back to it’s origins and strip away the layers of man made rubbish we like to surround ourselves with; the polyurethane, vinyl, plasterboard and pebbledash to reveal the beautiful bones and stones and brick and wood you set it’s spirit free.

The spirit of this house soared free yesterday morning when marito and Vlad began to chisel off the sombre render on the front of the house and revealed this.

Best thing I ate:

Here, for my friends Maryann, Finding La Dolce Vita and Marie, Proud Italian Cook, is my contribution to Festa Italia

Pasta al forno con pomodoro e mozzarella

This is one of my favourite Italian pasta dishes. I love the way a few humble ingredients like cheese, tomatoes and pasta can be made into something rich and sustaining.
When I take this out of the oven, fragrant and bubbling, it always makes me feel like a sexy Italian ‘mamma’. You will find versions of it in almost every Italian cookery book and it is a regular feature at celebrations all over Italy.
Marito and the girls would gladly eat this everyday of the week given half a chance. It is straightforward to make in large quantities so perfect for a festa. The fact that Italians choose to celebrate with such a simple dish and then to lavish so much care over its preparation is for me what makes Italian food truly great.

It feeds four greedy people;

2 large cloves garlic squashed
1 peperoncino crumbled
Extra virgin olive oil
3x 400g tins of good quality plum tomatoes
2 bay leaves
Sea salt, black pepper
Big bunch of Basil leaves
2 or 3 balls of good quality mozzarella cheese
Lots of freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Nutmeg
400g Penne pasta

Pre heat the oven to 200 degrees and put a large pan of water on to boil for the pasta.
In a large deep frying pan heat a good glug of olive oil and sauté the garlic and peperoncino for a few minutes but do not colour. Add the tomatoes and chop them roughly, then add the bay leaves and simmer it all for about 20 minutes until it’s thick and reduced. Mash in the garlic, which should now be soft, and remove the bay. Check the flavour and season with as much salt and pepper as you like.

When your water is boiling add some salt and cook the Penne until just ‘al dente’ then drain, reserving a small cup of the pasta water. Toss the pasta with half of the sauce and use the water to thin down the remaining tomato mixture.

In a large baking dish layer the pasta followed by the tomato sauce and 1 torn up mozzarella ball, some basil leaves and a good grating of Parmesan. Repeat these layers until you have used everything up. Ending with a layer of mozzarella and Parmesan and topping the whole glorious thing off with a grating of nutmeg, don’t hold back.

Bake in a hot oven for about 15 mins until crusty and golden.

This is a perfect sop for large quantities of good red wine. Buona Festa!

A weekend off with SpongeBob

3rd March 2008

It's not often that I take a weekend off, as I like to impress on Vladimir that I'm not a 'gentleman builder' or an idler. Despite my efforts he still seems unconvinced. So, this weekend, which featured my small daughter's Birthday and party, I decided to have a break.

Tools down for the weekend

The birthday girl filled my weekend by introducing me to her latest obsession, the 'SpongeBob Squarepants Patty Panic' game, and within minutes I was a 'competitive dad' again. Please don't look it up, mostly because it's rubbish, but also because you'll then be tempted to try to beat my highest score ( a magnificent 19,525) which would be impossible.

Anyway it was the birthday of the new (almost grown up) bicycle. Everyone can remember 'that' birthday, it's such a great gift and it represents so much more than the sum of its parts, even for a seven-year-old.

However, all that is behind us now , as the week has begun with a return to the building site, and with a few strange questions left unanswered;
1. Why did my lovely wife bake an even lovelier cake and then leave it at dog-height for 30 seconds?
2. Why did I spend so long with SpongeBob this weekend? and, most worrying of all,
3. What does my wife mean when she says that the "building is talking to us"?

The stupidest thing I did today;

Inadvertently offering up a challenge to all other competitive Alpha males (and females), and now expecting a small flurry of made-up scores.

Cold and luckless

22nd February 2008

On a cold and luckless night last week, the pitiless febbre (flu) that has been stalking the winter countryside paid a visit to our house, claiming me and the small one as it’s victims before bounding on to Chuisi for a pizza. Having spent the last few days aching, shivering and sneezing while administering to a cranky child, I can tell you that Italian flu is no fun.

The house, emerging from Winter

However, while I’ve been languishing in my sickbed, inhaling foul potions prescribed by marito, the air outside has softened and the promise of Spring can be felt as the pale sunshine breaks through the mist. Things are looking up.

Preferring not to waste his time on elaborate bedside manners, marito has been busy demolishing the back of the house. Bravo, who wants to be a doctor anyway.

Marito, hiding somewhere in this picture, avoiding the flu

Best thing I ate:

Tachipirina (Paracetamol)
Pity me.
I have also (temporarily I hope) lost my sense of taste and smell.

Vladimir and the villagers

13th February 2008

This ‘optimistic’ blog struggles to retain its optimism sometimes; red tape, ever escalating prices, never escalating temperatures and a dog whose diet of stolen foods makes for a vet’s bill much higher than it ought to be.

To give you an idea, last week he claimed; one pound of butter, a babybel cheese (including wax and wrapper), two pairs of sunglasses, various items from the cat litter tray, and as much of our rubbish as he could shove into his mouth before we caught him.

Having said all that. I was then privileged to witness the most extreme example of Italian’s love of their mobile phones. I have discovered that there is nowhere and no occasion in which you cannot or should not answer your phone. But there had to be a limit, and now I think I have found that limit. At the vets, taking the temperature of my dog, you might have thought that she could miss a call, but no. With one hand up my dog’s backside and the other ferreting around her white coat for the mobile, even the dog had to laugh.

Had a fantastic afternoon, without the dog, photographing the railway station in Florence, Santa Maria Novella. I put a few of the best ones in the sidebar…

The stupidest thing I did today;

Dipping out of my ‘theme’ for a change, I found out something very useful today which might stop me doing something stupid in the future. According to local legend, our builder, Vladimir, once ‘took on’ a whole village after a dispute in a bar. I must remember that.

Carnevale

7th February 2008

My wife thinks I’m simply attention seeking, but I know that I’m cursed.

Take any street entertainer, anywhere, and get him to pick an idiot out of the crowd to be made a fool of, and it will be me. I don’t push people aside to get to the front and I don’t want the attention, I promise.

I used to cope in England (and in English), but when I got picked by a wild-eyed amateur Italian fire-juggler to participate in his act, it was a little disconcerting. Maybe he said “throw the flaming torch to me’, maybe he said “throw the flaming torch at me”