A Tuscan View - from Umbria

Ex Voto

Surely the best day out you can have at this time of year has to be the Arezzo antique market. I know I have raved about it before, but it never fails to thrill me.  It's the mix of clear blue skies and thin autumn sunshine, the Italian fashionista out in throngs displaying the new seasons ‘look’, the marvelous spectacle of all that junk and religious paraphernalia, as well as a chance to strut my stuff in new skinny jeans and boots.

Russian dolls and icons

One of my favourite things on offer is the Ex Voto.  The word comes from the Latin, meaning ‘from the vow made’.  These votive offerings were traditionally left to a saint or divinity, placed on the altar of a church, expressing a wish or desire or to give thanks for the fulfillment of a prayer. 

How we regard illness and healing has changed drastically throughout the ages but our abiding hope that all will be well is wonderfully expressed by the ex voto.  They were often left to give thanks after a successful operation, or survival of an accident and, although usually left anonymously, they are a touching mix of both public and personal faith.

Ex votos

Beginning in this form in Italy in the 15th Century, they slowly spread to the new world and, although most prolific in the early 19th Century, they continue to be used as an expression of thanks for healing, even cats and dogs get a look in.

Out of their religious context, these tarnished pressed tin likenesses take on a silvery and tactile allure.  I find their naïve symbolism strangely compelling.

Jumbled together in damp cardboard boxes or haphazardly displayed amongst all the other tawdry tat, they glint temptingly.  I can never resist them and can spend endless time deliberating over body parts, often returning home with several comforting little packages containing disembodied limbs, eyes and torsos.  

Best thing I ate:

Porcini 

We are coming to the end of the porcini season here, so I thought I’d better get a move on before the first hard frost arrives.  I wish I could tell you that I’d been foraging in the woods for them, but I am far to fearful to trust my own judgment in the poisonous funghi department.  Luckily, at this time of year, there are porcini stalls at every local market as well as those randomly placed by the side of the road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, just waiting for a some porcini crazed motorists to pull up, and sure enough we did.

Piled into a wooden crate, the porcini look so plump and appealing with their chestnut bronze and chocolate caps.  I think the best way to cook porcini is to roast them, either whole or thickly sliced.  Place them in a single layer in a shallow roasting pan, douse them with a generous slug of olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt and a few sprigs of thyme, and roast until the flesh is slightly shrunken and the tops a little wrinkled.  The 'bosky' flavour will be sublime, intense and earthy.  I served mine, dark and glossy, piled on top of a basic white risotto, to which I had added the sweetness of a little marsala, and finished by stirring in a big creamy dollop of mascarpone. Heaven.

Where to get them:

In the woods, if you dare.

The pirate cat

Hunters are a part of life here inthe country, especially if you choose to live in an area which, for part of the year, is a registered and monitored hunting estate.

I would hate to be so presumptuous as to try to stop people doing what they have always done just because my suburban mentality finds it a little difficult to understand. The sight of men in camouflage gear, stalking around the woods with shotguns between the beginning of November and the end of January can be disconcerting, but their ready smiles and handsome companion dogs are reassuring signs of responsibility and a certain degree of humanity.

I have always tried to maintain this opinion.

But last week one of our cats, Melvin, disappeared. He isn't the sort of cat to go wandering, in fact he has spent the majority of his life applying for the position of 'house cat' - often found harmlessly chasing the sun patches in various places inside, rather than relentlessly and mercilessly chasing lizards like the others. His disappearance was, therefore, a bit of a mystery, especially as he is a big boy, unlikely to have succumbed to a fox or a pine-martin. The children and the grown-ups were, understandably, becoming more upset as each day passed.

Then, the other night, he reappeared after four long days away.  He seemed ok at first; just a little hungry, tired and glad to be home. But a closer inspection betrayed a problem around his eyes and we took him to the vets. Tests showed that he had been shot by a hunter, and the shotgun pellets had lodged around his face and into his side, but one had pierced the centre of his left eye and he will, almost certainly, lose that eye.

As with most animals he seems to be able to just get on with it despite all the serious medication he now has to take but I, on the other hand, find the whole thing very infuriating. To accept that grown men, desperate to kill something illegally before the hunting season starts, would be firing off shotguns at anything that moves in the woods, makes me very cross.

Our vain attempts at calling him the ''pirate cat' to the girls have fallen on sullen and deaf ears and the fact that he is probably lucky to be still alive is scant consolation. 

So, despite our efforts at a perpetual optimistic blog about our new life here in the Italian countryside, there are some things it is hard to be cheery about and poor old Melvin is resigned to his fate as the new house cat; big, bolshy and now blinkered, but bravely unbowed.

He may, one day, think he's got a good deal out of it all, but I don't think I'll be waving so enthusiastically at the hunters come November.

Last one standing

There’s this old building.
It has been here since we arrived and for a long time before. It sits, hidden in the middle of a light industrial estate, in a small drive-through town a few miles from here and, despite all the pre-fabricated, non-descript, soulless monstrosities growing up all around it, it has always remained quietly there.

I have been meaning to photograph it, to make it into a sort of photo-essay, for a long time now and kept putting it off for one reason or another, and also because there was a rather high fence all round it. 

Then, last week, things suddenly changed. 

I noticed that the gate was open on Monday, nothing more on Tuesday, but by Wednesday morning someone had parked a bulldozer in the forecourt. It seems that this old boy has to come down to make way for something new.
So, in haste, I had to get myself in there and do my best. I’m not sure what it is about this building; perhaps the squareness, perhaps the fading stucco walls, the sense of what it was (and I still can’t figure that out), perhaps the fact that it is the last one standing, or just that I hoped it would make strong and striking images.

Anyway, as I write this, it’s still hanging on. The ground either side of it is now flat and prepared for something, and it looks even more exposed and under threat than before.

So, I have put a few examples of my (all too hasty) photos in the sidebar. Have a look before it's too late!

better dead than alive

The sunflowers have pretty much come to an end round here. A few of the smaller ones are hanging on, but the vast majority have hung their heads, shed their yellow petals, and are silently waiting for the 'chop'.
I know they are spectacular whist in full bloom, they brilliantly colour the landscape for a few weeks but, soon after, when they begin to fade, there is a long, slow deterioration for at least a couple of months.

Sunflowers in full bloom.

I used to find this period a bit depressing, but I have been driving past a particular sunflower field almost every day this Summer, and have been looking at them a little more closely. I'm starting to think that I prefer them like this.

They are still, silent, solemn sculptures - still massive in the fields, but with their leaves drying and curling as they begin to brown up and their giant round heads going black and heavy with the weight of the oil.

They don't turn with the sun anymore, and their stems have become brittle and pale; bent, bowed and sometimes broken.

But what a powerful presence!

white speedos?

It's August, which in Italy means that 90% of Italians head for the sea and, with 7,600km of coastline, there's a lot of room for all those millions of pairs of white speedos which never seem to have gone out of fashion here.

I must say that I've never personally been one for gazing out to sea (or at white speedos for that matter) and, being in the only landlocked region of the Italian peninsular, I'm well placed to appreciate the inside, rather than the outside edge of the country.


Early evening view from the house

The midsummer colours here are so bright and full of glare that it is hard to photograph the countryside except when it's a little cooler, either early in the morning or late in the afternoon, but when the light is just right you can sometimes hit upon a rich seam of shapes, lines and colours which define this landscape and these freshly cut fields below were, for me, just such a seam.


 
Freshly cut fields of grain

They remind me of chestnut woodgrain or warm travertine and they mark a brief respite for the hardworking farmers of this area - who I imagine have also gone off for a few days by the sea, firmly clutching their white speedos.

tempera

A little while ago we decided to run a course in Tempera painting. This is a traditional technique used extensively in Italy during the Renaissance and, in it's classical form, is called Egg tempera as the powdered pigments are bound together with egg yolks. After about 1500 oil painting took over in Italy and these days tempera has been transformed into what we now call poster paint or Gouache.

There was a wonderful moment in Florence in 1483 when a painting (The Portinari Altarpiece - Adoration of the Shepherds) was carried with much 'pomp' into the city all the way down from the Northern European city of Bruges. It had been painted by the Flemish master Hugo van der Goes in oil paint and it was a revelation.

People queued to marvel at the extraordinary realism and detail of this spectacular altarpiece and, amongst many other things, made particular mention of the dirt visible under the fingernails of the shepherds adoring the Christ child.

 This was a real wake-up call to the painters of Florence who had always thought themselves and their techniques  to be the best in the world and so was also a real threat to the method of tempera painting they used. One artist took up the challenge.

Determined to prove that Florentines were at least as good as the Flemish oil painters, Domenico Ghirlandaio produced an 'Adoration of the Shepherds' in Florentine style and in tempera, but with more than the occasional reference to the rival Flemish painting, including dirt under the fingernails of the shepherds, one of whom is Ghirlandaio himself, with breathtaking realism, stubble and watery eyes, showing us what he can do.

Detail of Ghirlandaio's Adoration, he is the handsome man on the bottom left!

Both paintings are still in Florence, one in the Ufizzi, carefully protected and preserved amongst all the other masterworks of Italy, and Ghirlandaio's in a dark corner of a comparatively small church called Santa Trinita, with a broken light, no entrance charge, no queue and no guard. You just have to walk in and admire.

Anyway, I want to try as many traditional methods as possible, so I went to Arezzo to do a little research into tempera. I can find the eggs myself, but dry powdered pigments and gold leaf may be a little harder to come by!

I found a workshop with a wonderful old man who restores and repairs all sorts of artwork, with paintings and frames piled up against the walls and hanging from the ceiling. So, I made myself a nuisance and tried to get as much information as I could out of him, wandering around the studio, staring at his brushes, pigments, mouldings, powders, pots and tins of strange mixtures of gesso, gold leaf, silver leaf, glues, sizes, boles etc.

He told me that he would be the last of his family to continue in his business as his children had decided not to follow on his line of work.

In another life I would have jumped at the chance to become his (unpaid) apprentice. Not least because his knowledge and his recipes have been so carefully developed over 60 years and, when he goes, a lot goes
with him.

There are a lot of mysteries in those tins and jars.

But of the photos I took that day, one stands out. This one. I could look at it for hours. It is a picture of one part of one wall of his studio and it tells us so much about him, his family, his life and his career. Next week I might just have to go back to ask him a few more questions...

Mad dogs and Englishmen

I’ve been so reluctant to write about the finishing of the building project, the start of the art courses and the beginning of the next part – settling in to a very different routine.

Perhaps I have metaphorically been holding my breath all this time and just praying everything will go well, or perhaps I’ve been too busy to write, but there’s no excuse really.
But however it all has gone (and it seems to have gone very well so far) there is still a need to write it down, and that’s what I will try to do to make up for all the missing posts…starting here.

The hot mid-afternoon, seen from the studio.

Summer has been here for a long while already and the girl’s everlasting holidays are drifting along in the heat, neither of them able to do much homework during these long hot afternoons. In fact they’re not able to do much at all until the cooler evenings gradually re-energise them.

I wish we could teach ourselves to get in to that ‘siesta’ mode, but it seems impossible to recalibrate our body clocks to take advantage of a ‘cheeky sleep’ in the middle of the day. So I find myself out there, with my mad dog, doing precious little in the sun.

The girls have gone all 'euro-cool' these Summer days!

However, we feel like we’re at the end of the hard, ugly bit, so my thoughts turn to our still-toiling neighbours, getting up each day to face the cement mixer. They started before we did, and they’re not finished yet, but there’s a good reason for that – they’re doing it all themselves.

And you’ve got to respect that.

La Foce

For anyone struggling to make some kind of garden out of the baked clay soil of this area, the gardens at La Foce are an inspiration.

But it's not just the gardens that appeal to me, it's the spirit of Iris Origo which seems to have seeped into the old stucco walls of the villa.

You can sense her quiet, overseeing presence everywhere and, looking out at the incredible view from the gardens over the surreal and almost lunar landscape of the Val d'Orcia, you feel the passion and love that she must have felt for this wild and beautiful countryside.

On 4 March 1924, Iris married the charming Antonio Origo. They moved together to their new estate at La Foce, near Chianciano Terme in the Province of Siena. It was in a state of bad repair; the land around it arid and barren and the tenant farmers nearing starvation. But with great insight and a feeling for the landscape, and after much hard work, care and attention, they succeeded in transforming it.

Now the gardens are a truly magnificent mix of Italian formal garden and English country garden, gradually loosening up to meet with the surrounding wooded wilderness. I love a bit of box hedging, and the smell of an 80 year old wisteria in full bloom...

During the Second World War, the Origos remained at La Foce and looked after refugee children, who were housed there. Following the surrender of Italy, and the confused mayhem that swept through the country, Iris also sheltered or assisted many escaped Allied prisoners of war. Sometimes up to 30 people a day would arrive at La Foce; all on foot, many starving and ill, all seeking to make their way through the German lines, or simply to survive.

Her intellligent and level headed account of this time is recorded in her war diary, 'War in the Val D'Orcia'. It is one of my favourite books about this area.

As part of our recent Botanical Illustration courses we have visited Iris's gracious gardens at La Foce and it's a trip that really is balm for the soul, both uplifting and inspiring. So, with thanks to the lovely ladies on our recent Botanical Course 2nd to 9th May, I have included some photos of our wonderful day out there.

The best thing I ate:

Fresh Garlic

At the moment, bunches of fresh, wet garlic are heaped on the market stalls, their skin is moist and beautiful, blushed with purple and pale green and, as the garlic gets older, the skin drys to the palest ivory and becomes dry and brittle. The flavour changes too.

New garlic is mild and sweet, the plump cloves beneath the skin are the brightest white and full of juice. The taste is subtle and, for those with no romantic rendezvous lined up, it is delicious eaten raw, sliced thinly into a fresh green salad. In fact I would encourage you to convince you lover to partake with you in an orgy of fresh garlic-eating - that way you can enjoy the fleeting moment together. Or rub a cut clove over a toasty piece of griddled bread, drizzle over the ubiquitous olive oil and enjoy the simplest form of bruschetta.

Long time no blog

Goodness me, it’s been a month.  I have no excuse except that real life seems to have stepped up a pace since the art courses started.  Life at the moment seems like one big learning curve as each of the courses runs for the first time.   It’s an exciting period, but not without a bit of nail biting too.

Now that the overall renovations of the apartments and studio are finished (nearly), it’s the details that begin to come into focus.  This corkboard has been re-commissioned to organise our keys.  My father made this board for me years ago out of the corks left over from bottles of wine that he had drunk, he only used the ones that he felt were particularly memorable, either because the wine or the company he drank with had moved him. He made one for me and one for my sister. Of the few things I have that were my dad’s, this is one of the most precious. The corks in the centre are from bottles of Cava that we drank together, to celebrate the stuff that families celebrate, each other.  Now, it’s in use everyday and I think my dad would have liked that.

This is another detail that shouldn’t go unnoticed, the amount of wonderful artwork that has been produced in the studio, by visitors on the art courses.  This table full of work is by one of our first ‘students’, I love looking at all these vibrant images and somehow it makes sense of what we have been doing for the last two and a half years.

The other thing that is prevalent around here at the moment is the sheer greenness of the landscape, so green and full of sap, it makes me want to sing and make soup.

Best thing I ate;

To celebrate the full on juicy lushness that is Umbria at this time of year, I made this verdant soup for the students on our recent botanical illustration course.  They weren’t complaining.

The idea of this light soup is to keep it very fresh and green I like to make it, and eat it, within the hour as that is when the colour really zings.  The clean, sweet taste of the zucchini (courgette) works really well with a pungent splash of basil oil, and a crunch of charred bread from the griddle.

Zuppa di Zucchini con Basilico or Courgette Soup with Basil

For the soup (serves 6)

1.5kg firm, shinny skinned medium sized zucchini, trimmed
Olive oil, large glug
50g butter
3 gloves garlic peeled
1ltr good vegetable stock, a cube will do
Sea salt and black pepper

For the basil oil

1 large bunch of fresh basil
150ml olive oil
Sea salt

Soup
 Heat the olive oil and butter in a large stock-pot and sweat the garlic gently without colouring it.  Meanwhile chop the zucchini cross ways into coins and add to the pot, cover with the stock and bring to a simmer and cook for about 20 minutes or until the courgettes are just tender.  Blend the soup with a hand help blender, until smooth and green.  Check the seasoning and add salt and pepper to your taste.

Oil
Take your bunch of basil and remove any coarse stems, puree the basil with the olive oil and a large pinch of sea salt until smooth and intense dark green.

Serve the soup with a large splash of the basil oil floating on top and a slice of coarse country bread charred on the griddle.  Perfetto.

Quite a blow

The last week or two have been a bit hectic around here as our first group of artists arrived.  The last minute panic to get things ready gave way to a steady rhythm of activity as the workshop got underway.  It seems, at last, we are beginning to do what we came here to do which is, of course, run painting holidays.  After all the graft that has gone before, this seems somehow incredible to me.  There is still, however, so much to be done that it seems there will be no time for resting on our laurels, at least not in this lifetime. 

The most amazing thing to me was how the studio was transformed by the addition of the students. What they brought to what is, in fact, just a large, light space was all the atmosphere and vibrancy that made the place hum.

The start of the art courses seems to have shaken things up around here and change is definitely in the air, good change.
Despite my being one of those irritating people who appears to suffer from unusually high self-esteem, I have been left reeling from the fact that my eldest daughter, recently and at surprisingly close range, mistook me for one of the builders.  It’s not that I have anything against the builders, but still it was quite a blow.

The last two years of living in rural Italy on what can only be described as a building site seems to have turned me from someone who used to look like a relatively well put together urbanite into, well, let’s be honest, someone who looks like a builder.

A Winter spent huddled by the stufa mainlining Gorgonzola hasn’t helped me much either and after an honest self-appraisal I think I have to call time on this particular look, it’s obviously not working for me anymore.  Spring is here and I need to ‘re-glamourise’. 

This afternoon I quit the building site, donned my Ipod and my running shoes and hit the white roads.  I haven’t been running for a couple of weeks and the first kilometer felt so bad I almost gave up but, after a while, the music got to me and the old euphoria began to kick in.   Anyone who runs regularly will tell you that it’s very addictive, in a good way. I came home on a high with plans for extensive surgery and a whole new wardrobe, or at least to go running regularly from now on and to stop wearing marito’s old clothes in public. 

It occurs to me while writing this that if you ever see a woman in the supermarket, here in Italy, with dusty hair and paint splattered clothes, or a frazzled looking mother covered in cement at the school gates you can be 99 per cent certain she’s not Italian. They just don’t do ‘sloppy’, in fact most of the mothers at the school pick-up could give Victoria Beckham a run for her money.

The best thing I ate;

You would think that given my new regime I would be nibbling on a leaf or something, but actually I’m back on the bruschette.  My latest addiction is bruschetta with cannellini beans and rosemary.  There is something wholesome and comforting about creamy cannellini beans, here they are mashed into a coarse puree and perked up with the pungent oily taste of rosemary, a spritz of balsamic vinegar adds a slightly acid bite and the drizzle of good virgin olive oil transports it to sublime.  Top lunch-time treat of the moment.

Bruschetta with Cannellini beans and Rosemary

1 tin or jar good quality cannellini beans, drained
Large spring rosemary
Balsamic vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
Sea salt and black pepper
2 cloves Garlic
Coarse country style bread, sliced

First grill your slices of bread. While they are still hot drizzle them with olive oil and rub them with a cut clove of garlic.

Pull all the spikey leaves from the rosemary spring and chop very, very finely until almost a powder.  Fry one clove of chopped garlic in a little olive oil but be careful not to let it colour.  Add the drained beans and continue to cook for about 5 minutes, add the rosemary, a little more oil and season well with salt and pepper and a spritz of balsamic vinegar.  Mash everything together using the back of a wooden spoon until you have a coarse puree.  Heap the beans onto the grilled bread and drizzle with more of the olive oil.  This is delicious with a sharp green salad on the side and a glass of rough red wine to wash it down.

 

an uncontrollable urge

Italians believe that Spring begins on the morning of March 21st, the same way that they believe that as soon as August is over you need to begin to wrap up warm. It makes sense, it puts the seasons in their place.
I, on the other hand, believe that as soon as you feel that first burst of sunshine, the type that gives your face a fleeting reminder of last Summer, Spring has arrived. It’s irrational, a little desperate, but great for the soul.

The light is the difference. Anyone who paints, photographs or just appreciates their surroundings, knows that light is everything and so, today, I got the uncontrollable urge to get the camera out and start photographing again.

 I’m trying out a new technique, something introduced to me by a young American girl, Trisha, who was staying with some friends. It’s a great lesson, especially to a teacher, that often the best ideas come from  students prepared to try something different.

 This technique isn’t strictly new and is called ‘Through the viewfinder’ photography, defined as ‘taking a picture of any subject through the viewfinder of any camera with another camera.’
Sounds complicated, but in reality it’s just a little fiddly knowing what to do with two cameras and only two hands.
 Anyway, I have made a tentative start to what looks like an exciting idea to pursue and I will pursue it, safe in the knowledge that a little Photoshop manipulation (colour and contrast) is also allowed. Fun, fun, fun!

The stupidest thing I did today;
Well, I was supposed to be painting the studio doors, amongst my list of a million other things to do, when I got this uncontrollable urge…

A shot in the dark

More and more I am beginning to think that life is all about having go, and sometimes a shot in the dark pays off. 

Sometimes, just by pressing ‘send’, you will connect with the right person at the right time. The possibilities are endless, and the opportunities priceless.

That is exactly what happened one starlit Autumn night nearly 6 months ago when I decided to send a link from this blog to as many British newspapers and magazines as I could think of, including the Observer, which, in case you don’t know, is one of the UK’s leading national Sunday papers.
The travel editor there turned out to be the right person at the right time and we are extremely grateful to have been featured in the Escape section on Sunday March 1st..

  If you would like to read the feature and find out more about us please follow the link below:
Observer article

I have already written to thank them but, as always, a huge thank you to all those of you who read and comment on these pages, it is your contributions that keep this blog ‘live’.

Exhale...

After a frantic week of lugging furniture around, painting, panicking and waxing and panicking again we can finally exhale. 
The back apartment is finished and furnished, our first guests have come and gone and here are the 'after' photographs we promised.  Sorry to have kept you waiting for a week but, to be fair, we have been waiting for nearly 2 years!

The sitting room and kitchen

The small bedroom

The big bedroom

The details

Of course we can't afford to slow down yet as there is still the front apartment and the studio to finish but they are oh-so-nearly there. 
I'll post the results as soon as they are ready with maybe a little break for carnevale inbetween. 
Have faith, we'll get there in the end...

The best thing I ate today:
You must be joking! No time for cooking, eating or sleeping!

...take a deep breath...

Just before showing you the results of all our labours (which is what I wanted the 100^th post to be about), I suddenly realised that it would be wiser to pause, take a deep breath, and remember what has been our daily reality for the last 18 months; building work, dust, plumbing, electrics, drains, mud, sweat, blood and tears.

Sounds a little dramatic, I know, but it's perhaps all to easy to move on now that it's pretty much done, and forget the stresses and strains it has put us all under. Proud as we are of the final result, I am much prouder of the struggle it has been and these photographs show a little of what we have been up against.

It's certainly not an opportunity for self-congratulation or gloating, because we have made countless mistakes (some we don't even know yet) and we've had a lot of help along the way, but I must admit to never expecting it to have been quite this hard, or to last this long.

Anyway, I promise that in a few days I'll get together some 'after' photos but, for now, you'll have to make do with the 'befores'

 

 

 

Brace yourselves...

Well, would you believe it? This is almost our one hundredth post (number ninety nine, to be exact) so, as everyone likes a list, brace yourselves.

Here we go: 

99 reasons to love Italy (in no particular order)

1. Coffee, from espresso to caffe latte. No other country does it better.
2. Ape, gorgeous little scooter-van-thingys, top of my wish list.
3. Vespas, in all their wonderful retro colours.
4. Opera under the stars on a balmy summer evening.
5. Perugino - our local hero.
6. Gelato!
7. Bruschetta - 101 delicious things you can do with a bit of stale bread.
8. Bar culture; the smell, the coffee paraphernalia, the old boys hanging out in the corner...
9. The Renaissance, an intoxicating mix of art and intrigue.
10. Florence. The glorious epicentre of the Rennaisance.

11. Aperitivo. Yes please and, although the Italians favour Campari, mine's an Aperol Spritz!
12. Sense of family; love, humour and pride bound together by blood, it’s a passionate combo.
13. Il Palio, the whole ‘contrade’ thing.
14. Olive oil, the peppery tang of the first pressing, grassy and green.
15. Sicily - beautiful and dangerous.
16. Markets - from bread to bras to broken chairs, everything under the sun.
17. Jovanotti, making beards look good.
18. Shoes and boots, not cheap, but oh so very lovely!
19. Passeggiata. Got the shoes, now walk the walk.
20. A Lagotto Romagnolo, more than just a dog...

21. The Medici, a bloody history of power, money, and art. These boys bank-rolled the Renaissance.
22. Parmigiano, the king of Italian cheese, intense and crumbling
23. Sex appeal, lets face it, most Italians have some.
24. Rome, home of Il Papa, the Colosseum and all-round shopping heaven.
25. Driving, face the fear!
26. Pasta, one of the world’s greatest carbohydrates.
27. The Crete Senese, a hauntingly beautiful landscape.
28. Wine, sniff it, sip it and swallow it. Italy gives great wine.
29. Mozzarella; drippingly fresh, clean and lactic. Lose your heart to this subtle cheese.
30. Sunflowers, a bit naff, but everyone loves them.

31. Siena, it’s all about Il Campo, which is perhaps the loveliest Italian piazza I have ever seen.
32. The porchetta van, you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten a porchetta panino.  The savoury highlight of every market place. Just remember to wipe your chin...
33. Language, “Ciao bella!”, what’s not to love?
34. Roadside Madonnas, they're everywhere; forgiving and serene.
35. Venice; the Grand canal, St Marks Square, the faded, shabby splendour - unforgettable.
36. Salsicce, the Italians know how to make a mighty fine sausage.
37. Italian nonnas; slow moving and dressed in black, God bless them all.
38. Amici, great reality TV, Italian style.
39. Dylan Dog, he just gets sexier. (It’s a comic)
40. Umbrella pines

41. Arezzo. The antiques market, Casa Vasari, Piero della Francesca’s ‘Legend of the True Cross’ fresco cycle and a Cimabue cross, make this laid back town perfetto.
42. Baci, Perugia’s little chocolate and hazelnut kisses.
43. Buh! An expression that defies translation and yet somehow seems fitting for almost every occasion.
44. Fiat cinquecento, in all it’s wonderful retro colours, top of marito’s wish list.
45. Naples, the dark heart of Italy.
46. Befana. Will she bring you sweets or coal? You’ve gotta love the Christmas witch.
47. Rolling wheat fields, changing with the light, a magical part of the landscape.
48. Pizza, peasant food made good, one of Italy’s finest exports.
49. Niccolo Ammaniti’s ‘I’m not Scared’ a great read.
50. Olive trees.

51. More gelato.
52. Elena Ferrante ‘Days of Abandonment’ another good read.
53. Siesta, everything stops from 1pm to 4pm, why fight it?
54. Body language; the shrugs, the gestures, the facial expressions, my children use them all!
55. Free food, the funghi, the truffles (I wish!), the wild herbs and salads, it’s a foragers paradise.
56. Fashionista, they are out there somewhere, though maybe not in Chiusi.
57. Churches, dimly lit, smelling of candle wax and polish.
58. Ferragosto, everything stops for the whole month of August, why fight it?
59. Tans. After April, somehow, everyone has one.
60. Italian beach culture, the kiosks, the loungers, the tightly fitting speedos...

61. Risotto, the ultimate comfort food. Even the ritual of stirring and pouring can soothe a savage soul.
62. Northern Italy, Liguria and Piemonte, the coast, the mountains, the polenta.
63. White roads, often unmarked, dusty and rutted, seemingly leading nowhere.
64. Ciambelle, (doughnuts), let’s not go there.
65. The men in tights, the processions and pageantry, the painstakingly made Renaissance costumes.
66. The mists in the valleys and the hilltop towns of Tuscany and Umbria.
67. The seasons, each very different, defined and extreme.
68. Frescoes. Yes, all of them.
69. Acqua Frizzante
70. Panettone, the gaudily packaged traditional Christmas cake.  Vanilla scented and sweetly risen, these cakes are highly addictive and all too often on special offer way into the New Year!

71. Carnevale, the masks, the streamers. Oh come on, it’s a holiday!
72.  “Permesso?” No Italian would ever cross your threshold without first uttering this word.
73. Architecture, apart from a bleak post war period lasting well into the 1970’s, Italian architecture is pretty damn fine.
74. Pecorino, a great cheese made from sheep’s milk. Sold here in many guises from young and wet, like a sharp tasting mozzarella, to mature and granular rather like a parmesan.  Delicious, eaten with pears or fresh figs.
75. Pigs, what the Italians can’t do with pork is not worth knowing, think proscuitto, pancetta, speck, salami, salsicce (I know, we’ve been there already!)
76. The smell of wood smoke in winter.
77. Roberto Saviano's ‘Gomorrah’ This book is both brilliant and terrifying in any language.
78. Sweet wine, Vin Santo, luscious and golden for dipping biscotti, and Marsala, the cook’s quick fix, for transforming pan-fried chicken or pork into something sublime.
79. The Equestrian Portrait of Guidoriccio da Fogliano, attributed by some to Simone Martini. This portrait of a knight setting forth from his battle camp to besiege a walled hill town is stunning, no matter who it’s by.  It can be seen in the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena, and is one of my very favourite paintings.
80. An almost neverending 3 months off school for the summer holidays, according to my children it’s the very best thing about Italy, personally I’m not so sure.

81. Gennaro Gattuso, I just slipped him in for marito.
82. Pesto. Whoever first dreamt up this fragrant sauce was a culinary genius.
83. Gorgonzola, love it, love it, love it.
84. Ricotta, Mascarpone, Fontina, OK, OK, I just love cheese.
85. Taking the waters, a national pastime, those thermal spas are oh soooo good.
86. Riccardo Scamarcio, an Italian actor who is heartbreakingly gorgeous.
87. The tiny green lizards, I don’t know their proper name, but I love the way they smile and keep me company when I’m sitting on the steps.
88. Francesco Totti,  making the beautiful game beautiful, apparently.
89. Piero della Francesca’s overwhelming fresco, the ‘Madonna del Parto’ located in the tiny village of Monterchi, near Arezzo. It is the only depiction of the pregnant Madonna in Renaissance art.
90. Cypress trees.

91. Savonarola, the 15th century mad monk of Florence, adversary to the Medici and instigator of the purging frenzy that culminated in the colossal ‘Bonfire of the Vanities’.  Some people just make great history.   
92. Long lunches in a shady piazza.
93. The hot resinous smell of summer.
94. Tiziano Ferro, bellissimo.
95. Biscotti, dry and nutty Cantuccini for dipping, or sweet and squidgy Ricciarelli for pure indulgence, the Italians do make great biscotti.
96.  Le Marche, Abruzzo, Calabria, all places I haven’t been to yet but have heard so much about that I just can’t wait to visit.
97. Regional food passion. In what other country would a group of grown men stand around naked in the football changing room discussing the merits of mozzarella? Thank you, marito, for that insight.
98. “Dai”, that a word so short can be so full of meaning, moaning and pleading is quite amazing.
99. Prosecco, fizzy and frivolous, the Italian answer to Champagne.

Phew! I think I need one!

I’m sure there are many, many more. After all, these are just my reasons based on the Italy that I know so, whether you agree or disagree, please feel free to add a few of your own in the comments.  As for number 100 well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait…

Mr Woodworm

The hidden junkyards of Umbria are not really a secret, but I always feel a kind of furtive excitement whenever I come across one, as if somehow I have outwitted the wily dealers at the antique markets and found their precious source.  My favourite is on a scrappy bit of farmland nearby, former barns and pig stys stand full of treasure whilst chickens peck amongst the remnants of a much harsher rural life. The owner is locally known by the nickname ‘il Tarlo’, the woodworm.

 It may look like an unkempt jumble of damp wood and rusting metal but if you have ‘the eye’ it is so much more.  ‘The eye’ is a term that causes much bickering between me and marito as each of us would be loathed to admit that the other one has ‘it’ if, indeed, either of us does. I suppose it simply means seeing potential in something that even Mr Woodworm would be hard pressed to understand, and even harder pressed to try to charge you much for.

 As marito points out a beautifully worn metal tabletop, I nod in agreement.  It is round and mottled with the oxide colours of rust like an August moon.  “That would look great on the wall” he says, I nod again, then he boasts (and I know it’s coming), “You see, I’ve got the eye!”

Of course he may think he has ‘the eye’, but not for long.  In one of the dimly lit, corrugated iron sheds, behind a pile of peeling white1960’s hospital doors I glimpse something interesting. We lug it out and, in the light, can see it’s an old red door, the pigment faded to a glorious rosy orange, its bolted together with metal straps and to me seems like the perfect find.  “That would make a fantastic table top”, I venture. Marito nods and, quick as a flash, I claim back ‘the eye’!  

It’s sad, I know, but we can play this game all day.

I love the junkyard; the old handmade tools, no longer useful, the ripped out shutters and broken ladders. 

I love the way that things can be salvaged, that they can evolve and a door can become a table and a table become a piece of art.

Sometimes, of course, it goes completely wrong and Il Tarlo has the last laugh. I imagine he thinks he's got 'the eye' too.

 
The best thing I ate today;

Pici
Once you have eaten pici, all other pasta seems to pale.  The thick, chewy, almost nutty strands of pasta rather like a superior kind of fat spaghetti can carry almost any sauce.   It is as good slicked with oil and  peperoncini as it is with something more robust. 

I think it may be a Tuscan/Umbrian thing but every local menu seems to boast a ‘pici al ragu’ or a 'pici all'anatra' or 'pici al pomodoro' and so on.   Traditionally it is made without the addition of egg and I’m sure the very best is hand rolled on the thigh of an ancient Italian Nonna, but luckily there are some surprisingly good varieties available in the local supermarket too!

Where to get it:
 At every restaurant in the region of Tuscany and Umbria, also available in most supermarkets and ‘alimentari’. Especially good, both fresh and dried, from COOP Castiglione del Lago.

Plein air

There's a lot to be said for taking a break, recharging our flagging batteries, and getting a little distance and perspective on things. Our New Year break was to see some very old friends who have made their home in the South of France.

Italy may be the home of Michelangelo and the Renaissance greats, but the South of France was the part of the world favoured in the 19th Century by Van Gogh and Cezanne, the 'father' of Modern Art.
Simply driving around the beautiful scenery, with it's colours just as striking in Winter as in the height of Summer, the paintings just pop out at you. It is an overwhelmingly beautiful place.

Isle sur la Sorgues

There is Mont Ventoux, painted by the artists who chose to break with tradition and paint for the first time 'en plein air', and famously climbed by Petrarch one morning in 1336 'just to watch the sun rise'.

Old door in Maubec, Provence

There is the imposing mountain range of the Luberon, changing quite dramatically as each hour passes, and there are the old towns and villages of Provence, painted in colours now beautifully faded and bleached by the sun.

The Luberon

But perhaps most of all, New Year is about old friends, and nothing recharges my batteries as fast as they do.

The stupidest thing I did today;

On the drive home, I began making a list of 'Great films I have never seen for one reason or another', and it is beginning to get long and a little embarassing, it includes Star Wars, Casablanca, ET, Gandhi, Schlindler's List, Bridget Jones' Diary, Nixon, Clockwork Orange, Annie Hall, West Side Story... 

Don't laugh, try it yourself.

Merry Christmas

This is one of those times of the year when life takes over and blogging simply has to take a back seat for a little while, so this is just a quickie to wish you all a wonderful Christmas, to thank you all for reading, commenting, supporting and encouraging us during the year, and to hope that you all have a happy and healthy 2009. xx

Solomon Soddon

It has rained for 3 weeks, 5 days and 8 hours - almost non-stop and almost biblical - and the sound of ‘rain on roof’ is becoming strangely hypnotic. However, despite flood warnings from our Italian neighbours and the sight of the eco warriors on the hill building what looks like an ark, we decide to pop into Arezzo to look at the Christmas lights and do a spot of shopping.  We put a bucket under the drip that’s coming in from the bedroom ceiling and head off. 

It’s late afternoon and Arezzo is ablaze with festive cheer and, despite the rain, a good old-fashioned Christmas passeggiata is in full swing.  White lights are strung across the narrow streets leading up to the main Piazza Grande and, while the lower town is buzzing with activity, Vasari’s loggia and the beautiful square up in the old town are strangely deserted. The flagstones gleam wetly in the lamplight and footsteps echo in the chilly dusk. 

Traders, who have spent the day setting up for the weekend’s antique fair, have bundled up their treasures under drab tarpaulin wraps and gone to ground. The last, and most conscientious, check the ties and straps for security before heading silently to the bar.

That this vast array of antiquities is left untended overnight is amazing, but there is something quite forlorn about it too, with the empty darkening square and the unattended tables waiting, solemn and sodden, in the rain.

Back on Corso Italia, gifts are carefully chosen and lavishly wrapped. Little hands clutch warm paper cones of roasted chestnuts and, although the rain comes and goes in fierce gusts, all seems well with the world. Unless the bedroom ceiling’s fallen in, that is.

Best thing I ate:
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

I have to say that there is something wonderfully ‘winter wonderland’ about buying roast chestnuts from a street vendor’s blazing brazier, although the ones we bought were mighty expensive. Far cheaper and much more fun is to invest in a traditional chestnut roasting pan (a frying pan with holes in the bottom) and then, providing you have an open fire or wood burning stove, you can while away the cosy winter evenings roasting your own.  

Cut a little slash in the skins of your chestnuts, fill the pan with a single layer and roast them amongst the glowing embers. They will take approximately 10-15 minutes, depending on the heat of your fire.  Remember to give the pan a good shake every now and then to avoid too much charring. They make a fantastically seasonal fireside snack or a fine dessert, paired with a slab of Gorgonzola and a glass of luscious Vin Santo which seems to intensify the sweet, smoky flavour.
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain…

An old chestnut

I read last week that the famous bronze David by Donatello has finally been finished after an 18 month restoration involving the use of lasers normally employed to treat glaucoma. A normal 'mechanical' restoration had not been possible when an x-ray in 2006 discovered the presence of precious and delicate gold leaf on parts of the statue.

The forward-thinking curators of the Bargello museum decided that it would be interesting for the public to be able to see the work in progress and so the whole thing has been on show in the museum as it progressed. I'm not suggesting that the watchful eyes of the public had anything to do with it, but the restoration finished exactly on time, and the resulting statue is now back on display in it's full glory.

The painted ceiling at the Bargello, Florence

I had been to see it many times previously and it is a wonderful piece of work but, many years ago, when it was kept at the Ufizzi, it had been covered with a mixture of oil, wax and pigment to make it look consistent with all the other dark bronzes in their collection. Now that this grimy layer has been carefully removed, it has become clear that David had been intended to be in a light, polished bronze. Now, back to it's former glory, it takes your breath away.

As the director of the Bargello put it, “he is incomparably more beautiful now than ever before, even though it would seem impossible”. I know it's her museum, but she's right.

Another stunning ceiling, this time on the covered loggia.

And maybe I shouldn't grumble, especially given the wonderful other works of art available at this seminal museum for just 4 euros, but I do have a couple of slight gripes.

The museum has tried something new in terms of a restoration. Rather than turning David back into what he would have looked like by replacing the lost gold leaf it has, instead, recreated a second version standing just behind the original. It has been made to appear new, as the Medici would have wanted to see it, in the courtyard of their palace a stone's throw from the Duomo in Florence. There is bright, shiny gold leaf all over David's hair and sandals and all over Goliath's helmet. It is also on a rather elaborate plinth, a little higher than the original, probably at the height it was supposed to be.

I can see what they are trying to do, the intention is to inform and to educate, but I really wish it wasn't there. The visual impact of the original David is enough. You walk into this wonderful, majestic room on the first floor of the museum and are drawn straight to it, 580 years old and perfect. Now, instead, there is a visual confusion of the two and other visitors to the museum were asking each other in embarassed whispers which was the real one!

My other gripe is about photography. It's an old chestnut, but it does upset me when, in a museum of bronze and marble sculpture which cannot possible be damaged by photographs, you are told off for trying. I get particularly annoyed as seeing and appreciating sculpture is all about going around it, seeing the forms and shapes from all it's angles, and choosing your own favourite, not just the one the postcard photo guy in 1965 thought you should have.

That's why I have nothing of the beautiful new David, just a couple of shots of the ceilings. taken whilst pretending to put my lens cap back on...

Anyway, I suppose you're just going to have to take my word for it and put it on your list of must-sees the next time you're in Florence. It's worth every cent.

The stupidest thing I did today;
Got caught (and told off) trying to take a photograph of a statue.

Something to ponder

 A couple of questions have come up this last week, as we dodged the rainstorms and planned a trip to Florence for potential students. I remember helping to organise a similar visit about 13 years ago, in which we had booked a tour along the Vasari Corridor. It's an amazing place to see, as it spans a length of about a kilometre above the busy city of Florence from the Uffizi gallery to the Pitti Palace, crossing the river Arno by way of the Ponte Vecchio.

 
The corridor passing above the Ponte Vecchio , with windows to pause and gaze along the Arno.

It was designed to allow the Medici family who ruled Florence at that time to be able to go from 'home to the office' untroubled by the peasants in the streets. I read that, despite this amazing construction, the Medici still had all the butchers' stalls removed to another part of town because of the smells wafting up to their lofty and secret passageway. On that trip many years ago we had had to cancel our visit, and I felt that now would be a good time to go, as it has been used to house an eclectic collection of self portraits, including Vasari's himself.

Now here comes the question. Many people had spoken about it being quite hard to get into the corridor because of the rather old-fashioned booking system, but no-one had prepared me for the price, the cheapest ticket seems to be around €100 and the standard price €150 per person, bookable ages in advance and cancellable at short notice by the Ufizzi if they haven't got enough people for each visit.

So my question is, simply, why?

Next. I was in a small town the other day and came across this in the main square. There was no-one around to ask what it was and there is presumably a very simple explanation to its purpose, but I like to title my photographs...
So, any ideas?

The stupidest thing I did yesterday.
Thinking I might need a little, light lunch before my first ever Thanksgiving dinner, hosted by a genuine American and his genuine Italian wife.
And, on that subject, Happy Thanksgiving! (albeit a bit late)

Casual obsession

Having to get the car fixed is never a good thing. We end up stranded and a little helpless. However, when you get it fixed at a garage with a sign like this one, it makes it all seem worthwhile, to me at least.
My casual obsession with typography meant that I spent quite a few minutes waiting for the light to catch this sign ‘just right’, much to the amusement of the mechanic, who now joins the ever-increasing number of Italians who think I'm a buffoon...

The stupidest thing I did today;
Allowing a friend to introduce the children to the wonderful world of ponies.

meme - the movie

Rupert (the hero) has done his job in record time, and our next job is to put it onto the website but, before we do, it needs to pass the ultimate test - blogworld!

All the feedback for the website was so helpful and, as this is my first (and probably my last) appearance on film, it seems right to pass it by you guys first.

We dodged rainstorms and pestered the butcher, we struggled through muddy fields with a tripod and a dog, I messed up my lines, my dialogue is a little clumsy at times and I know it looks like the biggest meme in blog history - but we needed to do it and so, here it is (if you can spare 4 minutes and 32 seconds)...be kind!

The stupidest thing I did today;
It might well be posting this...

With a little help from our friends…

During our time in Italy focusing on this project, we have had a lot of help from a lot of people. We know we’re really lucky to have some wonderful friends, people who have been extremely generous with their time and their talent.

 This week, just after we decided we needed to make a promotional video without spending any money, who better to turn up from London than Rupert; old friend/editor/producer and film maker who was willing to give up a week of his time to help us.

Rupert, our hero.

The hastily assembled crew, which consisted of me (tripods, umbrellas, dialogue coach, hair and makeup), marito (a star is born!) Martyn (another old friend on stills) and the girls (annoying sound effects) were unflagging despite the rain and the wise words of yet another old friend ringing in our ears, “you should have done it in the summer”. We think we got enough film ‘in the can’ for a four minute video (with marito secretly hoping for a mini series!)

Working with a professional filmmaker was a fascinating experience; someone who can walk down an unfamiliar street and instantly see ‘the shot’, who can judge light and atmosphere with a glance.  The creative process that goes into making a short film is astounding, the ability to encapsulate and distil all that visual information. 

So, although marito may think he was the ‘star’, the real star of this whole production was Rupert, he even managed to coax ‘Big Al’ out of the butcher’s for a cameo role!

 Now we have to wait for the final cut but, rest assured, the ‘premiere’ will be right here for your amusement.  Until then, it’s back to the daily grind for marito I’m afraid, apart from the occasional starry tantrum!

The star, struggling with his lines...

The best thing I ate;

Penne con zucca et salvo arrosta
(Penne with roast pumpkin and sage)

Well, goodness me, in honour of Halloween, marito brought home quite the most enormous pumkin I have ever seen.  Extremely beautiful it was too but, waste not want not, I have risen to the challenge and we have been feasting on it ever since.  With a nod to Judith in Umbria, my fellow blogger and culinary muse, I have been refining my recipe for roast pumpkin and penne, quite delicious in a very savoury, sweet, ‘pumpkiny’ kind of way.  It’s quite a rich dish and would go well with an astringent green salad on the side, not the Italian way, I know, but here goes anyway…

About 1kg pumpkin skinned and cut into small chunks
3 or 4 whole cloves of garlic (in their skins)
2 peperoncini, finely chopped
a teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves
a large handful of sage leaves (left whole)
150ml of good olive oil
Sea salt
Ground black pepper
400g penne
freshly grated parmesan cheese

Pre-heat the oven to 200 degrees.  Put the pumpkin, garlic, peperoncino, thyme and sage into a bowl, then pour over the olive oil and season generously with the salt and pepper.  Mix the whole lot together (being careful not to break up the sage leaves). Tip into a roasting tin and roast for about 30 minutes or so.  Different types of pumpkin (and there are many) have different cooking times so it’s best to check after half an hour, what you’re looking for is a melting texture with slightly caramelised edges.

Meanwhile cook your pasta until ‘al dente’.   When your pumpkin is cooked, remove it from the roasting pan with a slotted spoon and keep it somewhere warm, while you pop the garlic out of it’s skin and mash it into the sweet oily pan juices.  Tip the pan juices into the pasta and mix thoroughly.   Pile the pumpkin on top of the pasta making sure everyone gets some of the lovely crispy sage leaves.  Add a grating of parmesan if you wish.  Serves 4 to 6 people depending on the ‘greed factor’.

Where to get it;
Make it yourself

Day of the Dead

We interrupt our blog to offer our contribution to Dia de Bloglandia,

three images in memory of a great friend and a true artist, Patrick W. Welch.

Flora and fauna

I must admit to being a little worn down by the building process at the moment, even though I know we're nearing the end of it.

I feel like my wheelbarrow. I used to be slightly embarassed of its green, shiny newness amongst all the battle-hardened others. It's now had two new wheels, needs rewelding, has been repaired countless times with wire and steel rods, and it still doesn't work very well. (It's actually a better analogy than I was expecting, now I write it down.)

Self portrait

Another sign that the building work has become so all consuming was when my youngest daughter gazed up at the sky on a cloudless night and said, "Look daddy, the moon looks just like concrete" - and, to be fair, it did.

So I’ve decided to do two things; firstly look the other way, and start to appreciate the changing landscape whenever I take the dog for a walk (while we pretend to look for truffles), and secondly get back to painting. It's a good thing too, as I'm running a Botanical Illustration course next Spring.

Last year I was able to visit a group of experts in this field and, to my surprise, some of the most interesting work seemed to focus on plants in the process of turning from green to brown as they dried and decayed. There was something mesmeric about watching these painters so focused and concentrated on their subjects, sometimes working through magnifying glasses, and often using lamps fitted with special daylight bulbs to allow them to continue working through into the night. I knew immediately that this was an area I would be foolish to ignore, especially living here, literally tripping over so much flora and fauna.

Some botanical illustrators work in a true, scientific way, documenting and recording the exactitude of the species and giving notes and measurements on the page very precisely. Others, like this particular group, have also developed this type of illustration into a true art form and the images are stunning, plants so real you can almost touch and smell them. You can see their work at www.amicusbotanicus.com

During my Art degree we never spent much time on this area of study but, as I’ve become older, I’ve started to appreciate more the subtlety of this exacting discipline and, living here, you've got no choice. You have to love nature.

Anyway, here’s my early offering of the season, it’s called ‘Parthenocissus quinquefolia’ (or Virginia Creeper to you and me).

The stupidest thing I did today;

This is perhaps the stupidest thing I’ve done all year and I can hardly bring myself to write it down, so all I’ll say is that it involves seeing a poor abandoned kitten one morning outside a bar …

Wine heaven

There comes a time when the wine finally runs out.  That doesn’t necessarily mean that you are the one who drank it all, but it does mean that you have to get some more.

Around here the best (and most economical) way to buy wine, from ordinary table wine to the posh stuff, is to buy it from a ‘cantina’ (cellar or winery). You can buy it by the bottle, and in many cases you can also buy it ‘sfuso’ or loose.  A visit to one of these places is a treat in itself, especially if it’s one near the wine heaven, Montepulciano.

There is something rarified about this noble little town, high on it’s ridge, midway between Florence and Rome. Flurries of classical music escaping from the Accademia della Musica echo through the alleyways and the air is diffused with the aroma of fermentation as thousands of barrels ‘cook’ gently in the vast cellars below the streets. 

I grew up around wine.  My dad was a wine importer and it was both his business and his pleasure.  Most of our family holidays were based around the wine regions that interested him, be they France, Spain or Italy. It was normal for us, as children, to play ‘catch’ amongst the vines or hide-and-seek down in the musty cellars.  I remember my sister and I giggling and lunging at each other from behind the barrels as my mum and dad talked earnestly with wine producers, sniffing and slurping, dad taking notes and swapping cards, loading the samples and freebies into the back of the car.  Later, as surly teenagers, we were allowed to join in those exquisite tastings, a privilege that was always guaranteed to lighten the mood.

 
The smell and atmosphere of a wine cellar, whether full of ageing oak or shiny stainless steel is intrinsically woven through my memories of my father.  As with so many things, I wish I had listened more intently and asked more questions.  My knowledge of wine is now, sadly, missing my ‘personal expert’ but my enthusiasm, which I inherited from him, remains undimmed.

One of the things my dad was best at was sniffing out a good affordable wine. He wasn’t a wine snob, he loved it all.  During the 60’s and 70’s it was buyers like my father who expanded the English palate for wine by importing drinkable, but inexpensive, table wines from France, Spain and Italy and gradually pushed the ubiquitous sweet German white wines to the back of the supermarket shelves.   He liked to buy wine from small, creative, independent producers who grew wines with ‘personalities’ imparted by a combination of climate, soil and grape variety.   “Wine”, he liked to say, “is alive”.  One of the only things we can consume after 200 years, still changing and evolving, waiting for the pull of the cork.  In one sense it’s just a drink, and yet it is capable of engaging our senses and imagination, it’s depths and complexities can communicate something intense and beautiful.

The ‘cantina’ that we visited was Ercolani located just outside the walls of Montepulciano. We tried some wonderfully plush vintages of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano before opting for the youngest (and cheapest) one which we bought ‘sfuso’ in large 5 litre demijohns.  We also tried their deliciously sticky Vin Santo and some mind-bending Grappa, but that’s another story.

 
The best thing I drank today;
see above...

Someone else's life

The hills around here are full of ruinous houses, sometimes complete hamlets have been left to rot, organic beauties, slowly changing with decay.  Remote and isolated, choked with brambles they stand at the end of rutted tracks, their vacant windows gaping.  They may be wrecked and wretched but to me each one seems like an opportunity.
 

To celebrate my birthday earlier this week, marito took me out for lunch not, as you might expect, to some ‘fancypants’ expensive restaurant but on a picnic jaunt high up in the Umbrian hills.  The sky was clear, hard enamel blue and the sun low and hot, a runaway Summer’s day.

One of my favourite things to do is drive the rough white roads, with no particular destination in mind, looking for things.   Maybe another Madonna or an unexpected view but, as we drive, I am always aware that just over the hill or around the corner might be the thing that thrills me most, an abandoned house.

Usually, my curiosity is restricted to a brief glimpse and a craning neck but it was my day and I got to choose the picnic spot.  This time I was going in.

Crouching amongst ragged grasses was a small stone house.  I felt the baked dryness of the door and the old wood split and broke away as I forced it open to reveal a single square room.

Weeds billowed in through broken shutters and hazy dust clouds hung suspended in slants of sunlight.  Rubble covered a floor of crude terracotta tiles that were laid directly to the earth, in the centre was an up turned wormy table blanched to the colour of ash and along one wall a row of empty bottles.

Old sacks, parts of a broken iron bed, some kind of sieve and a long handled spade were all that remained of someone else’s life.  In the heady silence of the afternoon I felt it would be easy to inhabit that room. To clear away the rubble, right the table and mend the bed, to spend an evening drinking rough red wine with the ghosts, as bats swooped in and out of the open rafters and cold moonlight crept into the corners.

I would sleep in the old iron bed and wake to put my feet on the parched floor, warmed through by heat rising from the earth, worn and rough like calloused skin.

Luckily marito is not so romantic.  ‘What do you think’? I asked, as he blundered in with the dog.  I won’t repeat his answer in its entirety but the phrase ‘totally insane’ featured prominently.

Best thing I ate today:

Calming, comforting carbonara; basically a pasta sauce made with eggs, cream and parmesan.  Soothing and somewhat soporific, it’s a delicious supper dish now that there’s a faint chill in the evening air. You can make endless variations on this theme by adding handfuls of this or that.  Just make sure that you don’t overwhelm the creamy sauce.  Some of my favourite additions are: small chunks of crispy pancetta, or crumbled Italian salsiccie and a few green peas, or maybe a scant handful of pre-cooked purple sprouting broccoli.  Here it is in a simple form with just the added heat of peperoncino.

Kinda carbonara con peperoncino

Pasta – Penne is good, approx 300gm
4 large organic egg yolks
2 large handfuls of freshly grated parmesan cheese
Olive oil
100ml thick cream
2 small peperoncini, chopped
2 gloves of garlic chopped
Sea salt and ground black pepper
1 small handful of finely chopped flatleaf parsley

Cook the pasta until 'al dente' and, while its cooking, make the sauce.  Put the egg yolks and cream into a bowl and mix together with half the parmesan.  Season with salt and pepper.

Then in a heavy based frying pan gently sauté the garlic and peperoncino for about 5 minutes and take care not to colour the garlic.  As soon as the pasta is done drain it and put it back into the, still hot, pasta pan, then mix in the garlic and peperoncino followed by the sauce.  Toss it all together until the sauce is glossy and silky looking, you may need to heat the pan up a little bit more but be careful not to scramble the eggs.  Add the rest of the parmesan and the parsley and give it another stir.  Heap it into a bowl and serve.

In Italy they sell a lovely mix of peperoncino, garlic and herbs called, 'Erbe piccante per spaghetti' in little packets at the supermarket. They don't cost much and last for months...

Where to get it;

You've probably already got it all in the fridge, waiting.

Last Supper

Even Italian summer holidays have to come to an end and, last week, that end finally came.  The girls went back to school.  Half-days only at first, to help them get over the shock, I suppose.  We had a 'last supper' under the twinkling fairy lights marito has rigged up in the pine tree and talked about the highlights of the Summer, “getting my arm back” for the small one and “going to the sea’ for the tall one. So that’s that.  The long holiday is over for another year.

 Whooping with delight (they really were that bored), and dressed in clean ‘grembiulis’ (a kind of apron favoured by all Italian schools) and loaded down by the obligatory enormous ‘zainos’ (rucksacks), the girls fairly ran into school that first morning.  They left us light with relief and freed of responsibility, a celebratory cappuccino was definitely in order.

Grembiuli 

But something else had happened, something subtle, a slight shift of sensibilities. At the school gates we were no longer known as ‘stranieri’ (foreigners - that strange and wary word), but with some slight affection we seem to have become ‘Inglesi’ (English) and that, for me at least, is triumph enough.  Because I know what the locals have always known: that no matter how wide our vocabulary, how good our accent, what team we choose to support or the depth of our tans, deep in our souls we will never be Italian.
But that’s OK by me, just give me a cappuccino and I’m happy to watch.  After all, they are so much better at it.

The best thing I ate today;

More bruschette! Yes I know I’ve been banging on about bruschette all Summer and, if truth be told, I am a little obsessive when it comes to food.  I get kind of stuck in a groove, the impulse to keep on perfecting a recipe takes over and, before I know it, we are eating bruschette every day of the week.

Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s delicious in all its forms and makes a perfect, healthy lunch, or antipasti, or breakfast, or dinner… midnight snack anyone?

Here they are, the last of the Summer season, until next year.

Bruschette con pepperoni

3 red peppers
Olive oil
Sea salt and ground black pepper
1 tablespoon good balsamic vinegar (but there’s no need to take out a loan)
A teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves
1 glove of garlic peeled and cut in half
6 slices of country bread

De-seed the peppers and cut them into strips.  Heat some olive oil in a heavy based pan and sauté the peppers until they begin to soften, then add the balsamic vinegar and the thyme leaves. Continue to cook on a low heat for about 10 minutes (the idea is that the peppers begin to caramelize) but add a little water if they get too dry. Season with salt and pepper to taste.  Meanwhile toast your bread (try and use a griddle if possible because I’m sure it tastes better) rub one side of the toast lightly with the garlic, pile on the peppers and drizzle over with a little more olive oil.

Bruschette con spinaci

3 handfuls of left over spinach
Olive oil
Sea salt and ground black pepper
Nutmeg
1 glove of garlic peeled and cut in half
6 slices of country bread

Re-heat the spinach in a heavy based pan, stir in 2 tablespoons of olive oil and add a good grating of nutmeg.  Season with salt and pepper to taste.  Toast bread as before and rub lightly with the garlic. Pile on the spinach and drizzle with more olive oil.

Bruschette con pomodori

Surely everyone knows how to make this.  If not, email me.

The infarinata

I know it shouldn't happen like this, I ought to know what's going on, but every so often you visit a town by chance in the Summer, and you get an immediate sense that something is about to happen. Call it intuition, a sixth sense, or maybe it's just because a couple of thousand locals in medieval costumes are marching up the street towards you with drums beating, dragging ludicrously large cannons to the main square.

The festas here are great, and they just keep on relentlessly throughout July and August and even into September. Each one has its own historical charm and, more importantly, each one is taken quite seriously by the participants, even those given the minor supporting roles of 'common soldier' or 'wench'.

So we found ourselves in Citta della Pieve, wondering again what was going on. But this occasion seemed a little different from the others, something was definitely building up, and the mood in the crowd was quite excitable, there were chants and taunts towards the other groups of the town and all three; Castello, Casalino and Borgo Centro were definitely going to meet at the top for something.

We began to see people in the crowd putting plastic bags on their heads, some covering up their mouths and noses with their bandiere (normally tied around their necks) and others with cameras putting them in plastic bags too.

Then it began, the 'infarinata'.

In the middle of the 'infarinata'

From out of nowhere, hundreds, perhaps thousands of bags of flour suddenly came flying through the air from all directions, landing and exploding with some force all around the square. It was absolute chaos and mayhem. Everyone was at it, for about 15 minutes, until one of the groups, Castello, who had arrived in an enormous wooden castle for the fight, seemed to claim victory over the others, and the weary flour covered soldiers and wenches began to dissipate.

The Castello Terziere claim victory

But that wasn't the end of it, because that's the cue for the crowd to get stuck in, and so hundreds more people then ran into the square and took up the fight, this time with anyone and everyone.

 

The stupidest thing I did today;

Well, this was also my cue. I have always fancied myself as an intrepid war reporter type, so as soon as the small children began to scoop up the last bits of flour from unexploded bags, I finally emerged from my hiding place in a shop doorway and tried to take some dramatic shots. Suddenly realising why the other photographers had plastic bags over their cameras, I once again retreated to my shop doorway. Sorry.

The wild west of Tuscany

It wouldn’t be a true Italian Summer without a trip to the beach (well, not in this house anyway). So, making good on a promise made to the small one, we pack the car with all our junk, our picnic and our plastic bags and head for the coast.  (Not to be misleading, I have to admit that the nearest beach is a 2 and a half hour drive away, but I also have to say that it’s worth every minute).

We head towards Grosetto, taking the ‘short cut’ which winds up into the hills of Tuscany, past vineyards and castles and drops breathtakingly into the stunning Val D’Orcia before crossing the scorched coastal plain of the Maremma.  This is cattle country, the wild west of Tuscany.  Years ago the rich Sienese would pay the rough and fearless cowboys of the Maremma to ride bareback in the Palio.  Today, the dusty plain is divided into huge ranches and long-horned cattle slumber under the wide blue sky.

Our destination is the Marina di Alberese, part of the Maremma’s preserved seashore and, I think, the only stretch of raw, untamed coastline left in Tuscany (the rest being part of the true Italian tradition of beach culture; a haven of bright umbrellas, and kitsch beach bars).

At the sleepy little town of Alberese we stop for breakfast and buy yellow spades and spindly green shrimping nets.  In the bar, behind the glass front of a cabinet containing cornetti and pizette, I spot a tray of freshly made focaccia. It’s soft and oily and seared with a light salt crust. Four large wedges wrapped in wax paper complete our picnic and we are on our way.

Almost the best part of this trip is the drive on a long straight road through an imposing forest of umbrella pines, the hot resinous smell is almost overwhelming and wild rosemary grows along sandy pathways.  Past the corrals of white cattle and chestnut horses, on and on through the trees until, at last, you leave the car and walk to where the forest ends and the trees grow into the sea.

The narrow beach curves gently round and, in the distance, you can see bruised mountains against the cobalt sky and a spit of land jutting out towards the Island of Argentario.  Today the sea is light clear celestial blue, tipped with tiny silver waves and strewn along the beach are the pale bones of bleached driftwood.  People before us have built these smooth wooden carcasses into strange shelters, wigwams and sculptures, and they are left to stand and weather until they are claimed by the waves.

There are no umbrellas or sun loungers, the nearest loos are a 10 minute walk back through the trees. All you have is what you take, I love that. 

But the best part of course, the very best part, is racing full tilt across the hot sand towards the sea and feeling the first sting of the salty spray. Any beach, anywhere, you just can’t beat it.

You can find out a lot more about Italian beach culture with a guide to Italy’s top ten beaches over at Italyville, one of my favourite blogs and, while you’re there, check out the other stuff too. Joe is a first generation Italian American, his blog is beautifully written, funny and intuitive.  He comes from a family of butchers, bakers and pasta makers, what more could you want?

The best thing I ate:

Fig, ricotta and honey bruschette.

Throughout the whole month of August I have been silently stalking our fig trees, waiting for the first ‘Settembrini’ to ripen. For some reason they are late this year and I had begun to get impatient, but at last they are here and almost all at once. A huge, greedy glut of them.

This is my current favourite breakfast bruschetta;

Ripe fresh figs,
Fresh ricotta cheese
Local honey
Country bread

Toast your bread, I use a griddle because I think I’m posh, and I like the griddle marks.  Spread the bruschette thickly with the ricotta, top with a torn ripe fig and drizzle over with the honey.  If you are in company make plenty of them, if you are alone sit on the step in the sun and scoff the lot yourself.

Where to get them:
Make them yourself

La vecchia donna

With the football season just kicking off here, and without any English football to watch, I have decided that it's time to get myself an Italian team to support. Also, I've been told on more than one occasion that a man in Italy isn't fully dressed without the 'pink paper' under his arm and, at 1 euro, it represents a very affordable fashion statement.

Where I spent my first few years, in Malta (a tiny island 50 miles south of Sicily) everyone supported Juventus - I'm not sure why. Perhaps there was a certain magic or mystique or simply a natural appeal to one of the oldest clubs in Italy, set up by a bunch of English, Italian and Swiss lads who used the latin word for 'youth' to name their team and played in their, now legendary, black and white vertical stripes. I remember my brother and I collecting the stickers for our Panini football albums, always happiest when unpeeling a Juventus player. Their first Championship winning team in 1905 was, apparently, made up of a mixture of painters, poets and factory workers - wow, that's my kind of team!

However, living in Italy (but not in Turin where Juventus are based) it won't be easy to become one of the 'juventini' as all over the rest of Italy there exist a vast majority of 'anti-juventini'  who have no time at all for 'la Vecchia Donna' (the old lady) of Italian football.

So, after a lot of soul-searching, I have decided to turn instead to my 'local' team, Siena, who have come good in the last few years and play in the top division. The advantage is that they are a smallish team who play in a smallish stadium near the city, less than an hour from here, and so I might be able to get a ticket to a game.

The other advantage is that they also play in black and white vertical stripes, so I can buy the shirt, wear it and yet continue to secretly still support Juventus, on the inside. You see, there is a saying in football which goes something like, '...you can change your job, your car, your name, your religion, your partner, even your sex, but you can't change your football team...'

The stupidest thing I did today;
Probably deciding to get involved in the murky world of Italian football - great players, financial corruption, violent fans, drugs, the Mafia, the World Cup. It's an opera played out every weekend and the obsession of every Italian.

Ferragosto

August in Italy is a strange month, it has its own lazy charm but life, as we know it, shuts down.  It packs it’s bags and clears off to the coast, or the mountains, or ‘nonna’s farm’ in Puglia.  One by one the builders and the plumbers disappear into thin, hot August air until they are all gone.
For a while the cement mixer continues it’s lonely lament with only Marito for company until he too throws in the trowel and accepts that everyone needs a break.  My excuse for lack of blogging is simple, ‘ferragosto’.

You start to notice the mass exodus at the beginning of the month as the discrete and irritating little sign ‘Chiuso per ferie’ appears more and more frequently; the barbers, the forno, the take-away pizza place, one by one they all succumb. 

The motorways are suddenly filled with small Italian cars packed with people and their plastic bags all desperately heading for somewhere else and, quietly watching all this summer mayhem, quite still on her plinth or in her niche, stands the serene and ubiquitous Madonna of the roadside.

There are some more of these marvellous Madonnas in the sidebar, I hope you like them as much as I do.

The best thing I ate:

Succo di Mele

On the way to Castiglione del Lago is an apple farm, Az Agr. Mele del Trasimeno. The fruit, glowing rosily between dark leaves, can be seen on the beautiful espaliered trees from the roadside.  It’s a small organic concern, they grow apples and they sell apples and, as luck would have it, they sell apple juice too.

But this is no ordinary juice, it can be quite changeable, sometimes clear and golden and at other times almost pink and cloudy. It’s aromatic and full of lovely old-fashioned apple flavours; a heady mix of sunny fruit with a hint of aniseed and almonds. It is as deep and rich and sweetly complicated as any wine might be. I like it best after lunch, give me a small cold glass of succo di mele with a crumbly wedge of parmesan and I’ll happily pass on dessert. 

Where to get it;
Az Agr Mele del Trasimeno
SS71 Umbro Casentinese
Loc. San Fatucchio
Castiglione Del Lago
PG. Tel 075 9589722

Singin' the Blues

 Probably my first (and certainly my best) art teacher is a big blues fan.

I suspect that one of his many harmonicas is always lurking never more than a few feet away at any given time, ready to spring into action.

And so, with him firmly in mind, and accompanied by a bevvy of Zimbabwean beauties, the Mrs and two over-excited little girls (lucky me!) we headed off to the Trasimeno Blues festival in a local town on the edge of the lake. It's hard to imagine a more beautiful location for an evening concert; inside a medieval fort, surrounded by crumbling walls and ancient olive trees, with a small bar, a cool breeze off the lake and an atmosphere that's just so laid back.

Shemekia Copeland (never heard of her), daughter of the legendary Johnny 'Clyde' Copeland (never heard of him either), was heading the bill, direct from Brooklyn, New York.

They said her voice, even without a microphone, would be enough to crumble the walls and, when she eventually got on stage, you knew that she was the real deal; big, black and beautiful.

The truth is that none of us really knew much about the blues but, equally, none of us really had to. It was all about being there, sitting on the grass and waiting for Shemekia to crumble something.

I soon discovered that the Blues is all about 'love gone wrong' and Shemekia's 500 previous boyfriends all seemed to have a song written about them; vain, mean, lazy, no good hustlers and tramps. For some reason my 'posse' of girls found the whole thing very amusing...

The stupidest thing I did today;
Perhaps should have gone to see John Lee Hooker Jnr. the day before - I bet he's got a few choice numbers about previous girlfriends!

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...