A Tuscan View - from Umbria

The colour of earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

The best thing I ate;

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

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

Serves 4

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

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

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

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

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.

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

 

Cold and luckless

22nd February 2008

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

The house, emerging from Winter

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

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

Marito, hiding somewhere in this picture, avoiding the flu

Best thing I ate:

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

The fog (part 2)

8th December 2007

Because you stop being able to see so far into the distance you are, consequently, more prone to reflect on your immediate surroundings; the house, the garden, the work done and, more importantly, the work still to be done. You live on an island, but only till about 10.30 when it always seems to disappear into blue skies and crispy coldness.

The extra moisture in the air brought by the fog also means that I am beginning to feel my age. I have tried all sorts of ways to hang on to my youthful good looks over the years, but there's no escaping that knee pain first thing in the morning. That's age, that is. After a fair amount of building work over the last 11 months, during which I have been careful to watch myself and to remember my mother always saying, "keep your back straight, bend your knees", ironically it was doing a little creative painting that finally did me in; overstretching,
in a t-shirt, as the light faded, as the cold descended...
I didn't want to be one of those people who's back went out more than they did, but at the moment the hot water bottles and ibuprofen are always at my side.

Fog in England only used to mean a slightly more treacherous drive to work but the drive through the suburban townscape where we lived wasn't ever inspiring enough to be much changed by not being able to see where you were going - here it seems to add an atmosphere and a quiet which can be quite wonderful, especially first thing in the morning. I'm usually quite happy to be the one to take the dog out at that time. He's the happiest one though - not sure why - maybe he knows something I don't, maybe he's just stupid or maybe he's been hanging on to that wee for so long...

Anyway it is a wonderful way to start the day, and to escape, albeit fleetingly, from the misery that is getting two warm little girls out of their beds to face the icy cold bathroom. The moans and screams shatter the silence and the reality of the day begins.

The stupidest thing I did today;
Overstretching, in a t-shirt, as the light faded, as the cold descended...

The fog (part 1)

3rd December 2007

The fogs have begun.

I used to watch football from Italy on Channel 4 in the 90's in England, and I was struck by how often you couldn't see one side of the pitch from the other, and also by how often players wore gloves and earmuffs. Now I am beginning to understand why, though I'm still a little perplexed by those earmuffs.

The view of Chiusi from the house as the fog begins to clear

The fogs bring with them a number of changes. The cold is the most obvious change, but it is so much colder than I had ever imagined. We fight over who does the washing up, because the sensation of plunging your hands into hot, soapy water is about as good as it gets here during the Winter. We have tried to increase the amount of heat we produce in the house but, as I now realise, it's not how much heat you produce, it's how much heat you lose that counts. We lose a lot, with our high, uninsulated ceilings making the sky above the house quite warm, but leaving us stone cold.

The back of the house in the fog, (photo taken by our friend George)

The days have a different rhythm now; starting with how to get warm in the morning, then the wood run begins, sometimes just schlepping it from one place to another, often chopping it into smaller sizes, always hoping it's the good stuff; not too young, not too wet, not too dry and, preferably oak. In the evenings it's all about keeping the fires going and, finally at bedtime, it's about retaining as much heat as possible until the next morning.

The wise heads around here use inside/outside thermometers to check whether or not you should have the doors and windows open as it's often warmer outside than inside in these big, draughty houses. However, wherever you go and whoever you spaek with, the conversation inevitably turns to heat, or cold, or heating, or insulation. Underfloor, solar, back boilers, wood burners, open fires, geo-thermal, the cost of having the roof done in euros, the cost of not having it done in degrees and unhappiness. It becomes the sole topic of conversation after olives and before Christmas.

The stupidest thing I did today;
Well, this was actually many years ago, but only really affected me today. I was reminded that I had once said that I would never wear thermal underwear...

A hollow victory on Armistice Day

11th November 2007

There are games in football where there is only one possible outcome; (save for the occasional freak giant-killing) where one team is so much stronger, cleverer and well resourced and the other is small, weak and craves only a little peanut butter or cheese. Such was the case with me and the mice.

Problem is that, whenever I watch a game like that, I instinctively want the little guy to win, despite the odds. Such is the case with me and the mice.

The final score seems to be 7-0 to me and yet the victory is a little hollow.

Man of the match.

So, to cheer myself I have decided to photograph the sky, as in the Autumn the skies seem to get much more interesting. I normally hate photographs of skies, clouds and sunsets etc. and, as one of my more cynical friends was quick to remind me, “So what? The sun sets all over the world, we’ve all seen a sunset”

True, but the difference for me is that, in my first few months here, it’s one of the things I have noticed most, being used to seeing the sky just directly overhead in an overheated city. So I took two yesterday and a couple the day begore, and here they are.

The stupidest thing I did today;
Well, it seems a little quiet in the house these days – no more scratching noises – and I’m sure they did a good job with those little bits of food that fell behind the oven –now I’ll have to do that bit of cleaning myself. And, one day, when they work out how to get the address of this blog, my children will call me to their bedroom for a quiet word...

Cold snap

26th October 2007

Just as I was contemplating a long Indian Summer and mellow Autumn, suddenly, shockingly, it has become Winter.
After a perishing weekend during which temperatures here dropped by 12 degrees and shrieking Arctic winds ripped through the valleys, the last remaining sunflowers have been shredded and the cowering countryside pelted with icy rain. We bundled the girls off to school dressed in as many layers as possible but minus their coats or mittens which I couldn’t find at such short notice. “Don’t worry girls, you’ll be fine, you don’t need mittens. It’s not really winter yet.” I explained.
“But why are you wearing your gloves Mummy?”

Still, now I’ve had a week to get my head around the idea of Winter, I’m beginning to enjoy it. The logs have been lugged up from the wood store, the fire is lit and ‘Ceci’ (chickpea soup) is bubbling on the stove. I’ve found the mittens and packed away the bikinis. A brand new stufa is being fitted today to heat the bedrooms and my mind is filled with pumpkins and bonfires.

Winter in Italy, bring it on. I love it.

The best thing I ate today:
A little red drink.

For years now I have been seduced by the allure of those little red drinks that most Italians seem to have as their aperitivo. These ruby red drinks somehow seem so decadent and glamorous and yet, try as I might, I have never been able to acquire the taste for Campari. I thought I had tried it in every form, with tonic, soda water, orange… always hopeful that one day I would join the throngs of sophisticated pre-dinner drinkers, but always one grimace away from spitting it out all over my flipflops.

Until today. We have some lovely ‘boozy’ friends staying with us and they have introduced me to a drink they had in Venice, rather like an Italian Kir Royale. This mixes a small slug of Campari with a rather larger slug of Prosecco. The taste is light and zingy with a subtle, dry, herbal bite from the Campari and, best of all, it’s red.

Perfetto! You have no idea how much this pleases me...

Where to get it:
From the bar, but what is it called? Help!

A walk in the woods

15th October 2007

Suntans are beginning to fade, the leaves are starting to turn and there is a whiff of woodsmoke in the air. All things being Autumnal, the dog and I have taken to walking in the woods. Not any woods mind you, but the woods that grow behind our house. Changeable woods; sometimes languid, cool and green and other times dark and witchy, breathing softly in the dusk. And I bet that if you stood still for long enough, just like the line from that wonderful children's book, The Magician's nephew, 'You could almost feel the trees growing'.

These woods are vibrating with life and the dog is on red alert as we walk. I am just thinking how brave and loveable he is when we stumble across a tiny graveyard in a leafy clearing where the sun slants through the branches of some small scrub oaks. The oldest headstone is dated 1904 and marks the resting place of a 'well loved hound', the others (that I can read) are for Tom, Augus, Menta and Artimissa and have similar epitaphs. Long forgotten friends sleeping under the moss. The dog, blissfully unaware, sniffs about and has another pee.

Further into the wood I realise that it begins to slope away sharply into a deep gulley. The wood is enormous and, in places, impassable. Great brambles are lashed around trees and the tracks disappear into thick undergrowth. It is easy to see how, towards the end of the Second World war, as the chaos of liberation swept through Italy, there were over 40,000 escaped Prisoners of War and deserting Italian soldiers hiding in the woods around here. It would be very easy to get lost in these woods and, with that in mind and as the sun began to sink, the dog and I walked quickly home.

The best thing I ate today;
Olive Oil - Extra Virgin - Poggi al Lago, Chiusi, Siena
When the girls were at Clown School we met the parents of some other clowns, olive farmers. They grow olives on the shores of Lago di Chiusi and make organic olive oil. They invited us to an oil tasting, where Carlo's hot-tip was that " a good oil should retain the taste of nature". From among the oils we tried, his oil shone out as green and grassy as a new mown lawn. "A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water" Wow! I wish I'd said that, but I didn't. Lawrence Durrell did.

Where to get it;
www.poggiallago.it/en/agricoltura.html

Bears and Wolves

21st March 2007

Today the tall one came home from school with a gift from the teacher, a small guide-book to help discover the mammals of Umbria and Tuscany. It's packed full of information about the various creatures that inhabit this area, a few of which seem to live in our garden. Armed with the book (which includes useful drawings of animal's feet and different types of poo) we spent the afternoon walking through woods and abandoned olive groves trying to identify the tracks left in the clay soil. We identified (we think) tracks belonging to porcupines, badgers, deer, boar, hare, rabbits, fox, several small rodent things and an extremely large bird, of which I dread to think. We found the tracks more useful than the poo, all of which looks identical after a few days out in the sun. The tall one pointed out that the book also mentions bears and wolves, and I was happy to reassure her that there is no indication of either in the immediate neighbourhood. However, later while lingering outside with a glass of wine, I found myself staring hard at the high green Umbrian hills and hoping that somewhere in those wild impenetrable forests bears and wolves are still lurking.

Best thing I ate today;
Torta della Nonna - although I'm usually willing to risk it, this can sometimes be a bit of a dry disappointment. However, today's 'torta' was mouth-wateringly moist and had obviously been made by a superior class of Nonna. Lots of 'pinoli' too.

Where to get it;
Pasticceria della Campanile, San Casciano di Bagni