A new life in Tuscany

Travelling south down the A1 from Florence towards Rome was up and down hill for about an hour until the landscape began to level. Bearing off to the east for Perugia and now in Umbria, the road swept along the edge of Lake Trasimeno, quite a stretch of water, and finally headed south again across a broad plain. Gentle hills rose to the east with a few little towns and villages scattered on their slopes, one of them Assisi, and gradually pulled in until they were closer on either side. By the time I reached Spoleto there were tree lined slopes rising close to the road on my left and the town encircling a hilltop and gently spilling down its sides to the right.

I was staying in a monastery, a first for me, and what a beautiful place. On the main route to Rome it has been open to travellers for hundreds of years and is now run by about a dozen nuns. The approach was unassuming, a narrow alleyway led down broad, shallow steps to a huge, ancient front door that opened into a large hallway. Through another door, across a little cobbled courtyard, then through an archway, there was suddenly a burst of light. It was a huge central courtyard, about 40 metres across and 50 long, terracotta paved and edged with plants, little trees and bushes. On the opposite side rose a dozen tall arches and within them a loggia ran the length of the building.

At one end steps rose, lined with pots of red geraniums, to the loggia and then I took another two flights of pinky red stone stairs, polished smooth by centuries of passing feet, to a long, tall gallery with many rooms leading off it. Mine was the first on the left. To one side there was an alcove in the wall and a painting of the mother and child. Then beneath, supported on a shelf, a wooden case with a glass front containing a doll like  figure of the child Jesus, crowned in a silver coronet and dressed in an ivory gown finely embroidered with tiny knot work flowers in pink and blue. His face was worn and scarred lending him a rather sad and bemused expression. On the floor in front was a little wooden prayer desk. It was very simple and affecting, particularly when one morning there was a full blown, yellow rose in a  tiny bowl before him.

Through my doorway I climbed another dozen stairs to Paradiso, my room, which also had a little kitchen opening out onto a roof terrace, a bonus I hadn’t expected and the only one, I think. Everything was simple, basic and religious,  a crucifix, prayers and paintings lined the walls. The view from the terrace looked out over the rooftops to the hills on one side and the houses reaching up to the top of the town on the other. And there was yet another bonus that I particularly enjoyed. One of the residents whose job was cleaning had a room on the other side of the terrace and when I first arrived tremulously asked me if I would allow her rabbit, Pimpi, to play out in the early morning and evening before the sun got too hot. I was delighted, she was a pretty little thing who soon got used to me and would come and sit near me eating grapes whilst I had my breakfast.

I loved Spoleto and spent days just ambling, getting lost in its labyrinth of narrow streets, discovering and enjoying. It was hot, really hot, so I was taking it easy. Ancient Umbrian towns seem to have the same structure as Tuscan – narrow streets opening into piazzas of all shapes and sizes, an abundance of churches and beautiful buildings. But the look is quite different. The building stone is almost white, there is less brick in evidence and it is a pale, soft pink. The facades of most buildings are simpler in architectural style lending symmetry to the overall feel.  Most are painted in soft, muted colours, many shades of pale blue, green and sand with shutters a deeper hue. Even the paving is the same off white and pitted  travertine, edged with brick where seemingly endless steps lead up and down hill. The pale  finish of almost everything coupled with brilliant sunshine gives the town a glorious sense of light everywhere you walk which was the thing I liked the best.

It has ancient roots, beginning in Roman times, and there is a lovely amphitheatre, now restored for open air entertaining. A semi circle of about 20 tiers of stone benches cascade down to encircle the half moon stage, backed by the walls of a church, and one side is open to a  panorama of the hills beyond. A castle, the Rocca, dominates the hilltop and a magnificent aqueduct links it to the opposite hill. The Duomo was first built in 419 as a place to store the remains of Saint Peter and continued until the 15 Century, culminating in a stunning Romanesque facade. One of the town’s most notable residents was Lucrezia Borgia, once governor. There is much to see if you choose and much shopping to do if you would rather.

A decade or more ago Spoleto suffered from severe earthquakes and has undergone much restoration, totally in tune with the original, and I loved the recently re-opened theatre. Rich in decoration, gilt and plush with five tiers of boxes encircling the stalls it has a real sense of occasion. There was a summer festival underway and I enjoyed music there and also in the open air, in little piazzas throughout the town. Eating out was as good as you would expect and lured me away from my rooftop kitchen most nights.

I had no idea what a monastery would be like, but found it overall to be a reasonably cheery place, though the sister in charge was a formidable figure who held court in a large room leading off the loggia, and once I tiptoed past as she gave one of the nuns a real roasting. In the evenings they gathered in the courtyard before their meal, some of then dressed in pale mushroom habits, some in black, and they were as lively and noisy as any other group of Italians. My favourite was elderly and stooped with the gentlest of faces, who struggled with the stairs and had to stop and hold the rail often, murmuring my bones, oh my bones. I wanted to pick her up, frail little figure that she was and whisk her to the top, but propriety got in the way, plus the thought that we might instead crash to the bottom.

I would gladly go again, but would I live there? I have already been asked. No, I could not leave Lucca. But that’s just my personal preference and I would never compare Tuscany and Umbria, it’s apples and oranges, some will feel better in one and some the other. I’m just very happy to know where I want to be.

I am a firm believer that things come to you when you are ready for them, often in seemingly random ways. A few months ago I received an email newsletter from a website I frequent which described a zen retreat in the Tuscan hills this summer and after checking it out I decided that was for me. I knew almost nothing about zen, choosing not to look any further, but just to arrive and let it unfold rather than build a wikipedia picture that would probably be wide of the mark.

It was in an area new to me, south east of Florence on the way to Arezzo, up in the hills that are part of a National Park a half hour”s drive from anywhere. I arrived to find two young people waiting to walk me up the hillside to the farm where we were staying, leaving my car on the track below. It was an English group from Gillingham in the UK, I was the only one of about 15 of us not familiar with the others or the regime. But they were so welcoming and friendly I felt only a little initial concern and was soon at home.

The farm was in the most wonderful setting on one side of a huge basin within hills covered in woodland and only one other property half hidden in the trees way over on the other side. There was a tiny village out of sight below with just one shop, a bakery, where some of the group walked each morning so that we had fresh bread for breakfast. Down another winding track through holm oaks there was a river with huge rocks and pools for swimming.

Built on different levels the farm house was old, very rustic and simply furnished. I had a room on the ground floor with French windows looking out over the hills. The land dropped down to another broad terrace in front covered with decking where we could do yoga, sun bathe or just sit in peace. A little way off to the left there were three outdoor showers under the trees and though there were a couple of bathrooms as well I loved the cool splash of water in the fresh air. Two hammocks swung under the trees, three dogs lay panting in the shade during the day and a couple of horses grazed in the fields on the lower slopes. It could not have been more tranquil.

Our days each took the same shape and after a little beginners training I found it quite easy to fall into step. This was not a strict zen discipline we were following but a rather more gentle regime of twice daily meditation, with yoga, martial arts and calligraphy, there to be dipped into at will. In the early morning everyone maintained silence, eyes down, moving slowly and self contained. Then we took our breakfast of fruit and fresh bread from a long table outside the kitchen and either found a place to sit on the hillside alone or with friends, as we preferred. After eating we gathered to be given a task for the next hour, cleaning, gardening, sweeping the paths, or cooking lunch and supper for all. The purpose was not just to achieve the task but also to stay mindful of each moment and be with it rather than forging ahead in thought to the desired outcome without experiencing the here and now. When I managed this, not often or for long, I realised how driven I can be to get there and conclude something without feeling the journey.

A large converted barn had been transformed into a zendo, a meditation hall, with a beautiful buddha and there were cushions, thankfully, to ease the kneeling position of zazen, sitting meditation, where the legs are folded beneath you supporting a straight spine, hands folded. The zendo was treated with respect and a degree of formality. We each entered quietly and settled in two long rows facing inwards, waiting for our teacher who took his place at the head and rang a bell to begin the sit. Then stillness and silence took over for half an hour. There is no great mystery to be unfolded, this is simply the core of daily zen practice, calming body and mind, breathing slowly and bringing the attention back from wherever it has wandered at each outward breath. It is the essence of being present in the moment, letting go of all else and just accepting what is. There is no failure, when the mind wanders, as it surely will, the only purpose is to gently bring it back to the breath. It is wonderfully peaceful, albeit a strain for my untutored legs which regularly went to sleep beneath me. It just needs practice.

Most of the people in the group were mid twenties to thirtyish and just a handful of us were older but there was no feeling of division. Each of the activities were taken by someone with the experience, martial arts, graceful and poised, and Hitsuendo calligraphy likewise, the creation of large shapes on big sheets of paper executed in gentle, flowing moves. I really enjoyed it, and the daily yoga that stretched me further than I have been for quite some time. Bone rolling was wonderful, a kind of massage that felt utterly relaxing whilst stimulating every cell. Everything contributed to the unconscious letting go, things fell away, I forgot to think about whether my hair was a mess or what to wear but just put clothes on and went outside, the trivia that often surrounds daily life just didn”t happen. And there was space between activities to just be, read in a hammock, reflect. How little time we find for any of that in most lives and how precious it is.

The whole experience was uplifting in far more ways than I could ever have guessed. The group was remarkable, each exemplifying loving kindness, giving and receiving and being of service, led by an inspired teacher who was there for anyone and everyone at any time who wanted to talk, question, or simply unburden. They each lead their own lives and meet once or twice week to meditate together and learn more skills that they share with each other. And there is no undue reverence, plenty of fun was had, belly laughs and all. It was beautiful to be with young people who had found a way they really wanted to live, peacefully and in harmony, accepting what is as much of the time as can be achieved and learning from someone who often reminded them that we never fail, we are just sometimes fearful. By our last day together I felt that I had become a part of something I shall not forget and elements of their way of life will become mine too. It”s never too late to learn.

For the last three weeks the heat has been intense, the air barely moving, by midday the sun fierce and best avoided. Even Italians say how hot it is and august still to come. Daily routines adapt, if anything needs doing early morning is the time.  The cats only come in the house to eat, then during the day each finds their own favourite place that the sun cannot reach. Walking up the path to the car I hear a rustle in the grass and see a sleepy face blinking beneath low hanging branches. Night time is when they venture out, if I come home late in the car I often find them foraging along the lane then rushing home behind me to see if I will get the biscuits out.

Yesterday it was a lot cooler, grey clouds massed growing darker by the hour and thunder began to rumble, building gradually. When the rain came it was sudden and torrential, sheets of water bouncing off the hard ground. Lightening flashed every few minutes, the noise intensified, sounding sometimes like the sky being ripped apart, and others like huge boulders rolling down rocky canyons. I switched everything off and pulled out the plugs, two friends have had their modems blown up by lightening, and settled to housework, stopping to watch from the windows as the drama continued. It went on well into the early hours of the morning, rising and falling in intensity, the rainfall rarely ceasing. I felt for those on holiday in tents. Today is fresher, still cool, the earth unexpectedly soaked and reviving.

One necessary task this month was to renew my car insurance which turned out to be quite an experience. It is expensive in Italy and this year rates have increased. I compared mine with friends and as theirs was cheaper they offered to take me to their agent’s office in town for a quotation. We rang the bell at a beautiful front door carved with a lion’s head and entered a little office on the ground floor. Two women were busy with a customer and an elderly gentleman, known as the Count, came out of another room, welcoming us graciously, bowing over handshakes and ushering us into the back office.

It was windowless, dim and cluttered with piles of paper on his desk and overflowing shelves behind him. After formal introductions Nicholas explained that I wanted a quotation. Of course, said the Count, pulling out a policy from a pile of papers and turning to the top of the first page. He is a well built man, not tall, with a large head on broad shoulders, thinning hair above a wide face, pale, watery eyes and gold rimmed spectacles near the end of his nose. Settling himself  in his chair he began to read out the terms and conditions of the policy, slowly and with gravity, looking at me every now and then over his glasses.

It went on, and on. I glanced at Robert during a long bit and catching my drift he interrupted cheerfully, saying, yes, but how much? The Count held up his hand, looking at him solemnly and saying – I have not finished. I did my best to look as though every point was lodging in my memory to be weighed in the balance. Then I heard something about sangue, blood, and turned to Nicholas who translated – and if you are hurt in an accident and bleed then the policy covers you for having the interior of the car cleaned… I looked down, biting my lip and aiming to look grave whilst trying hard not to laugh.  How very Italian, appearances must be maintained, no unsightly stains.

The end eventually came and we asked again for the price – oh, no, I don’t do that, the women will tell you… The other customer was long gone and at last I got my quote which was indeed less than I paid last year. But that was enough for one day, we went for a drink and I returned on my own a week later to buy a policy. This time the Count was not there and his wife and daughter took care of me. We spent an hour completing forms, and after countless pages and 29 signatures I was ready to pay, only to find that the price was 140 euros more than the original quote. Ah, yes, that was the price in July, now we are talking about August. In dismay I pointed out that the cost was now more than that of the company I was with originally.

The Count’s wife had an idea, I know what we can do, if you pay me ten euros for the ambulance service you can have a discount, and rifling through papers she looked something up and rattled away on a calculator. Suddenly the price became 112 euros less than the original quotation. Great, but what exactly is the bit about the ambulance service? Another lady had been waiting patiently for most of the time and chipping in with a bit of helpful translation if I got confused. They all conferred in rapid Italian and the only word they could come up with was convention, this is a convention here. So I handed over my ten euros as the custom seems to be and with significant discount finally left, policy in hand. Nice to know that whatever happens to me the car interior can be cleaned.

August is nearly here when many businesses close for a couple of weeks, everything slips sideways, there are endless festas and it is a time to have very little planned. So I am going away tomorrow, on a zen retreat in the hills east of Florence. This is a first for me and I am looking forward to it, yoga, meditation, calligraphy, bone rolling (I’ve no idea but if it doesn’t hurt I’ll have a go.) I’ll tell you when I get back.

The Teatro del Silenzio came to life when Andrea Bocelli suggested an open air theatre to the council of his home town, Lajatico, and contributed to it significantly. The agreement was that he would stage an open air birthday concert there every year in July for one night only over the following  five years, whilst for the rest of the year the theatre would be simply a silent part of the landscape. A dress rehearsal takes place the night before and now the event is so successful tickets are sold for this as well, and I went with friends. As this is year five it may be the last, there is no clear decision yet on whether it will continue.

Following what became a steady queue of cars along a country road in twilight, eventually we were diverted up a single track across open fields, now pale stubble. Ahead on the skyline was Lajatico, glowing in the last of the golden sun. Parking the car at the bottom of a hill we joined the crowd walking up to the theatre, the earth bone dry and cracked under our feet, dust rising in clouds around us. Near the top of the track there were five beautiful horses all a deep, rich brown, full bodied, stocky and powerful with graceful arched necks, perfectly groomed and schooled, just ambling gently on the hillside, ridden by young men and women in white shirts.

The only permanent structure that marks the theatre is an arc of  stone blocks in front of which the stage is built each year, seating stretching up a gradual incline in front of it to grandstands right at the back, the edge of the little town some way beyond. On either side of the stage there are towers for lighting and huge screens. On each side of the audience the land falls away then folds back up, rising and falling as far as the eye can see in a soft and gentle landscape of straw covered fields. In the far distance to the south east the lights of Volterra shine from a hilltop. 

Eventually the headlights of cars filing over the hill dwindled and only half an hour late we began, with an actor and a poem. He spoke in Italian, slowly, passionately, and the words were conveyed in English on screen. It was quite dark by this time, an almost full moon rising, a clear sky above with a handful of stars, spotlights flowing beams of soft, pale light up into the night sky. My heart was captured by the words, I remember fragments… “we walk on the earth, taste the freshness of water, burn with fire… sounds are born and die in the air, the stars shine… I am the earth, it is within me, like a soul…” I would have gone home happy then, but I am glad I was there for all that was to come.

It was an evening to capture all the senses, not least to breathe and feel the fresh, night air, and there were unexpected pleasures. Singing and music soared to the heavens - Andrea, his liquid voice light and gentle then gathering power and rising to hold long, clear notes in the surrounding silence of nature. He wore a simple, round necked white shirt with a white scarf, standing alone, consumed by the music, a combination of vulnerability and power. Andrea and guests, all of them glowing in the pleasure of singing with him. A beautiful, slender young woman with a cascade of long blond hair and a fabulous red evening gown playing incredible violin solos, her fingers impossible to follow and her mastery such that it looked so simple. The conductor, flamboyant on his podium, stopping the orchestra occasionally to point out a little improvement for the following evening’s performance with grace and good humour.

Alongside, the huge screens reflected more than the performers. Every now and then they switched to the other side of the arc of stone that was the backdrop to the stage where several young people were painting a mural. Flowing, graceful shapes were appearing, and the face of Andrea, a girl painting him and looking constantly from the picture held in her hand to her creation. Then we would see a little of the horses, walking slowly and patiently in file, and I guess there because Bocelli loves them and they are part of nature and his life. Later, on the opposite hillside, they stood quiet and still for a long time, small shapes circled in a huge pool of light from one of the spots turned onto them, just being there. It was inexplicably moving.

At the interval the crowd came alive, a cacophony of chatter and laughter, walking the aisles, surveying the scene and appraising each other.  We settled for the second part of the evening and another dimension. Three ballet dancers, two men and a young woman, joined the stage interpreting the music in flowing waves of movement, their bodies arching and soaring like the notes rising in the air. They were not always there but simply slipped into some pieces as naturally as if they belonged to them. Andrea was led on and off stage, usually by whoever was to sing with him and the pleasure in touching was clear. He has said how important hands are to him,  and he would reach for them in a song, and hold them, smiling and singing.

Then there was glamour. Four graceful young women with long, dark hair crowned by sparkling tiaras took their place, wearing shimmering gold gowns off one shoulder and sleeved from the other. They were each remarkably striking with powerful soprano voices ringing out like a female version of Il Divo, rich with the same passion. After the performance, they made their way down the hill with the rest of us on foot, still resplendent in tiaras, and happily stopped for anyone who wanted a photograph with them, arms round shoulders and smiling.

Towards midnight the programme was complete and the conductor was clearly anticipating the encores that would be expected and wanting to rehearse them. Bocelli left the stage with a wave several times to a clamour for more and returned for the final goodbye. The opening lines of Con te partiro, Time to say goodbye, rippled softly upwards and the crowd were on their feet, many surging forward to the edge of the stage, clapping, shouting, then quietly listening to the last of the evening’s magic.

The fusion of nature, music, voice and movement was inspired and the whole was more than the sum of the parts. Andrea has no interest in talking about his lack of sight during interviews, he does not consider himself constrained by anything. Like a few other wise souls he has said ”you see clearly only through the heart. The essential is invisible to the eye.” There can have been few there that night and the next whose hearts did not open, and see, if only for a moment.

I am happy to say that I get a lot of emails from readers and it still amazes me that they come from all over the world. Many are from people who long to live in Italy and would be delighted if I could pass their details on to someone I might know who has a job and/or home available for them, now. Alternatively some say what is it really like, a question I am asked face to face when I go back to the UK, as if there must be more to it than I write about and it can’t all be good.

For those who want to, finding work here in the current economic climate must be more difficult as there are currently around 8% or  5M unemployed. Italian workers earn the lowest salaries in Europe, the current average being 14,700 Euros, which is about $21,300 and over 40% less than the average in the UK . Income tax can be up to 46% of earnings for a single person.

My neighbour, Angela, was made redundant last December from the graphic design job she has had with a local printer for nine years. A client of the company recommended her to a competitor who said yes, come and see us, which she did. A job would be there for her, before long, they have said, every month since then. It is a confusing aspect of the Italian culture of bella figura which is not just about how you look but also how you present yourself to the world in every way, including gracious manners, and inclines people to say yes, regardless of the reality. 

In the meantime she has worked for a month, unpaid, as a trainee production supervisor in a small shoe factory making high quality, design led men’s shoes that are selling well in the US. After a month she asked how they thought she was progressing and when she may become wage earning. Oh, you are doing well, they said, but you need to complete three months before we can start to pay you. No, it isn’t legal, but some employers know how to take advantage of the situation. She left. Now she has two months work in a supermarket an hour away as holiday cover for regular staff, shifts changing daily.

Over 99% of businesses in Italy are small to medium with under 250 employees, the majority far less than that and family concerns. Many of them in production experienced a fall in orders of up to 50% in the last year and millions of self employed are seeing their incomes halved. Angela is remarkably cheerful. Yes, she works hard at chasing any job she can find but seems, on the surface at least, relatively unconcerned. Whilst appearing to outsiders to be excitable and emotional individually, the national characteristic is more sanguine, live in the moment and take what comes. They have seen many governments come and go, one crisis after another and rely on everyone muddling through somehow.

By and large this works because prudence is one of the main supports of family life in Italy. They are savers by nature, not borrowers, and tend to have something to fall back on in hard times, if not cash then the family. Home ownership is very high which reduces the stress in difficult times and the mortgage market is less than half that of the average for Europe, generally with higher down payments to lessen the loan. Getting a mortgage has also become more difficult, credit ratings need to be dependable as banks are a lot more cautious. This is not just a result of the economic situation but because in the tortuous Italian system, if a borrower defaults it can take between five to seven years for final settlement of the legal proceedings.

Tax is high and touches almost everything, IVA, the equivalent of VAT in the UK, is 20%. Buying a house incurs between 10 and 15% of the purchase price. But nonetheless there is a black hole of unpaid tax amounting annually to about 24% that somehow never reaches the government. Not paying tax is common, as is looking the other way whilst alternative arrangements are made. At the same time as announcing that they were planning cuts of 24Bn across 2011/12, Berlusconi’s government have said that they intend to recoup 7Bn in unpaid taxes in 2011 alone, offering incentives to local administrations for their help. It will be interesting to see if they can achieve anything like this, I think Italians are a little too foxy to be easily caught out.

One attempt to stop small businesses getting away with undeclared earnings has been to impose a law that requires every transaction to be provided with a receipt, even down to an ice cream. As the customer  you may be asked to produce it for inspection by a passing policeman doing a spot check, though how many would in an area where they grew up is another matter. But if they do and you have nothing to show, the owner of the business will be in trouble for failing to provide one. Hence few leave the receipt for their caffe on the counter, it isn’t fair on the proprietor. I empty out my handbag of all the little slips of paper about once a week.

Living in the country is of course less expensive than in a city but nonetheless it is not cheap. You can eat out quite economically here if you choose little places for locals at about 10 to 12 Euros for a reasonable meal and there are worthwhile wines at modest prices. Buying food is quite costly, I have read that it is twice as expensive as in the US and it is certainly on a par with the UK. But by and large it is good, I haven’t eaten a felty peach or a tasteless tomato here and Italians wouldn’t patronise any shop for long that didn’t have the quality they expect. People linger over the fruit and vegetables, feeling and smelling them, considering one against the other and really thinking about what they are buying.

But of course this is a snapshot from my perspective, others will see and experience things in their own way. And in truth I don’t think about the practicalities much. I am here because living in the moment the Italian way suits me, I don’t contemplate being anywhere else and whatever comes, let it be.

It is hot, at last. Once the sun burns down it seems impossible to imagine that it ever does anything else. I love this time, the fewer clothes the better, warm air enveloping bare skin, only slightly cooling at night, eating outside under the shade of the vine. Up here on the hillside there is a touch of breeze from time to time and coming home from the baking heat of town is a welcome relief. Yes, there is the relentless march of the ants to contend with and the  industry of spiders installing countless fresh webs each morning, but with a little patience there is room for us all. And I am excited, Plan B is in place.

The search for my ideal buildings and surrounding land could take time, having seen just what I want and missed it I have a vision that has not yet been matched by anything else. But I don’t mind the wait and I know the area I want, so I’m moving there, to the hills above and behind Barga and another house I can rent. The view is stunning, across to the Apuan Alps and down into the Serchio valley. The house itself is old, pretty, very simple, has heating and an open fire in the living room so winter will be comfortable.

But the people who own it are the icing on the cake. Marco, Italian, and Simonetta, Australian, have developed the buildings and the land with care. There is a swimming pool, a luxury I shall enjoy, a wood fired oven for pizzas and bread, terraces for growing vegetables, no chemicals on the land, and a barn where Marco roasts chestnuts to make flour. He has sheep and keeps bees too so although they don’t live up there he visits almost every day and I will be able to learn from him how to do some of the things I want to do when I have my own land.

I can move in at the start of November and stay for eighteen months which is just wonderful. Being within easy reach of Barga is a bonus and I hope to meet more people there too. When I find the house I want to buy I can work on the renovation, whilst also serving my bee keeping  apprenticeship, learning from someone who has years of experience. Marco speaks very little English which is just the incentive I need to make more effort at improving my Italian. Isn’t it amazing how things can work out to be just what you need in ways you could never have imagined. I’ve been singing “oh what a beautiful morning” all week.

Invigorated by what feels like a big step forward I headed south yesterday to San Gimignano. If a magic hand set out to create and combine all that most people love to discover in a Tuscan town it would be a challenge to surpass this beautiful place. It has commanding views from the surrounding walls over gentle, undulating hillsides, rich and fertile earth green with vines or the gold of grain and dotted with cypress trees, just as the archetypal Tuscan image demands.

Once on a significant trade and pilgrimage route to Rome, prosperity was assured, and like nearby Siena, a heady period of freedom from allegiance to any other power. As in many other Tuscan cities during medieval times the fortunes of prosperous families were proclaimed by the towers they built, though overall few have survived. Remarkably San Gimignano has maintained 14 out of the original 72, visible on the skyline for miles and now a World Heritage Site. Their clean and simple lines have a surprisingly contemporary look from a distance, as if Donald Trump may have been here too.

San Gimignano has devoted itself to tourism and does it well. History, art and architecture are abundant, shops and galleries prolific yet restrained. The long term coach park is tucked away down the hill shrouded by trees where drivers can gather in the shade and swap stories. The town itself is quite small, easy to cover without tramping too far in the heat. Totally fit for purpose, the compromises to meet contemporary needs have been gracefully and practically achieved.

I have favourite places now and on the walk up Via San Giovanni I cannot resist the Pasticceria Armando e Marcella for a caffe and something delicious. Mounds of crisp little biscuits, truffles, chocolate dipped cherries, sumptuous cakes, panini and bruschetta fill the long counter that leads down to the bar. Armando must command in the bakery because it is without doubt Marcella who reigns over sales. A plump little woman with bright eyes which miss nothing, she has a resounding voice and enough English and German to extract an order out of all comers.  There is a sign saying rooms available too, I have dreamed about breakfast here.

The street eventually opens into Piazza Cisterna, the heart of the town. It is delightfully random, sloping at quite an angle, an ancient stone clad water cistern somewhere off centre and a ring of surrounding buildings, each different in height and design, creating a seemingly haphazard shape around the open space. The colour of San Gimignano embodies warmth, the stone is golden honey, cream and ivory and the brickwork has aged to pale, soft tones that marry perfectly. Like gently faded frescoes I wonder how much bolder these colours would have been when they were new.

The best gelateria in town is here, a little arched neon sign above declares world class awards. I tried limpone con rosmarino, raspberry with rosemary, how the flavours sing together, it is inspired. Licking my cornet at speed to beat the melting heat I found a quiet corner and sat on the ancient step of a recess in the wall, beneath what I took at a glance to be a cash point, enjoying the piazza. Noticing a few smiles at what was directly behind me I turned to find it was not a bank but a discreetly designed condom dispenser.

 A young American girl laughed with me and we talked for a while about living here, her eyes wistful at the sheer beauty all around her, the slower way of life, the importance of food, the natural expression of emotion. When Italy claims someone it seems to me it is compelling, and does not easily let go.

Walking into Lucca through Porta San Donato I stand back against the wall to avoid a bright pink London taxi whizzing past. Toddlers are playing on the swings and roundabouts under the shade of the trees, squealing and scampering about, mothers chatting on benches, waiting to collect their older children from school. The Tourist Information Centre is busy, I call in to check if there are any new fliers for events. A couple of American ladies are grilling a nervous looking girl, all of them intent on a map. “So is this town here right on the sea? How far is it by train? How big is it? Will we like it?” That’s a tough one.

Tourist groups file through the narrow streets, leaders ahead holding up coloured plastic paddles to keep the group following the right crowd. Everywhere a chair could find a space outside a gelateria or ristorante it has. It isn’t really busy yet, but building, all nationalities, some just meandering, some seriously shopping, others with guide books and cameras to hand.

I cross Piazza Napoleone, stopping for a moment under the shade of the plane trees, watching the stage being erected at one end for the Summer Festival that starts in a few days, Simply Red, Crosby Stills and Nash, Mark Knopfler. I’m coming to at least one, this bunch of oldies are talking about my generation, haven’t made up my mind which yet. Walking on into Piazza San Giusto, I head for the far corner and a table outside Il Cuore, The Heart, a sumptuously stocked delicatessen, ristorante and bistrot where occasionally I have lunch.

The deli and ristorante are on one side of Via del Battistero which leads out of the Piazza and the  Bistrot is a few steps across the narrow street on the other. It is elegant, the entrance opens onto a little bar then leads through a tall rustic brick arch into a small room with a high ceiling and walls lined in full wine racks as far up as you can reach. A magnificent Venetian glass chandelier hangs from the centre, three tiers of branches radiating out one above the other, the glass not cut but blown into simple floral shapes and subtly gilded. There are six tall, square tables with low backed bar stools upholstered in crimson and enough champagne stacked up on the shelves for one hell of a party.

But today I am sitting outside at one of the six little tables that fit neatly under the awning. The waiter recognises me and smiles, bringing a menu. He is a small, neat figure with a pale, square face and dark straight hair wearing a green apron over a white shirt. His routinely severe expression is heightened by narrow glasses under heavy black eyebrows. Darting here and there at some speed, always looking for work, he often has his head down, chin resting on the knot of his tie, peering over the top of his specs. 

But like everyone whose smile is less frequent it is worth the wait. If he spots a friend or a regular he beams, black eyes twinkling, breaking into conversation, his voice lively and musical. He enjoys reading the menu for people, holding it in his left hand whilst the right embellishes his description of the dishes. Today it is not yet busy so he has time to give me the full works and I listen attentively, maintaining the illusion, I hope, that I understand more than less of what he is describing.

Whilst I await my food I watch life passing by in the Piazza. On the left an impressive sixteenth century palazzo now houses a bank and men in suits arrive on bicycles, leather briefcases hanging from handle bars, and park outside. A slender young woman comes out of the bank wearing a figure hugging T shirt, calf length chinos prettily laced from the knee and four inch heels. Teetering on the cobbles she mounts her bike and speeds away in one graceful movement, long chestnut hair flowing behind her.

Tourists enter the square, maps in hand, looking around them to establish where they are. Many lift their cameras for a shot of one of Lucca’s prettiest churches and my favourite, small, with a beautifully decorated facade and a joyful painting of the Madonna and child over the doors. Some are hot, hungry and tired, others still light on their feet, exploring, enjoying.

Two women are walking towards the Bistrot, dark skinned and wearing white kaftans with bold, colourful patterns. The first sits heavily at a table near mine, looking tired, resigned, her ample figure swelling over the little metal chair. The other is thin, her angular features framed by a chocolate coloured turban, arms moving constantly as she talks loudly, clearly annoyed. Sitting opposite her companion each angry declamation is met by silence which only agitates her more. Eventually there is a response, one quiet, short emotionless sentence which ignites a volcano.

The angry woman is instantly on her feet, shouting without restraint, walking out into the piazza then turning on her heel and coming back to stand over the other, jabbing her finger and yelling, eyes flashing dangerously. The waiter seems unperturbed, carries on regardless saying “calma, calma” but leaving them to it. Then the heavier woman rises and the two of them move on having had nothing to eat or drink, one voice still ringing out.

In contrast they are replaced a few moments later by three dutch women, a mother and two teenage daughters who are all uncannily alike, long straight hair, narrow spectacles, and solemn studious faces, barely murmuring to each other as they eat. A happy young girl rides past with a chubby baby sitting up in the basket in front of her handle bars, smiling serenely.

Such is yet another day in Lucca, though not just any day. I am eating a delicious lunch, melanzane parmigiano and gelato al marrons glace e salsa cioccolato, in celebration. Things are happening, not fast though decisively, and I am moving on in the autumn. But more of that next week, when it’s all in the bag.

Thunder and lightening by the hour and sometimes the whole night, pouring rain and a chill in the air have beset us for long enough and at last it is looking a little lighter and brighter. I drove up the Serchio valley to Barga this week, the river swollen and brown instead of its usual beautiful bottle green. I wanted to spend more time at the Duomo, my last visit was for the Crossbow Tournament which took place all around it but the building kept asking for my attention.

The walk up through Barga Vecchia is a series of surprises. Initially it seems the same steep and narrow warren of little streets and stairways that you find in many hill towns, some dark and deep as if the sun has never reached them. Then as you climb higher there are light filled open spaces, elegant buildings, restaurants and bars. The last climb up to the Duomo reveals glimpses of different perspectives of the town from above, new buildings marrying with old, beautiful gardens and courtyards.

The final almost vertical stone paved slope is hard going, but opening out onto the terrace in front of the Duomo, so worthwhile. There can be few panoramas anywhere in Italy to match this magnificence. A low wall surrounds the terrace, high above the town, looking down on a terracotta patchwork of rooftops in the foreground. Beyond lies the Serchio valley, impressive in itself, but rising up on the western side and towering above are the Apuan Alps, huge jagged shapes against the skyline, now clothed in summer green. Lower down the slopes houses are scattered across the hillsides, little villages here and there, a handful of swallows circling above. The view is all but 360 degrees, behind the Duomo the foothills of the Appenines rise up, then turning north the valley leads up to the Garfagnana and hills beyond, and south down to Lucca and the plain.

It is not surprising that this was the place chosen for a church, there could hardly be a more wondrous setting, but it is amazing that its origins are in the ninth century. Turning to look at the building it is the simplicity that is most appealing to me. The ivory limestone facade rising up to the tower above is fourteenth century, the decoration spare, letting the eye marvel at the stonework made up of so many random sizes. A semi circle of six white marble steps leads up to the front doors, elegantly though simply carved and painted a soft, dove grey.

A small stone panel above the doors represents the grape harvest, carved most delicately with vine leaves, a little figure of a man kneeling at either end, arms raised, as if each is holding up either end of the vine. Tiny faces, little gargoyles, peep from between the leaves. A slender arch rises above, inset into the stone work, with a small lion on either side. I love medieval masonry and the relative freedom of the sculpture, bodies are not required to be in proportion, the telling of the tale and the vigour of life in the figures is the thing.

Stepping into the dim interior the nave is a big open space, broad and long, paved in warm, rose-brown marble, with square pillars on each side supporting graceful arches above. As my eye adjusts it is the quality of  light that strikes me. High on either wall there are small windows, maybe only two metres tall and very narrow. I have never seen anything like them, instead of glass they contain marble from the quarries of the Apuan Alps, worked to a fine sheet and looking like slices of agate. The colours are gentle, cream, honey, palest sea green, touches of coral, warming the light that flows through them.

Where the nave ends four steps lead up to a little gateway in the centre of a low, red marble screen, dividing it from the upper part of the church where the seating begins. To the right of the screen there is a magnificent pulpit, all the more impressive as the one wonderfully decorative and elaborate structure in the spare and simple nave. The overall design is a square  supported on four red marble pillars. Each side of the pulpit depicts a scene such as the nativity and the adoration of the Magi, superbly carved in marble now the colour of old ivory.

But it is the strange designs of the pillars supporting it that fascinates me, though what looks like their random nature is no doubt steeped in christian symbolism. The two front pillars are each resting on the back of a lion standing about waist high, four square and solid. Between the legs of one lies the figure of a man, one hand touching the mouth of the animal but the other holding a knife. The second lion stands above a dragon whose wings are folded and wonderfully etched. One of the back pillars is supported by the figure of a little man, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, looking weary. The other has no support and simply rests on the floor.

At the top of each of three pillars, between them and the base of the pulpit, there is a crown of stylised leaves, each one a different and complex creation that must have taken incredible skill to plan and execute on such a small scale. The head of the fourth is extraordinary, wrapped round with natural forms, one bird holding a rabbit in its claws, one a fish, a human face on a mythical beast and a curled lion. The imagination, skill and craftsmanship of the whole is inspirational, eight hundred years old and created entirely by hand, heart and eye.

Beyond the marble screen and leading to the altar the building is less ancient, it has been remodelled up to the seventeenth century, but it still retains an elemental style that allows what decoration there is to shine. Stained glass windows, modest in scale, add to the quality of light and the two side chapels are simple and relatively unadorned.

Tuscany is full of churches, from tiny chapels to awe inspiring cathedrals, many containing wonderful works of art. But there can be more than that to a building, something indefinable that is about the spirit of the place, the feeling it engenders, a warmth and humanity that touches me. I could return often just to be part of that feeling here in the Duomo, and I hope I will.

Well, the house I wanted is not to be and I am sad and sorry and temporarily undone. As if in tune it is raining again and there is more to come, so I keep telling myself I am here, I am staying, it is beautiful and all is well. I do believe that things happen in ways we cannot understand but that work out to be taking us where we want to go, whether we know it or not.  So whilst I am gathering my thoughts and planning the next step in the here and now I will tell you about an Italian adventure I had thirty years ago.

It was June and I was driving through Tuscany and Umbria, staying at small hotels for a few nights, happily enjoying the experience. One evening I went out to a restaurant and biting into a crusty roll I felt a tooth wobble slightly, but dismissed it as safe enough if I left the bread alone. Driving back, the tooth (front, of course) dislodged itself, I put one hand up to my mouth in surprise and drifted over to the wrong side of the road, on a bend. The poor woman coming the other way couldn’t possibly avoid me. We hit head on, though thankfully not at speed.

 The next car round the bend brought a young German couple who stopped, quickly assessed the situation and took over, they were fantastic. Unlike me the other lady was wearing her seat belt and was unhurt, but I couldn’t walk. An ambulance was there in no time, and I was in Montepulciano hospital in half an hour, having X rays and heaven knows what else, it all happened in Italian. By midnight I was in a little room with two elderly ladies who snored loudly, listening as the clock struck each quarter hour, wondering what was wrong with me and if it would cost a mint for treatment.

As the hospital came to life it became like any Italian village, all who could walk began milling about chatting. Having nothing to wear but black bra and pants, I sat up in bed trying to keep the sheet far enough up to conceal them. This was a bit tricky combined with eating my breakfast and keeping the tooth in place, it had miraculously survived, and I didn’t want to look like a ghoul. News travelled fast, before long there was a small crowd round our door, all wanting to know about the foreigner, a woman on her own, in racy underwear. The old ladies told the tale of the accident each time someone arrived. A  nurse helped me to the bathroom and I got quite a shock. I had been wearing glasses and as I hit the windscreen they broke and cut into my face so I looked like I had been in a fight. My right leg had ballooned after my knee hit the dash board and wouldn’t take any weight. 

Eventually a tall and handsome doctor arrived who could have been straight out of Mills and Boon and best of all he spoke English. He explained that my leg was only severely bruised and though it would take several months to heal fully I would be able to walk with care. The rest was superficial. Trying to sound calm I asked what all this would cost me and he laughed - nothing at all, Signora. Overwhelmed with relief on both counts I couldn’t keep the lock on my stiff upper lip any longer and began to cry. Like a scene in an opera the doctor dropped onto the bed, held out his hands and beseeched me to say what was wrong, tell me now, everything…

The best I could muster was – it’s nothing really, I’m just… thankyou… I’ll be all right…  Clearly disappointed, he said he would come back in an hour or two. Then the crowd at the door gathered round, all talking at once, some patting my hands, stroking my hair, comforting. An elderly man with a colostomy bag at his hip said he spoke a little French and as I did too, he indicated that being a woman alone I must need advice, so I should write to my father and tell him of my predicament immediately. I thanked him respectfully. This was long before cell phones and possibly there weren’t many landlines around in villages either.

The doctor returned, this time with a policeman, a small, rotund man with a waxed and curled moustache, polished boots and a pristine uniform. He spoke Italian whilst the doctor translated, keeping his face neutral, taking no position. I was in trouble, I had caused an accident, I was liable for a lot of damage and it was his responsibility to make me aware of the gravity of my situation. I nodded, looking penitent, though he was obviously expecting more of a response. Then he went up a gear – I could face court and harsh punishment. Yes, I said, not being able to think of anything to add. Looking exasperated he played his final hand - my government will speak to your government about the danger you have caused whilst here in Italy. I understand, I said.

To my surprise, after one last steely glare he turned on his heel and marched out. I looked at the doctor, he shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t until I was back in the UK and recounting the story that a friend pointed out the policeman would have been expecting me to slip him some cash for keeping me out of trouble. For once being naive was a blessing. I never heard a thing from anyone, car hire, the other person’s insurance, police, or government.

I was free to leave. The doctor got a taxi and a kind and gentle man drove me to the hotel, a bank and then to Pisa where I spent the next three days before my flight, sleeping. At the airport they put me in wheel chair, booked me in then parked me in a quiet corner. Eventually I could see everyone queuing for embarcation so I waved my hand about a little. Then they had all boarded and I shouted, waving both arms. Startled airport visitors took a wide berth round me, then at last someone from the airline clapped his hand to his head and we hurtled over the tarmac just as the doors of the plane were closing.

Overall I thought I was fantastically lucky. There was no real harm done, everyone was so kind and helpful and even the policeman let it go. I wanted to come back, although very strange to my British upbringing I liked the drama, the freedom to be as you are, the concern and ready affection of total strangers. It took thirty years for the reality of living here to happen, but I think this is where it began.

The glorious acacia blossom and its scent has disappeared to be replaced by jasmine flourishing everywhere, a deeper and headier perfume that is most powerful in the evening once the sun has set. And how it grows. I planted a small one on the corner of the house two years ago and it now stretches three metres up the wall and is a mass of blossom. Many houses have them trained around doors, creating hedges, covering arches and it is beautiful to see right now, and to breathe.

In this corner of Tuscany, where there are hills surrounding us covered in unfettered greenery and wild flowers, it is easy to see nature as abundant and eternal. But there are little changes, significant and troubling. The swallows have returned, but so few, for the last two summers I took delight in watching twenty or thirty at a time wheeling and diving in the skies above the garden. This year I am fortunate to see two or three in a week. A handful of fireflies, tiny red points of phosphorescent light, hover and dart over the garden as darkness arrives, yet last year they were right across the slopes down to the stream in abundance.

Butterflies are fewer, hovering around blossom, red admirals, cabbage whites, some lemon yellow beauties who dance in the air, but now only one or two.  Insects too seem to be down in numbers and maybe this has something to do with there being less swallows - less food, though that is only my conjecture. Perhaps the harsh winter we have just been through followed by a long, wet spring has affected the balance of things this year.

This is all too familiar, and brings me to bees and their decreasing numbers, a cause for concern. Flying around 9,000 kilometres in a lifetime to create in total half a teaspoon of honey each, worker bees gather from between 50 and 100 flowers on one collecting trip, covering about eight kilometres an hour. They are seeking nectar for energy and pollen for protein and in so doing transfer pollen grains from flower to flower. It takes about two million flowers to make half a kilo of honey, so that’s a lot of pollinating.

Italian honeybees breed well, are prolific, excellent foragers and good housekeepers with a reputation for gentleness, although they are prone to rob honey from another hive. Well it gets hot doesn’t it, and it must be quicker. But they are less able at coping than other strains of bees when winters are hard and there is a cool, wet spring.

Whilst most of the world’s staple food crops, such as wheat, maize and rice can be wind pollinated the rest require help from bees, wasps and butterflies to set fruit or seed. That means one third of the plants that we eat are dependent on bees pollinating them for us. Given that we cannot feed the world adequately as things are now, losing a third of what we can grow would have consequences that are hard to imagine.

So what has gone wrong? There are several theories for what is known as Colony Collapse Disorder where hives are found all but empty, the bees cannot be traced but the queen is still alive. There is evidence to show that cell phones emitting electromagnetic radiation confuse a bee’s navigation system making it hard for them to return to their hive. As Italy ranks tenth in the world both per capita and by number of cell phones this may well have had some impact here.

Climate change has been held responsible for inhibiting queen bees from laying enough eggs to create a strong and healthy hive. A reduction in the number of flowers and areas to forage has also had a detrimental effect. Intensive one crop farming lacks the diversity of flowers and the length of flowering season that bees need for a healthy life cycle. We have created far more urban areas to house growing populations, denuding what were originally wild flower filled acres of nature. And we have become obsessively tidy, constantly removing fallen trees and cutting grass where once wild bees would have made their nests in the hollow of a tree or a hole in the ground.

Under stress from all these factors and probably more not as yet identified, bees have also become more susceptible to parasites, the most common being the varroa mite, a little like a crab with eight pairs of legs. What would be the size of a tennis ball if it was on our body runs around a bee sucking its blood, is very hard to sweep off and transmits bee viruses, weakening its immune system. As Keane at Barganews pointed out following my last post called Greening, Varroatosis has done huge damage across Italy’s bee population since the eighties.

Evidence also indicates that pesticides, used on commercial maize crops in the north of Italy, have been responsible for what can only be described as bee carnage. Vincenzo Girolani at the University of Padua has studied the effects of pesticide coated seeds planted in spring using seeding machines which kick up clouds of insecticide into the air. These clouds carry a 1000 times more than the dose that would be lethal to a bee, so any crossing the fields are wiped out. The pesticides are also absorbed into the plants and as bees suck the dew on a leaf they ingest enough to disorientate them so they cannot find their way back to the hive. Aldo Bonincontro wrote an article likening the ongoing decline and weakening of the immune system in bees to Aids in humans.

When populations had all but halved and the evidence clearly pointed to some pesticides, Italy was the first to ban their use for a trial period across 2009. Bee mortality associated with maize sowing was conclusively halted and the ban has been made permanent, whilst in southern Italy where pesticide use in citrus groves and vineyards is still common, bee losses remain high. We are fortunate here to live amongst woodland and small scale cultivation so beehives, honey, and beeswax candles are still, thankfully, all around us.

There is so much to be done, to be monitored, reversed, made good, whole and healthy. To me the story of bees and their destruction encapsulates the way in which we are distorting the earth and so much that miraculously evolves in nature. We appear to have detached ourselves and taken on the role of manipulators who can have it all our own way. But we are of course inextricably linked to the whole, and the health of the whole will be what determines our own.

This week I headed for Forte dei Marmi, the Tuscan beach resort for the smart set, I wrote about it in January in the post called the small stuff. This time it was sunny, warm and buzzing with people, and market day, or rather what you might call upmarket day.  I followed the flow of foot traffic towards the space full of stalls under spreading umbrella pines. It was packed and it took a little time to acclimatise, but I was on a mission for summer clothes so I elbowed my way into the throng.

Markets here are abundant, most towns of any size have a weekly general  market and some, like Lucca, have more, plants and flowers, antiques and arts and crafts. I love the antiques weekend once a month, it is a mix of flea market and some real finds in furniture and bric a brac sprawling along the streets surrounding Piazzas San Giusto and Antelminelli. General markets are primarily a mix of cheap clothes, shoes and jewellery, household goods and linens, local cheeses, hams, fruit and vegetables, and honey.

Forte dei Marmi caters for the well heeled after a bargain and has a wide range of clothes, largely geared to summer now of course but still including cashmere, silks and even a quantity of fur coats. Wearing fur does not appear to be politically incorrect in Italy, I see quite a lot of them round town in the winter. The overall choice is terrific, and not just clothes and shoes, there are excellent linens, leather, belts, crockery, jewellery and bags. I found a white linen dress I love and climbed up into the back of a transit van to try it on, as good as it gets for a changing room, a mirror propped up against one side. I can see why it hit the market stall and not a smart shop, the hemline is up and down, but my neighbour Angela has pinned it to an even length for me and an hour or two in the sun with my needle and thread will put that right.

As in all markets, walking the busier streets of any town and trudging the beaches, there are brightly clothed Africans selling whatever they can carry, a string of handbags up one arm maybe, another sackful on their back. I admire their resourcefulness, a little rain and they have umbrellas for sale in no time. Some may have only a few packs of paper hankies, cigarette lighters and clothes pegs. Others are quick off the mark to find a way to capture your attention. When I go to Montecatini Terme market, another worth a visit, there is a bright faced boy stationed on the approaching street who will grab you a parking space if there is one and then sell you something, of course. We smile and wave now and each shout hello my friend, how are you today, whilst I park and find his fee, forgoing the vivid socks on offer.

On the way back from the coast I stopped in Lucca to visit Gong on Via San Paolino, a clothes shop where the range of casual cottons and linens is designed by the larger than life owner, Carolina. It was a year since I had seen her and did not expect her to remember me, but as I emerged from the changing room she suddenly threw her hands up and shouted – “Liz Taylor!” Sweeping me into her arms and hugging me until I was nearly off balance, she called to her assistant, “Last year I asked her name, she said Liz Taylor, I said yes, Bella, but what is your name – and it is Liz Taylor! We laughed for twenty minutes!” Well, not quite, but it is the spirit of the thing that Italians generally mean to convey, not the letter. What delighted us both even more was that I had written about her after my last visit and she had customers from San Francisco who had read the post.

Equally in the spirit rather than to the letter, I recently found a Pet Supermarket online, quite some distance away in Livorno. Four cats get through a lot of food and I wanted to buy in bulk. The website said open from eight until eight every day, so off I went on Sunday, only to find it closed. It is in a long stretch of super stores and I noticed that several had signs saying eight until eight every day as well, though not one was open. Then it dawned on me – it means every day you would expect shops to be open, which does not include Sundays except in busy tourist resorts, and if I was Italian I would have just known that. In the UK I would have fired off an irritated email when I got home. But acclimatised now, if not fully attuned, I just thought, well, I have found it so I can come again.

It reminded me of my last visit to Siena, where a lovely girl in the tourist information centre handed me a bundle of leaflets. “All of them?” I said. “Yes, all of them” she responded with pride. They are an elegant and beautifully produced series of 17 written in Italian and English under the same title, Shops in Siena, even though they include hotels, restaurants and bars. Each one takes two or three types, Craftwork, Dry Cleaning and Undertakers for example, a curious mix, and lovingly details as much of the history as is known of each establishment, and who has owned them. There is a little photograph, name and address, but no mention on any of them of opening hours, any days they may be closed, what they may specialise in or what makes them especially worth a visit.

But it does tell you that  Bar Romana on Via Pantaneto was once visited by Mussolini before he became Duce. The harassed owner told him he would have to stir his coffee with his little finger seeing as his show off women folk had gone to see that Mussolini and not a teaspoon was in sight. Apparently he did as he was told. Farmacia Quatro Cantoni on Via San Pietro was the place where a meeting was held on 5 August 1718 for the purpose of electing the new capitan of the Eagle contrada, one of the 17 districts of the city now famed for competing in the Palio horse race. As for what you may find when you get there now, and whether it is open, well, you’ll have to go and look.

The subtleties of another culture, way of thinking and approaching things takes time to assimilate and to stop saying “but why don’t they…” and instead remember, why should they, this is another world and I am learning every day. Viva la differenza.

At last, a week with no more than a shower or two and plenty of sun. The hay field that surrounded my house has now been cut and I can get at the garden again. So much rain has meant so much growth and the vigorous, bushy plants have taken over, smothering those not so pushy. There is work to be done, but I am taking it slowly.

This is the most wonderful week of May when the green rush of spring is at its peak. More and more flowers rise up in the long grass which is studded with white, yellow, pink, purple and blue. The hillsides are now completely covered in so many shades of green, with the exception of the acacia trees which are in full bloom and right now are more flower than leaf. Where the terraces of my garden end they rise up encircling the slopes, tall and slender, their branches heavy with plumes of creamy white blossom that fills the air with a sweet, light scent. Walking beneath them along the lane each breath is filled with their perfume and as the breeze ripples through the trees showers of tiny flowers scatter around me like confetti.

I have done very little but be in the garden, the cats lazing in the shade, occasionally rising to a crouch then a leap as another lizard or cricket meets its end. When less sunny I have been in the kitchen making batches of things to freeze,  brodo, or stock,  roasted vegetables for pasta sauce, and a cake or two. Before long it will be too hot to spend time near an oven. In short a drifting in and out, on a whim, as I feel like it in the moment sort of week. It has taken me two years to attain this state of being, no longer guilty for doing “nothing”, mind pleasantly free of concern, comfortable being restful. I hope I never lose it again.

It strikes me that whilst this is deeply satisfying and one of the best things to happen to me since arriving, it is something I never anticipated. I was someone who could not sit still for long and I never envied those who did, how dull. I had to be busy with something and often operated at overload without any awareness until something physical slowed me down, my body letting me know that this was too much. I rarely took enough notice and reached burn out several times. Even so, I recovered and carried on regardless, thinking this is who I am, this is what I do, it won’t change. Now I look back and see that I conditioned myself to taking on as much as I could and then made it hard to achieve by being a perfectionist, so everything I crammed in had to be done to my exacting standards. Crazy, my own worst enemy.

It also occurs to me now that it is no surprise it has taken two years to let go of all that because I did it so long it became who I was, a part of me like another limb, and I never imagined an alternative way of being. Taking myself out of the life I knew and moving to where every element was new and different was yes, scary, there was a long period of feeling displaced in every way, especially doing it alone, but ultimately it has led to the freedom to begin living a different and more rewarding way at a deeper level.

I have a friend in the UK whom I have known for many years, we speak now and then on the phone and she is someone whose direct, sometimes blunt approach I have always enjoyed. Not long ago I asked her if she had read any of my posts recently.  ”Just one of your another day in paradise pieces” she replied drily. We laughed but I have mulled it over since. It isn’t the first time someone has suggested that the life I describe is all just a bit too good to be true.

Yes, I write largely about the things I enjoy but of course life here “living the dream”, the phrase that is now getting a bit tired from repetition, isn’t always one long golden day and balmy night. Sometimes I cry with frustration that things are not moving at the pace I would like before I bring myself back to remembering it’s all OK, everything will unfold in its own good time. There have been long, cold, wet weeks when one more trudge in the rain was as exciting as it got. The boiler can be tetchy, the kitchen sink blocks with ease, the massive car insurance needs paying… in short there is as much stuff to be dealt with as in any other life. But from my point of view why write about it, everyone has their own kitchen sink to deal with, they don’t need to know about mine.

What would it profit me to dwell on the less than lovely either? I enjoy writing and it is a way of shaping my thoughts and feelings into something recognisable before they float away, a kind of progress report to myself. It can be a humbling experience recognising shifts in perception and realising that you can alter what drives you, if you choose, it isn’t a given that leopards never change their spots, except literally. I like who I am becoming more then I ever did in my far too critical past and I now allow myself to do what feels good, not what I “ought” to do.

Living in Tuscany is proving to be just right for me, my instincts were that I would fit in Italy better than England and I do. Being immersed in nature fills a need I never acknowledged before and walking in sunshine under acacia blossom is not just pleasant, it is joy. It’s horses for courses though, this isn’t everyone’s dream, whatever does it for you may be something entirely different. I have discovered that life isn’t really about where you live, it’s about how. Being here has given me the freedom, space and time in my kind of environment to understand that and to appreciate that change can be ongoing, and liberating, for the rest of my life, if I will just stay open and let it happen.

It has rained and rained, and the grass has grown and grown; in the odd bursts of sunshine my cats now stalk each other in the garden as if through jungle. But Sunday was clear, not even a shower, and I set off for Barga to see the Calendimaggio, a festival celebrating the arrival of spring, centred around a crossbow tournament. Tuscany has plenty of medieval pageantry to offer, towns and villages enter into the spirit of their history with respect and a passion for detail that can only be admired. This event is organised by a historical association in Lucca and has now become an annual festival in Barga. 

Walking into the old town up Via Borgo, so steep it seems almost vertical to my legs, I could hear voices ahead. People were gathering in the Piazza Comune ready for the afternoon’s events. In the thick of the crowd I found myself gazing in admiration at one person after the next, taking in the detail of their costumes and amazed at the authenticity. These were not something run up by mothers for a fun day out, it was clear that they were not only exactingly researched but also simply and beautifully made for each individual. And so many men with crossbows, I had never imagined there would be around 150 competitors from all over Northern Italy.

Suddenly drums sounded somewhere ahead and a procession formed, marching off  through narrow streets to the steep, stone paved hill that leads up to the duomo. Watching as everyone passed I was intrigued by the cross section of a community represented in the costumes, from the wealthy in furs and jewels through to the poor, the church, and a lot of soldiers it seemed, but the reason for that was to become clear later on.

The duomo sits high above Barga and the broad terrace in front leads round to one side where there were three targets set up on the grass, quite a way back against a wall. The bowmen stepped to the mark in threes with a handful of arrows each and shot in their own time, serious and still as they took aim. Others waiting prepared their crossbows, tweaking this and that, taking arrows from their quivers, checking the flights.  At the end of each set the  judge walked to the targets with the bowmen, and at least one woman, to check the results. He stood out from the crowd in breeches and hose a combination of red, blue, purple and yellow, a beautiful suede jacket with a cut out of flowers across it and a big mushroom of a multi coloured hat.

Behind me I heard medieval music begin and turning, saw four young women in long, dark, velvet dresses gather on the grass and begin to dance. Each held a slender wand bound in ribbon that flowed from the tip for three or four metres, and as they danced they wove patterns in the air, swirling the ribbons back and forth. It was charming and reminiscent of dances round the maypole that I remember as a child.

Wandering back onto the terrace there were little stalls set up on either side of the duomo, each representing some aspect of life in these parts during medieval times. A countryman wearing a simple linen tunic, bonnet and rough cloak was explaining to a visitor the use for each of the dried herbs and berries in little baskets lined with leaves before him. He took a dagger from his belt and crushed a dried rosehip to show her the tiny seeds inside. A woman nearby in a loose, white wimple was sewing bags from leather and suede, with piles of wool, fur, jute and animal skins at her feet. Another man was making lanterns.

Around us milled a crowd in a rich array of colours. I admired a wealthy family, father with a heavy black cloak draped elegantly over one shoulder, a brilliant blue hat and a sword in a black sheath at his hip. His wife had a midnight blue velvet cloak covering a dress of woven blue and gold flowers, and a turban in the same, a swathe of fine silk flowing down her back in a shimmer of gold. Their two children chased each other, laughing and clashing wooden swords, red and yellow capes flying.

The purpose of the military, from foot soldiers to knights of the cross in full chain mail and helmets with visors, became clear when an enactment was announced. A priest waited on the steps of the duomo whilst a commander of the troops stood at the top of the steep hill up to the terrace, pike in hand, and shouted “avanti!” The column of soldiers wound their way up, some carrying weapons, some standards, and their leaders each kneeled in turn before the priest for a blessing and were given a little red cross to take with them to the wars in the Terrasanta, the Holy Land. This was a representation of crusaders who left the Serchio valley in 1269 and later we were to see their return.

But I got hooked on the drummers. A band of six young men and women plus their standard bearer, all in black, white and burgundy with short, flowing capes and floppy velvet hats, the leaders of the parade who later strode back down through the town. I could hear them now, one keeping a roll going on his drum, the others thumping out a marching rhythm, and like a child called by the pied piper I followed. They finally came to a halt in a little street and formed a circle, becoming more ambitious, the pace quickening, it was exciting sound. There they stopped, that last flourish had been for themselves and for the sheer pleasure of drumming.

My favourite character of the day was dressed in scarlet, a heavy jacket and britches tucked into neat boots. He wore stout leather gauntlets, a belt strung with a dagger, a hefty sword, and a little pouch of bone handled knives. A fox skin was wrapped round his shoulders, two paws clasped in front to keep it in place, giving him the air of someone to be reckoned with. And his face was a perfect fit, straight, heavy, brows over a long nose, grey whiskers and beard, and deep set eyes, as wily as any fox.

It was a wonderful day, reflected in the faces of visitors as well as those involved. And I met Keane and his photographer for the first time, the editor who has kindly included me in www.barganews.com. It is the best website you are ever likely to find reflecting life in an Italian community and the pictures that fill it are superb. There are plenty of the day, take a look, and between us you may just feel like you were there yourself.

I have been imagining the post I will write for a while now, the one where I say, yes! I’m on my way, I’m buying the house, cominciamo, let’s get started!  But not yet, I’m afraid, there is another spanner in the works and some more waiting to be done. After a few days of coming to terms with it I am reconciled, it is still possible, and if it turns out not to be this one then I firmly believe that will be because there is another waiting in the wings that is just right for me. But I’m giving this one every last chance.

Happily home again, but not moving on just yet, I felt in limbo. Then it suddenly occurred to me that if I spent a few hours in Lucca I would feel fine, so off I went, wondering why it had taken me so long to think of it. And it did the trick, I quickly felt connected once more, that sense of belonging that steals up on you imperceptibly once you find where you want to be and become familiar with it. I enjoyed all my usual favourites and, as always, noticed things to delight me that I have never spotted before.

Driving home I was laughing at myself for being out of sorts, when really there is so much to enjoy from one day to the next. Not least is spring and all its glories. The rush of green is almost overwhelming in its abundance, clouds of white stitchwort light up the long grass, sunshine yellow buttercups grow to heights I have never seen in England, deep purple irises stand tall straight out of the village walls, strong and vigorous. Every walk along the lane to take my rubbish to the bins is a delight, finding something new springing up, wood pigeons whirring overhead and the trees clothing themselves in fresh and tender green. How could this be anything less than life enhancing?

Of course all this green is a result of a fair bit of rain, but if you come from the English Lake District that is totally familiar, I always want to have water somewhere near. I love the many natural springs there are here, sometimes just a pipe coming out of the bank on the roadside running into a stone trough beneath it. Quite a lot of houses are fed by their own spring and though the days of tap water being unsafe to drink are long gone there are also public fontanellas where you can fill your own containers, as many do, and the water tastes good.

I stopped in town on the way home to do a some food shopping. In the little greengrocers my favourite lady with spiked platinum hair, enormous glasses and an even bigger smile pointed to the chilled cabinet, looking pleased, because there was the ricotta she knows I love which sells out pretty fast. It is clearly a place frequented daily by ladies who live in town and who come for a little gossip as well as the ingredients for lunch. I have often seen her break a celery stick and pop half  into a bag with a carrot and an onion, just enough to make a brodo, or stock, that is the basis for much traditional Tuscan cooking.

The universal passion for food was best illustrated when I was eating lunch with friends in a local restaurant where the TV was on above our heads, as is often the case in little places. I glanced round for a moment when it struck me as unusually quiet and noticed that every face in the room, male and female, was looking at the screen and anticipated that it must be a big football game in progress. Not so, when I looked up someone was cooking. I haven’t seen any Italians pick at their food, they savour and enjoy. Eating with my neighbours, Angela and Matteo recently, Matteo stopped in the middle of his bruschetta and said – there is nothing more perfect than simply fresh tomatoes and bread, is there –  and his face was transported.

This joy in finding pleasure in the every day stuff of life, not just once in a while on special occasions, is the Italian characteristic to which I feel most drawn. They live comfortably in all their senses, readily expressing how they feel. It is very different from the buttoned up British fear of making an exhibition of yourself, something I expect was levelled at me, albeit out of earshot, fairly often in the past. I could never quite grasp why no one else would join in. But here, well, I’m just normal, and that is a such a deep and gratifying pleasure I still glow when I recognise it. Home at last.

It is two years today since I arrived, just about this time of day, excited, tired, dazed, fearful but trying not to show it. I have a photograph taken the week before I left the UK and I keep it in my desk to remind me. I look older than I do now, pale and strained, my eyes almost dead. It seemed to have cost me such a lot in so many ways to break the mould and get here I wasn’t sure if I had the stamina to face the changes that lay ahead.

Two years on, and how happy I am that I got through those first bewildering few months and stayed the course. On one level I could say, here I am, still waiting for a home of my own, still stumbling through beginner’s Italian, what have I done with my days? Probably the most important thing is not to count them, just to live them, one at a time. And as for waiting, it comes with the territory and I am attuned, it’s no big deal. Each step I take is in a place I want to be and there is so much to enjoy, it’s a feast.

At first light I left Keswick and drove to the motorway. After a few miles there is a long, straight climb and I pulled into a turning for one last look at the hills. It is a view that always filled my heart with joy returning home to Cumbria, seeing the mountains rising ahead, and this time it was with a lump in my throat that I left them behind, along with sixty years of my life.

I felt no anxiety about getting back to Tuscany by train. The only handicap was tiredness, having spent two weeks hauling stuff about to move house and made endless decisions, what to keep, what to give to Oxfam, where to put everything at the other end, how to work the new boiler…  So I knew I would be tested just keeping my wits about me. And how.

At Liverpool I left my hire car at the empty airport and caught a train to London, whistling south on a cold, grey morning, the landscape emerging from winter the further we went, lambs in the fields, green shoots pushing through. It was at St. Pancras station, the terminus for Eurostar trains, that the scale of the situation due to the Icelandic volcano halting all flights became clear. There were long queues to validate tickets, plenty of extra staff on hand to help, and every train to Paris that day, more than usual, was fully booked.

It is a really beautiful station and I took pleasure in the way modern necessities had been married to the original design with such integrity and how lovely the cornflower blue paint of the ironwork looked against the red brick. I joined the queue in a cafe that had every kind of salad in bowls, brain in neutral, until the girl behind the counter made me jump with ”So – create!” What? Me?  Incapable of managing more than “Ummm…”  she thrust a pre-packed plastic bowl into my hand and moved onto the next, understandably, given the numbers waiting.

Within an hour of arriving in Paris I was booked for the following day to Geneva, Milan and Florence and heading for my hotel at the heart of the city on the Ile Saint Louis. I love this place, connected to either side of the Seine by bridges but a quiet haven with tiny streets. It was warm and sunny and I ate outside a busy cafe, all of us enjoying the first hint of summer to come, looking across at the amazing flying buttresses of Notre Dame, the evening sky turning from shell pink to dove grey.

An early start for Geneva meant I had a bonus of three hours there. On leaving the train we trooped through a customs post, which didn’t register, then I headed for the left luggage lockers. An American couple were deliberating on coins and he disappeared to get some francs. That’s old money, I thought. Then when I realised my euros didn’t fit it dawned on me that this was Switzerland, and I too needed Swiss francs. Eventually I got to see a little of Geneva and walking the streets it made me smile that it was wall to wall watches, Swiss army knives and cuckoo clocks.

The next train was a gleaming new Eurostar pendolino, which refused to start. After half an hour we were told to cross the platform and board an elderly regional train heading who knows where. This was when we became a travelling community, all of us looking hopefully to each other, did you hear what they said? Do you know where this one goes? We were like latter day refugees with the added sophistication of mobile phones, each reporting to our personal worlds as the hours passed.

We chugged along the shores of Lake Geneva, pretty villas covering the hillsides down to the water, the few regulars wedged in between us looking bemused at this sudden influx of strangers. Through Lausanne and Montreux, then the mighty Alps closed in on either side, still snow capped, and a narrow valley took us to Brig, another train, then Domodossola and the final change for Milan. There was quite a wait here and I spent some of it admiring the flamboyance of a young woman with purple hair, a large pink flower pinned in it, and a navy fifties cocktail dress with a frilled net skirt worn over her jeans. She carried it off well.

I was heartened by patience and goodwill, everyone ready to help each other, total strangers speaking different languages but all of us in this together, with only one exception.  There was a  family whose impatient father literally fought to the front at each train change and stood across the only baggage area in that carriage, arms spread, reserving it all. Having been knocked out of the way by him twice I snapped the third time and shouted “this train is for everyone!” though of course he neither understood nor cared. But the adrenalin rush of anger gave me the strength of two men and had me swinging bags up onto the rack for women half my age who looked both grateful and a little alarmed at this sudden dynamo.

We expected to miss our connection at Milan but a train had been held back for us and a crowd ran from one platform to another anxiously. I was the last on, my bag hoisted aloft by the ticket inspector shouting hurry! We are late! Our arrival time in Florence was due to be ten thirty, no ongoing trains to Pescia by then, so I prepared myself for a stay in Florence that night and sent a text telling friends due to meet me. Then I switched off my phone to save the last flicker of battery for the morning.

I sat opposite a pretty young Italian woman who spoke perfect English and was surprised to see her become utterly consumed by Pride and Prejudice. Amazingly we pulled into Florence just before ten, we had been going so fast that everything rattled, and I tapped her knee as she hadn’t noticed we had arrived. “Firenze? But we are early. I shall have to complain.” Such dry wit could have been Jane Austen herself.

Dashing to the board I saw the last train heading my way was leaving in one minute, and as the doors began to shut I hurtled on, thanking heaven that I wouldn’t have to heave a suitcase anywhere else. I switched on my phone and to my horror found a message saying stay on the platform at Florence, we are on the way to pick you up! Oh, why didn’t I turn it on before. Almost there, they turned round and drove the hour it takes back to Pescia in time to greet me. We were home by midnight.

I would do it again, though maybe not so fast. I shall remember seeing spring advance as we came south, horse chestnut trees in full leaf  by Paris, the white froth of hawthorn blossom standing out against the rolling fields of northern France, abundant greenery along the shores of lake Maggiore on the way to Milan, and finally waist high wild flowers on the slopes in front of my house when I awoke the next day. Coupled with the wonderful experience of so many people pulling together, the perfect end to the adventure was the heart warming kindness of friends.

I’m back in the UK, though in fact I should have returned to Italy yesterday along with so many others others, but more of that later. Our departure from Pisa was very Italian. The flight was on time and we trooped down to the tarmac ready for boarding but were halted by a barrier. Some time  later one of the cabin crew came to explain that there was only one re-fuelling bowser on duty that day so we would have to wait until our plane was ready. Well, at least it was sunny. 

Forty minutes later she returned to tell us that the baggage staff had found one more bag than was accounted for on the passenger roster, they were all being unloaded again and we would need to lay claim to them individually. So we all went forward one at a time and pointed to our cases, and thankfully by them it was boarding time, though not the end of the matter. An Italian official with a lot of gold braid on his shoulders came to examine the unclaimed bag. Unconvinced that it did not belong to anyone on our flight he opened it and sent a stewardess the length of the plane waving a hairdryer in case someone recognised it. No. Then he gave her a ladies boot, and tight lipped by then she repeated the trip, but still no takers. After a long consultation with the captain, who was remarkably restrained, he left the plane with the bag, smiling and waving, and we were allowed to fly.

I came to help my husband John move house and surprised myself yet again by forgetting what an all consuming and exhausting business it is. We thought we had cleared out most of the junk last time, but how it creeps back, a salutary lesson in needless acquisition. I had imagined myself breaking for an afternoon to write a post, but not a chance, we were only just ready when the new owners arrived. All is now accomplished and the only frustration is no phone in the new house as British Telecom are level pegging with Telecom Italia when it comes to efficiency. Then, just as I was packing to return home the Icelandic volcano took over.

At first it seemed as though the disruption would be short lived, so when my flight was cancelled I booked another for tomorrow. But the reality is now emerging and it is pretty clear that flights are unlikely for some time. So I spent yesterday on a friend’s computer and now have a seat on a Eurostar train to Paris tomorrow, though I could find nothing beyond that. But as thousands of us will be trying to move across Europe I thought I had better take what I could get and at least make it part of the way.

So today has been an unexpected day of leisure. John has moved to Keswick, surrounded by the hills he loves but now in the town close to all he needs and many people he knows, which is just what he wanted. We decided to take a look at Borrowdale together this morning, arguably the most beautiful valley in the English Lake District and where we lived for seventeen years.

Spring is late here, it is pretty chilly, trees are still only just in bud and daffodils are a late splash of colour. Driving along the edge of Derwentwater we spotted our ducks. We used to keep white aylesburys that swam on the little river running through our garden. Whenever the water was high and fast one or two who ventured out on it would be swept down to the lake  and make a new home there, standing out amongst the dark feathered wild birds.

Each bend in the narrow road that winds between high crags brought memories. The prettiest stretch of the river with shallow pools where I used to look out for a heron fishing for his breakfast on my way to work.  The dreaded corner where a doe leapt over the wall onto the road just as I rounded the bend and died under my wheels. The point where two rivers meet and flood the low lying fields around them in winter rains and where I drowned my car trying to get home. John coming out in the Landrover to rescue me in water so high it was over the headlights.

We visited the wood where our two cats are buried who both had long and happy lives hunting there. Old neighbours spotted us and it was good to see them and exchange news. The last shop in the village has closed now, to be turned into another holiday cottage, so all the essentials are seven miles away. It was so familiar that if I stood still for a moment I could imagine I had never left and it struck me with a wry smile that if visiting Tuscans had been there they may well have asked me why I did. There are so many similarities between here and where I have chosen to be.

Right now I would find it hard to explain even to myself with any clarity, I am immersed in the past and realise that  though I left here two years ago it is only today, in this unexpected and unplanned pause, that I am saying my final, silent goodbyes. Moving on is something that has happened in stages and at different levels and this mixed bag of emotions is a recognition of letting go of the past, at last.

Tomorrow this really will be over, I will be on the move heading for the unknown. Who knows when I will make it out of  Paris, quite a pleasing prospect so I am excited, there are adventures ahead. But I when I finally make it back to the Tuscan hills I will be very, very happy to begin again.

I have been reclining like a Roman at a banquet for a while now. I am having treatment to re-align the tail of my spine and am confident that before long it will settle down, but presently it is tender. Walking is fine, but sitting is not, so time in front of my computer is shortlived and my plans to create more pages are on hold. I will have a go at this in bursts, then retreat to the sofa and languish on a hot water bottle which is lovely. I left it for a moment earlier and came back to find Snowy lying on her back along the length of it, paws in the air, eyes closed, bliss.

Spring is positively rushing forward now, it is so much warmer, showery and growy and the grass seems taller every day. Wild flowers are everywhere, purple patches of violets stand out from the crowd, there is a clamour of birdsong and butterflies dance across the garden. In the evening deer are grazing on new grass on the lower terraces, ready to spring back into the trees at sight or sound of me. The warty looking old toad is back under the wooden cover of the meter on the gas tank, hopping into the grass when I disturb him.

Outside my bedroom window and so close I can almost touch it the bare branches of the apricot tree are now covered in the palest pink blossom. It is the first thing I see when I look out in the morning, and the last when I take a few deep breaths at the open window before bed. It is lovely to see that in the mornings there are bees busy around the flowers.

It is clear that in Europe numbers are falling and probable causes are still being considered. Italy has made headway here, after decreasing numbers over a decade appeared to have a link to the use of corn seed soaked in pesticide. It was banned temporarily, and a year on the reports are that bees have made a terrific come back, so hopefully that will mean a permanent ban and a lead for other countries with declining bee populations. Here in northern Tuscany, away from large scale agriculture, they appear to be thriving.

Ecological awareness in Italy exceeds the European average, possibly due in part to it’s wonderful heritage. Green issues are high on the list of popular social concerns, only overtaken currently by unemployment and the effects of the recession. An independent organisation, Legambiente, has regional branches and over a thousand local groups, including one in Barga, and has paved the way for environmental voluntary work. It is also a powerful and challenging voice creating awareness.

The world heard about Naples and the waste crisis and though Berlusconi swept into power and appeared to have tackled it the problem continues. A significant element is due to major trafficking of industrial waste from the densely populated North down to the South, controlled by the mafia, where it is disposed of dangerously. Legambiente’s recent report illustrates that it is ten times cheaper to dispose of waste illegally and private investment in legal waste management is severely hampered by government ‘s complex administration systems, so the only light on the horizon currently is  a slap on the wrist from the EU and a demand to clean up or else it’s legal action. It is a painful reflection on the gap between North and South that one should be used as a rubbish dump by the the other.

Here in the hills of Tuscany we are sheltered from the reality that Italy is now primarily industrial and somewhere between the fourth and the seventh largest market economy, depending on which current report you read. Tourism is significant but manufacturing is king. So it is in the industrial North that there is the most progress. I have seen reports that say between 50 and 75% of waste is re-cycled, as opposed to about 10% in the South. As well as the usual waste bins I noticed brown ones in town recently too, for food waste only, so that it can be converted into fertiliser, which I think is fantastic and I hope it is rolled out everywhere.

Italy currently imports 80% of its energy and the government announced in 2008 that it planned to re-commence the nuclear power programme that had been shelved. Building is due to start in 2013, though it is opposed by several regions and there is now a wrangle to identify whether they have a legal right to a say in where reactors may be built.

The EU driven requirement to meet clean energy targets has created an environment where innovation is encouraged. This month the government have approved the building of the largest solar power plant in Europe in Rovigo, between Venice and Bologna. It will be complete in six months (possibly…) and create enough power to supply 17,000 homes. Until recently Italy had the most generous subsidies in Europe for the use of solar photovoltaic panels, but due to the recession and belt tightening they are now being cut by 20%, then more ongoing.

Wind power has been used in Tuscany since the sixteenth century when Renaissance engineers, and Leonardo da Vinci no doubt, designed mills to grind grain and gunpowder. It became a commercial operation much earlier than most other nations and today it produces 1% of the country’s energy needs. Apparently the current total world supply would nicely fill Italy’s entire energy requirements per year, which would be neat, but happily the trend is that capacity doubles every three years.

I am aiming to use geothermal energy. The way it works is that I produce my own, sell it to Enel, the national power company, then what I use will be deducted from my credit with them. Hopefully the one balances out the other. Tuscany is a geologically active area with hot granite rocks lying unusually close to the surface so it is well disposed to make intelligent use of the earth’s heat. In fact the first commercial plant in the world was set up here in 1904 and today it provides for a quarter of Tuscany’s needs.

How, and why, did I come by all this stuff? Because I am interested, I noodle about wanting to know what is available, what we are doing, because it matters. I want whatever I do in creating my own home and living my life to be as easy on the earth as it can be. I am looking out tonight at the apricot blossom in moonlight. Each little flower is a soft, pale shape on its slender branch, held in silver light against a deep blue sky scattered with stars. Nothing could be more beautiful. Nothing could be more important than keeping it that way.

A medieval market was held in Siena last saturday, so time for another visit. It is about two and a half hours south and I decided to take the train so had a cursory look at the map to check where the station was in relation to the centre. Not far, it seemed. But when I began the walk up a very long hill outside the walls in a biting wind it felt like a long way, so I got onto a bus.

To my consternation after one more stop it turned, went back down the hill and out into the countryside, winding through the modern suburbs of smart apartment blocks until we were amongst fields. Eventually at journey’s end the driver raised an eyebrow at me, the only remaining passenger, and I had to admit that I was a stupida stranieri who actually wanted the centro storico. He shrugged and we set off back to town. I got off one stop and a long time later from where and when I had begun and noticed that it was called Via degli Humiliati.

This is a city about hills where there is rarely more than a few metres of level ground. Many Tuscan towns and villages are fortified hilltops but Siena wraps itself round three hillsides, joining what were once three communities. It has a strong sense of identity, it is grand in its proportions, streets are broader than elsewhere, and there is a sense of affluence and importance. Once having visited you would not mistake it for anywhere else.

Much of this is the result of early and enlightened planning. Siena overcame the power of the church and feudal families to establish a committee, a written constitution and town planning as early as 1218. Many miles of aqueducts brought water to fountains throughout the city. Power extended out into the countryside to secure local food supplies, raw materials, and in return allegiance to Siena. Monte dei Paschi, the world’s oldest bank, was founded here and the city became a major centre for money lending. At one point it had a population three times that of Rome and twice that of London. As Siena held hard against the territorial ambitions of Florence it also resisted the artistic renaissance that was flourishing there and largely maintained its original Gothic style of architecture. It is this certainty in itself over so many centuries that still gives it such presence today.

So the building of the famous Piazza del Campo, the heart of the city where the whole community have always come together, was planned and controlled by the committee who ensured that there was an overall sense of unity. It is almost like entering a huge open air theatre, nearly a semi circle. What would be the seating area fans out, sloping gently downwards to the stage, or the impressive Palazzo Pubblico and its tall tower, originally the seat of government.

Ancient herringbone brickwork lines the piazza surrounded by a broad, stone paved street that circles the space, the route of the Palio horse race famed for its rivalry between the seventeen neighbourhoods of the city who compete twice a year. Eleven narrow alleyways enter from the surrounding streets that encircle it. I arrived from the top end, the alley steeply dropping down to open into the Piazza, and full of Japanese tourists, each with their digital cameras held above the head of the person in front, eyes locked onto the view finder.

I can only ever imagine it arresting the senses each time you enter, however familiar it may become. The size and shape of it is a surprise in itself, there is no urban space like it anywhere else. The sweep of the surrouding rooftops, the ancient brickwork, the glorious Palazzo and the harmony of the entire unusual design make it a place you can just gaze for a long time. Many people sit on the brickwork slopes of the campo just taking it all in.

But on saturday the centre was full of little wooden stalls draped in hessian with canvas roofs, arranged like sections of a cheese narrowing down towards the Palazzo. Each section covered a different kind of merchandise and almost all was hand produced by artisans and craftsmen. Food was in the majority - prosciutto, salami, sausages and lardo, whole pecorino, Tuscany’s wonderful ewe’s milk cheeses, many kinds of honey, jams and pickles, olive oil, wine, chocolates and Siena’s own panforte, a sweet, dense block of pressed dried fruit and nuts. A mass of people surrounded the stalls, ambling from one to another sampling this and that.

There was antique furniture, linens, weaving, majolica ceramics, stone carving, wrought iron,  ancient books, leather, jewellery and perfumes. I weaved in and out of the whole for over an hour, loving it, touching beautifully made things, and watching people demonstrating. My favourites of the day were an old, embroidered ivory silk christening gown, so fine it was almost translucent, buttons hand carved from stone and old terracotta and a wonderful soft cheese wrapped in a bundle of sweet smelling, dried grass contained in a net.

There was a sudden roar of lions and I looked down to the front of the Palazzo where children had gathered in rows and were sitting cross legged. As circus music began ten people emerged from the building on stilts, led by the ring master in a sequined coat and cracking a long black whip. A puppeteer high on his stilts, fierce looking with shaggy black hair and a beard, pulled on the strings of his puppet who was running hither and thither below him. There was a lion, a trapeze artist, jugglers, a weight lifter, all striding along at an alarming height, delighting the children.

Eventually I walked back up into Via di Citta which runs round the Piazza and stopped for an ice cream at Brivido Gelateria. It transcended all gelato I have sampled to date. The displays are sumptuous, a heap of each kind is studded with whatever flavours it, slices of melon, lemon quarters, coconut shell, cherries, nuts… I had apricot and it was sublime.

Strolling back through the streets I was, as always, entranced by the detail of buildings, the workmanship and materials. Although much of Siena is ancient red brick there are wonderful stone buildings too and I marvelled at the subtle colouring of the grey stufa that faces the Palazzo Chigri Saracini. It has a pitted surface, rough and irregular and its colours flow through chalk, bleached bone, palest cream and grey wood ash. The combination, the texture and the way it has worn are simply beautiful. Whatever man makes nature is the greatest inspiration.

Low cloud and thin, grey light have filled most days for a while now, though it has been mild enough to dig over the garden and see what has survived the winter and what is lost. But today there is a fierce and belligerent North East wind, the chill factor is arctic and fine snow is whirling across the valley. I have been out only for essentials and was glad to get home again, my fingers numb and my cheeks stinging.

But I had a lovely day in Lucca earlier in the week, familiarity has not made the old walled city feel anything less than uplifting. The hand made nature of almost every building, the artistry and craftsmanship and the absence of uniformity from one structure to the next create such a lot to see when you just amble and really look. There are many ancient cities and towns in Tuscany with similar qualities but few with quite such diversity.

On my way into the city along Via San Paolino I pass the only renaissance church in Lucca, tall, with a simple white facade in three graceful tiers and two statues, each standing in an arched niche on either side of the entrance. They are Saint Paolino and Saint Donato, wearing the clothing of a bishop, mitres on their heads and a heavy cope covering a lighter shift that falls to their feet. No matter where I think my attention is they catch my eye.

One has an arm raised in front of him whilst his other hand reaches to gather up the folds of his cope, lifting them as if he may step down from his niche at any moment. The other is carrying a book in one hand and turning as if to declaim something of importance, his clothes rippling around him as if he moved just a second before. The life in those marble folds is extraordinary and a deep border of lace edges the cuffs and hems of their shifts which drift lightly round their ankles. Whoever carved them had an incredible gift for conveying movement in marble.

This week as I walked down Via Fillungo I noticed the elegant L shaped buildings of little Piazza Mercanti for the first time. Ancient brickwork is broken by white marble arches over the windows, each arc filled with an inlaid panel of stylised florals and nature motifs, gilded and richly coloured. Though clearly once an important building it now stands empty, the huge iron gates locked and rusting.

But what delighted me the most was another sculpture, only small, on the corner of the building, about five metres up. The prow of a ship juts out into the sea, little waves curling around it, and Mary is standing holding her son upright in her arms, both looking out as if to the journey ahead. She is no more than a metre high and at that height seems tiny, fragile and brave.

Tadeucci is almost always my choice for caffe, a pasticceria in Piazza San Michele where the carved and polished wood panelled interior is so lovely to look at and the little ricotta cakes are delicious. There is only room for three to stand at the marble counter that crosses the far end of the shop and then it is full, so I was glad there were just two of us there then I could take in the elegance of the young woman standing alongside me.

She was small with dark blonde hair in a thick bob curving beneath an elfin face. Her three quarter length coat was of fine black and white tweed, belted quite high above the waist so that its fullness swung round her. The sleeves were bell shaped to match, her tiny hands appearing even more delicate in their width and a large collar stood up round the back of her neck. It was the perfect frame for her, black tights and knee length black leather boots discreetly taking nothing away from the drama of the coat.

I was so absorbed that it was a moment before I noticed that we had been transported into an aviary. Suddenly the air was full of birdsong, parakeets, cockatoos and many more. I couldn’t make out where it was coming from and my first thought was that it might be some new form of entertainment for customers. Then the owner strode the length of the shop to retrieve his mobile from our counter and answered it, and I burst out laughing. When he had finished his call he came over to me grinning, pleased that I enjoyed it, playing the ring tone over again and listing all the birds.

The young lady was replaced by two middle aged men deep in conversation, one tall and quite commanding and the other smaller and excitable. They were both talking at once but the little man loudest and with the most determination. They faced each other at the counter, each with their cup in their right hand whilst their left joined in the conversation, so close to each other they were nearly touching. Italians have no British fear of invading personal space.

I tried to hazard a guess at what they did for a living. I had the tall man down as an architect, something about the shoes, having worked with quite a lot of architects I have noticed their plain, functional but design conscious footwear. The smaller man eluded me, a client perhaps, and I had to laugh when half an hour later I saw them unloading a rack of dresses from the back of a van and wheeling them into a rather smart shop. We are rarely what we seem.

The day had been grey and overcast. I crossed Piazza San Michele on my way back towards Via Paolino and turned, as I often do, for one last look at all the architecture that makes up the square. High above the buildings the sky had turned a brilliant orange as the setting sun emerged from the clouds for a moment and its light fell on the top of the church tower, lending the white marble a rich, golden glow. It lasted only seconds, but I will not forget it.

A year ago today I wrote my first post, rather nervously, thinking does anyone want to know any of this? I had thought about it but dismissed the idea altogether until a friend persuaded me to try. I deliberately didn’t look at many others, I thought that if I read too many it might be hard to find my own voice. So I just jumped in at the beginning of my life here and set off, with ten months experience under my belt to call upon.

I had never been a person with a plan in the past and I had no clear idea of what I wanted the blog to be or how it would develop, so it has just evolved as I have. The overall plan on coming here was to find my feet, take stock and then find myself a house, which seemed pretty straight forward. But life doesn’t always unfold as easily as dreams would have it and it is taking me longer to get to my goal than I had imagined.

With hindsight it would probably have been wiser not to put up the photos of the house I am hoping to buy until it was a done deal as it is turning into such a long drawn out saga. The house page is the most looked at on my site, not surprisingly, most people have a dream of their own or curiosity about how it might be if they did. I don’t doubt that quite a few have tired of my idling about, assumed I am all talk and no trousers and gone to pastures new.

The initial complications which caused me to pull out of the purchase last September may yet be resolved, I keep in touch with the agents regularly. As winter took hold I was also a mite relieved still to be here, in the comfortable house I am renting, because when I move it may well be to a caravan. The new house is not habitable yet, planning permission is likely to take about four months then the work six, which probably means a year at least. So one winter in a caravan will be enough for me.

Those of you who have been around a while may remember that my husband was about to sell our home in England last November when the dramatic floods hit Cumbria and the house he was buying was under water, so everything came to a halt. But now he has found somewhere else and a new buyer for ours so in about a month I will be going back to the UK for a couple of weeks to help him move. It seems wise to keep my own plans on hold until his have been accomplished, two purchases in hand at once in two different countries could get very complicated.

So for now I am sitting it out, still enjoying myself, and continually refining my future plan, because for the first time in my life I am a woman with a plan. It surprises me when I think of then and now how much I have changed. I might have been planless but I was always in a hurry and reaching for the next thing before I had finished the five I had in hand. I had no idea this was so, it just happened, it seemed to me. And although I have always been a perfectionist and fought to get every detail right I usually found something that I had rushed and would kick myself for not giving it more consideration. More time.

After almost two years of having time for anything at all I have learned its value and its pleasure. I have had time to observe myself, let go of things that drove me, and opened to ideas I never gave time to before. It is scary letting go of who you were and all that is familiar, but starting again in a new country and a different environment is a great time to give it a go. I had no idea this would occur, at sixty two you think you know who you are, but what a wake up call this has been. And I feel I am still only at the beginning of changes yet to come, and I am ready for them, which is exciting.

As for the blog, it has been a constant surprise. It felt like something of a responsibility for the first few weeks but it has become a friend and I enjoy the writing. I always felt I would write one day, but had no idea what, no plan. I find it quite surprising myself sometimes, I think I know what I will say but then it evolves into something else, and I just go with it. In the past I would have beaten my thoughts into the framework I had initially planned.

The greatest pleasure is the contact with so many other people and the kindness and good wishes that come to me. I am constantly amazed that there are readers at all and it is always such a buzz when there are comments. I have had lovely emails, made some good friends whom I may never meet but feel I know and received help and advice as well as being able to give some too.

I am planning to put up some more pages with information as I gather it, things like books and websites I have found useful, places I like to eat, etc, so if anyone has ideas about what they would find interesting or helpful please do let me know. When I move on to developing the house there will be a whole heap more to say on that too.

I really appreciate those who have been with me since the beginning, those who find me and stay and those who drop in once in a while. It feels good to be connected to other people and your participation makes it fulfilling, thank you all very much. I am looking forward to the next year of writing and all the changes ahead, the best is yet to be.

 My pc has suffered a collapse and is being repaired. As a result I have lost all my emails, including my address book, so I would be very pleased if those who know me or have written to me recently and not had a reply would send me their email address. I can see this is going to be a painstaking journey, but I have been very lucky, it appears that the rest can be fixed.

 So I am sitting in the only internet cafe in town, an experience in itself. It is long and narrow, the front half is an electrical shop and the back a corridor under ancient brick archways. On one side there is a row of six pcs on a long ledge with rather wobbly high stools and on the other a couple of alcoves with double seats. I am perched at the wrong height, the symbols on the keys are completely different to my pc, and some of the letters have worn off. The owner is trying to sell a TV in the shop, two girls in one of the alcoves are giggling over facebook, delivery drivers come and go banging parcels down and stopping to chat, so it is quite a challenge, but lively.

It has been unexpectedly mild this week and very wet.  Green shoots are appearing, daisies are pushing up through the grass, their white frill of petals tinged with pink, and I catch sight of tiny blue speedwell on the path behind the house that leads up to the car. A friend tells me the first swallows are back, which always lifts my spirits and I look forward to seeing them. The rain has curtailed long walks but I have not been completely housebound and have really enjoyed a couple of events this week

Winding through the narrow streets of Lucca it is always lovely to walk out into the light of  Piazza Napoleone, the largest open space in the city. The province of Lucca was taken by Napoleon in 1805 and given to his sister Elisa, who held it for nearly a decade. She had the space that is now the piazza enlarged and re-designed and the Palazzo Ducale on one side of the square was hers. Finding the facades of the buildings on the other three sides a little too severe, she had plane trees planted to obscure them and in summer it is a pleasure to sit on benches under their leafy shade.

In the Palazzo Ducale there is currently an exhibition combining two seemingly unlikely partners, Napoleon and Hermes silk scarves. Curious to see the connection I walked up the wide and beautiful marble stairway to large and elegant rooms, dimly lit.  Hermes produced a collection dedicated to the Napoleonic era in the 1940s, about 150 years after the legendary leader’s campaigns. These are stretched and lit like canvases and shown alongside Napoleonic memorabilia that inspired them.

The official military uniform of Elisa’s Italian husband, exquisitely embroidered with a mass of gold stitching, stands beside his elegant boxed set of duelling pistols and a collection of finely chased gold stirrups that are works of art. Porcelain figurines of Napoleon’s generals gaze out from a glass case. Silver helmets, plumed caps, ceremonial swords and incredibly elaborate epaulettes, all beautiful, nonetheless make me feel how uncomfortable the whole paraphernalia must have been to wear.

Alongside are the scarves, each design rich in colour and carefully worked to a square. Some are pictorial, showing key scenes of victory in Napoleon’s battles, or platoons of soldiers on parade. Some take motifs such as saddles and bridles and create a design with them. All faithfully illustrate the originals. My favourite had a beautiful gilded helmet with a red cockade in each corner and a circle of white horses ridden by cavalry on a deep blue background. It was an enriching experience, the handwork of both elements a joy to see in a machine made era, and the colours dazzling. It says a lot about the status of Lucca that the exhibition will travel on to Rome and Paris.

I was shopping in Montecatini Terme when I saw a poster for Divino Tango, by the Pasiones Dance Company, one performance only that night, so I bought a ticket on the spot. It was in the Teatro Verdi, a large static marquee rather like a circus big top, black lined inside and fitted with cinema style seating. I was only three rows back from the stage which was at about eye level. Seats filled up and as the starting time grew closer I could just hear the rhythmic tap of feet warming up in the wings.

As the music began, a classical tango, the lights went out and spotlights picked up the couple who spun onto the stage. He wore a dark grey suit, white shirt and tie, she a black dress embroidered with silver sequins sculpted to her slender frame and split to the hip over fishnet tights. As they whirled at speed and with such energy and grace another couple and another joined them until there were five, weaving in and out, formal, solemn, fast and furious - absolutely breathtaking.

As each sequence ended there were only moments of darkness before the music and costumes changed and the next began, in contrast to the one before. Each couple was superbly matched, none of the men were tall but athletic and powerful, the women as slender as willows, bodies arching and legs kicking unbelievably high, hooking round their partner’s waist, or even shoulder, effortlessly. The style of the music changed continually, and the form of the dance, but  however free it became it remained true to the tango, exciting, passionate and provocative.

Some scenes were about the dance and examples of its power and complexity, others were stories with a backdrop to illustrate the place. My favourite was urban chic, a party in an apartment amongst skyscrapers, the dancers casually dressed and cool in shades.  Draped as if bored, and then drawn into the dance initially in sullen indifference, they came alive to the rhythm of the music and the body of their partner. Finally there was a spectacular dance depicting a football match where at the end a real ball appeared, was kicked back and forth without anyone missing a step and finally headed perfectly into the net. There were seven encores and my hands were stinging from clapping.

I rarely allowed myself the time for these kind of experiences when I was working and am coming to see what I missed. There is so much more to life. But I am making up for it now.

Last week it was the Fiera del Cioccolato Artiginale in Florence, for me a winning combination. I waited until Sunday as the weather looked the most promising and it was glorious, one of those clear blue sky days with ice cold fresh air and such clarity it felt as if you could see forever. I headed for Piazza Santa Croce where there was a large, white canvas pavilion in the centre, and around forty or maybe more artisan chocolate makers with their best and finest laid out before them. Heaven.

What a spectacle, I have never encountered so many variations on the theme of chocolate before in one relatively small space. I had used some foresight and downed a plate of pasta first to dull my appetite or I could have just eaten my way round. I told myself that I would look at everything first, before I bought… and of course had a bag of liquorice flavoured chocolate  in my hand by the fifth stand and had finished it by the end of the aisle.

Where I began there were huge slabs of chocolate, obviously worked into shape by hand with a spatula the way Juliette Binoche so ably handled it in the film Chocolat. Some were plain, some crammed with hazelnuts or almonds, orange peel, dried blueberries, cranberries and ginger. Alongside were candied fruits half dipped in chocolate, piles of apricots, lemon and orange slices, figs, pineapple, kiwi and cedar. My second bag was crystallised pears in quarters, how much, the man asked me, oh a hundred grammes I said. He solemnly held up the weighed bag with three in it, we both laughed, nothing like enough, and he doubled it. I was glad, they were gorgeous.

After that first array of rustic shapes came the elegance of Belgian truffles, so perfectly formed and contemporary in design, criss crossed with fine lines of white chocolate or piped with a flourish. Similarly modern in his approach, Luca Morganti, a Florentine chocolatier, had beautiful, sensuous designs on the wrapping of his bars.  Cleverly marketed to give us all a good reason to eat chocolate, there was lavender flavoured for anti stress, cardamon to aid digestion, and something I have been unable to translate called pepe di cubeb, a pepper of sorts, that is anti wrinkle!

A Spanish company took a historic perspective, chocolate is at least as old as the Mayan culture of  the sixth century BC, and the Aztecs considered it to be the personification of the god of wisdom. Spain first brought it to Europe in the sixteenth century, adding sugar, and it began a journey to the universal product it is today. The Spaniard, who wore a moustache, a peasant shirt, black waistcoat, heavy britches and a flat cap at a rakish angle was from a long line of chocolate makers, a traditionalist and very proud of his heritage.  Seeing I was interested he gave me a handful of cacao seeds, they look like almonds, and of course sold me a slab of pure dark chocolate. Pacing myself somewhat I have it still in hand for next week.

Chic and Shock from Volterra won my vote for stylish display. They used horizontal rectangular mirrors with ornate frames and laid chocolates across them in diagonal lines by flavour. There were wonderful shapes, roses opening, bunches of grapes, leaves, a little log with a caterpillar on top, and zingy colours used in decoration. Signor Poretti from Torino wore a chocolate coloured top hat and had chocolate mice, gnomes and ladybirds for good luck.

The array of shapes seemed limitless, coffee pots, spoons, cut throat razors and shaving brushes,  mobile phones, lighters, pliers, spanners and padlocks, a jigsaw and a map of Italy. For Valentine’s day of course plenty of hearts, some beautifully decorated. L’Officina del Cioccolato had lovely boxed sets on a theme, as a wedding gift a little cake, cupid, the couple and rings, or a sewing box of scissors, spool, buttons and a thimble. Each piece was delicately coloured and a little work of art.

By now we were well into the afternoon and it was very busy. Although I am happy with solitude and need it I also love the hurly burly of humanity once in a while and was enjoying my part in the shoulder to shoulder scrum of the crowds, craning to see each stand and reach for free samples. To add to the clamour of chatter and the rich, sensuous smell of hot chocolate, there was also an insistent beat of drum heavy music from the speakers, with one lyric only, over and over “love, sex, American express…” Overall a heady mix.

My favourite taste of the day was sage flavoured dark chocolate, closely followed by green tea. In the worst taste category were false teeth in white chocolate, set in dark chocolate gums, and pairs of chocolate trainers, not a winning combination. After two hours, to my surprise, I hadn’t realised I had been enraptured so long, my appetite for more was sated and I came out into the sunshine of the piazza and the swelling crowds.

On the steps of Santa Croce an entertainment was in progress, medieval knights in chain mail, their silver helmets glinting in the sun, were in hand to hand combat, heavy swords clashing  on shields in the carefully choreographed display. Incongruously a nun was juggling alongside. As one of the men fell to the sword of another a cheer went up from the crowd.

I set off back to the station, taking a walk alongside the river, swollen with winter rain and snow and the colour of caramel. A sandy haired, trim American was slowly pacing back and forth on a street corner, talking on his mobile and smiling, wearing a glorious cornflower blue jacket, white shirt and blue check kilt. He had the legs for it and looked fantastic.

Along the colonnades of the Uffizi there were street artists creating living statuary. One was a bearded figure in long, draping robes, so carefully off white coloured and “aged” and standing uncannily still, he really did appear to be carved from marble. A young man with a little boy put a few coins in the hat in front of the statue which suddenly swept down onto one knee and raising one finger, beckoned to the child. He walked forward bravely and stood where he was told, his face solemn, dark eyes like saucers, whilst Dad took a photo of them both, before the boy rushed back to the safety of his mothers legs.

What a fabulous day. I came home with a bag full of goodies, including chocolate scented candles and soap! Life is full of surprises.

This is something I am asked quite often, in various contexts – why Italy, Tuscany, the hills, off a winding mountain road along a track on a wooded hillside, on your own, at sixty two you crazy woman. Only one person actually said the latter, but I have seen it in faces sometimes. I think it is a combination of things. I have been lucky enough to travel quite a lot and Italy is the place where I have felt most naturally comfortable with myself and everyone else. Other countries have ranged from pretty good to decidedly ill at ease. But here just feels right.

My first grown up taste of Tuscany was thirty years ago when I lost my job overnight and as I already had a holiday paid for, a week later found myself lying by a pool  surrounded by oak forests in the hills above Siena, thinking, how did that happen? As the days passed I unwound and recovered, loving every minute of it, until I crashed my hired car, was taken to hospital, then eventually taxied to Pisa airport. But it remained in my mind as a place I definitely wanted to see again.

Some years later, with my father and brother I visited Carrara Marmotec,  the international stone trade fair in northern Tuscany, as I had returned to our family business which centred on quarrying. I have very happy memories of that week as my Dad was so excited by it all. One day we took time out and went to Lucca, wandering the streets, looking at the architecture, talking about stone, all perfectly happy. When I married I wanted John to see it too and even though once more we were only there a few hours the city enchanted me.

Four years ago a very perceptive friend of mine said – Italy is really the place for you isn’t it, where would you go? With no conscious reckoning at all I heard myself say, Lucca. Then I thought, she’s right, and I’m going. At that point I had no idea that I was going anywhere, never mind how I was going to make it happen, but I never lost sight of it. Neither did I give any other place consideration, it was going to be within an hour of Lucca. And here I am. It took me a long time to remember to follow my instincts, but it is never too late.

As for why I am in the hills, it’s home from home, I come from the hills of the Lake District in Cumbria and the landscape feels familiar, the air fresh and clean and every bend in the road is similar to those I have been driving most of my life. I grew up in countryside that was much like this at a time when kids had freedom. My father, a stone mason, was working long hours re-opening an abandoned quarry and getting the business off the ground. My mother ran a small guest house which provided money for Dad to buy machines. So they both worked all hours and that was just fine by me, whenever I was not at school I was playing out.

A river ran through the wood alongside our house and it became the centre of my world. It was shallow and rocky, with little islands covered in trees, and pools here and there deep enough for swimming. I learned the pathways across the water from stone to stone so well that it felt like I flying. On the river bank, when I was Davey Crockett, there was a natural hollow that made the perfect bear trap. I wove thin hazel poles together and laid them across, covering them with leaves and bracken. Had I ever caught a bear I’m pretty sure I would have let him go.

Higher up the river there was a little waterfall where salmon leaped in season and my brother would wait patiently with a string bag held out on a brush handle in the hope that a fish would drop in. I was too busy. Further downstream, where the current eased, there were tall bulrushes and it was there that I had to lead the native bearers through the jungle swamp, balancing tents on their heads, so that we could set up camp inland.

At seven I got a two wheel bike, there was very little traffic or I wouldn’t be here now. My favourite dare to myself was to push my bike about a mile up a narrow lane to the top of a pretty steep hill, get on and come down with no brakes. Halfway there was a T junction which was pretty difficult at the speed I had gathered by then and it took all my strength to force the handle bars to turn right. There was an overgrown stone wall straight ahead and I can remember the soft touch of moss brushing my cheek as I just scraped past and made it down the home straight. My mother would have been speechless, at first, but no one ever knew. This was my world.

When I saw the house that I am hoping to buy I could hardly take it in at first, much of the land around it was so like my childhood it all rushed back. The river, the endless woods, a meadow where I can keep a horse, and all the birds and wild flowers I remember. It is not about going back to that time, but rather about re-discovering that freedom when I believed  in myself absolutely, and I believed that anything was possible.

A few years ago I was dressing for work one morning and half listening to the radio until a lively, elderly voice, full of enthusiasm, commanded my full attention. It was an eighty four year old lady who ran a lavender farm in Norfolk, and she was talking about her plans for the farm over the year ahead. Drawing the conversation to a close her interviewer’s final question was – which were the happiest days of your life? Without a moment’s reflection the answer came - ”oh tomorrow, I have so many plans, it’s always tomorrow.” I’m with her.

I’ve had a few enquiries about what comes next now we are well into a new year, am I buying the house and following up on the dream, and when?  Can’t we get to the main event seems to be the underlying theme. After my post called The Small Stuff one friend even asked me why I’m gadding about looking at star studded cowboy boots in swanky seaside resorts when I came here for the simple life… A fair question, and the best answer I can give is because I can. But, it is all still there, the plan, I am just waiting for one or two things to fall into place and hopefully by spring it will become a reality.

So whilst dreaming away the winter there is a heap of books by my bed that I am dipping into – Biodynamic Gardening, Plants For A Future, How To Store Your Garden Produce, and even How To Grow Your Own Drugs, which is nothing like as exotic as it sounds, but has a good hangover cure. I get an excellent Italian magazine called Casa Naturale which covers all the latest in eco building and green living. Even though I can only grasp about a third of it I am stock piling relevant articles and am amazed at how much progress there is in eco living once you start getting into it.

Another really useful find in a Lucca bookshop has been a bi-lingual visual dictionary which is fantastic. It is relatively small so can fit in my bag and I take it everywhere. It is divided into sections, health, home, food, work, etc. Each sub heading has its own two pages so that when you open at gli utensili da cucina, for example, kitchen utensils, there is a little photograph of everything you can think of from a knife sharpener to a ladle. The same applies to the bank, the car, the hospital – a round up of most things we encounter in everyday life, really well laid out. I can now see right away what the overflow pipe on a boiler is called, which makes me laugh because it is hardly exciting stuff, but so useful.

The weather has been easy on us here compared with other parts of Italy which have plenty of snow. It is certainly cold, but there have been sunny days to entice me out, even if not very far. Today I began with a walk higher up in the hills, probably about 700 metres, and it was absolutely beautiful – the air was crystal clear, the wind icy cold on my cheeks, it felt so exhilarating, and I could see for miles down through the woods to the plain.

On a whim I went down into town because there is something I have been meaning to see for months and then forgetting until I am well on the way home. There is a church named after St Francis and I had been told about an icon that was well worth a visit. With nothing more pressing to do it seemed like a good idea, and it was. The church itself is quite large and ancient, but overall standard fare as the mass of churches here go. The icon is something special. It was painted by Bonaventura Berlinghieri in 1235, just nine years after the death of St. Francis and is reputed to be the oldest and most famous painting of him in the world.

Its charm is its simplicity. Not very large, it is a rectangle with a figure of the saint in his dark brown robe running from top to bottom. In the stylised form of byzantine icons he is longer than a natural human form and appears to be floating in air. His face is solemn, the expression distant. On a glowing gold background he is central to six little scenes from his life, three running down each side of him. They illustrate talking to the birds, healing the cripple, and similar well recorded events, simply drawn and painted primarily in vivid reds and blues which sing out from the gold. On either side of his head there is the face, shoulders and wings of an angel. So well balanced and composed, uncontrived and glowing with colour, it is a joy to contemplate and I was glad I had found him at last.

It was really cold and dank in the church and I felt hungry so I went to my favourite bar to warm up. It is light, spacious and airy with a lot of marble and polished wood, and is not just a bar but also a pizzeria, cioccolateria, and gelateria, so made for me. As I waited for my pizza I watched the guys coming in for their aperitivo, a glass of white wine or a martini, a handful of nuts, an olive or two, then off home for lunch. Three of them were engaged in loud conversation, not unusual, but the lady behind the bar took issue and roundly gave them a piece of her mind, I think for language unbecoming to her establishment. Two downed their drinks in one and left abruptly, but the third sat it out, changing the conversation to one that clearly entertained her, for in minutes they were best friends.

Then Victor arrived, or rather the man I have named after Victor Meldrew in the British TV series who has a long face, gloomy expression and character to match. He often drifts in at about half past one, his tall figure pacing slowly hither and thither until he can be served with his usual gelato in a cornet. It is always large, three flavours, chocolate, coconut and pistachio. Then he will stand at the bar licking away and reading the newspaper. I am not sure whether this constitutes lunch or afters, but he is surprisingly slim.

Although his face always appears ready to deliver tragic news and he rarely speaks much, he is particular about his appearance. Today he was wearing neat, sand coloured, suede shoes, creamy butter cord trousers and a chocolate suede jacket fitting perfectly at the shoulders and draped casually over an ivory sweater. The whole ensemble looked really good on him and for a moment I was tempted to tell him, until the complications that might arise as a result of my patchy Italian and forward manner had me stifling a giggle and banishing the thought. A pleasing day, a little of this and that, more than enough to keep me entertained, whilst I am waiting.

I’ve defected. I have abandoned Carlo who has been cutting my hair for eighteen months and sneaked down the road to his brother, Stefano. This may not seem like a big deal but to someone with a tendency to unswerving and sometimes blind loyalty it took some doing. Carlo and I had been aiming for change, I’ve had my hair very short for more years than I can remember so we’ve been growing it for the last six months, with only a regular tidy up trim to keep it from looking shaggy.

However, as it got longer around my face I began to like it less, and to realise that short actually suited me much better. A new version of short was what it needed, something a bit softer, rather more feathery. But Carlo had established that to his way of thinking short for me meant just that, very, all over. So – time to move on, with a pang of guilt about the pretty, agate, heart shaped pendant that had been my loyal customer Christmas present at our last appointment.

A friend recommended Stefano for an equally good cut with a rather more receptive approach, and she was right. The salon has nothing of the character and style that dazzles in Carlo’s and come to that neither has the man; Stefano is by comparison gentle, unassuming and accomodating. I waffled through my prepared speech, he strained to take it all in, then did just what was needed. So here I am, very happy with a revision rather than a complete change.

With hindsight it struck me as a good analogy for learning to adapt my original ideals, the longer I am here. I started out full of passion for all things Italian –  it’s why I came, so it must be what I want, I will love everything Italian, naturally. Food springs to mind first, and of course Italian food is fantastic and I really do love most of it, but I am beginning to allow myself a backward look sometimes to other things that I still love. A friend took me to Via Borgo Giannotti in Lucca recently where there are Indian and Sri Lankan shops selling all you need for curry, and in my enthusiasm for my first taste in a long time I made it so hot I nearly choked.

Some friends came to lunch this week and to my surprise I found that  I chose to cook an Irish mushroom and celeriac soup, a chestnut and vegetable pie made up as I went along, and lemon mousse – the only nod to Tuscany being the chestnuts. It was all good and well received. A year ago I would have been labouring to produce as authentic a caponata as I could, pasta perfectly al dente and not a second more, and I even used to worry about my caffe being of the right strength and acceptability.

I remember in one of my earlier posts saying that parsnips were the only thing I missed that were British and not available here, and at the time that was certainly so, I was still revelling in all there was to discover that was new. Now I find I mix and match, and I have even lingered over a website that exports the best known British foods all over the world with very reasonable carriage charges. They have sixteen varieties of Heinz baked beans, imagine, I didn’t even know there were as many as that when I lived there. I haven’t succumbed yet, but I would no longer feel a bit ashamed if I did.

For me it’s about levelling out, gently letting go of the determined rose coloured spectacles and acknowledging that one place is not “better” than the other, it is just different. I think it was an initial desire to justify being here, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on all the perceived improvements and delights, and they are still just as real. But now I am not so readily blanking out the past or unaware of the other faces of things Italian.

Montecatini Terme, with its broad, tree lined streets and faded grandeur, echoing its heyday as a genteel Spa resort, is a town not far from here that I enjoy visiting. I was buying a bracelet from a couple who had a stall in an antiques market in Viareggio and whilst his wife altered the catch for me I asked her husband where they were from. He told me with pride that they were both born in Montecatini and still lived there, but then with sadness that it was now known more for drugs and prostitution than anything else, which was a cause of considerable disquiet to most residents who felt utterly frustrated by the seeming inevitability of it all.

Whilst to most of us from the rest of Europe the mafia is at first thought the stuff of movies, it gradually became apparent to me once I was here that they are a reality of much greater magnitude than I had recognised. Four regions of Italy are run by different branches of the mafia, and that means jobs, wages and housing along with a great deal more are all under their control.

Just today I read an online article in the New York Times written by an Italian from Naples and succinctly clarifying the chilling reality surrounding the recent riots in Rosarno by African immigrants, http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/25/opinion/25saviano.htm?hp if you are interested. Even here in rural Tuscany I have heard tales of their involvement, for those with the right contacts – a phone call can help you out of a health and safety dilemma, at a price, or a business may be closed, or re-opened, to order.

It is probably no worse than the seamy side of life in most European countries, but along with what someone who wrote to me this week perfectly described as the byzantine bureaucracy that strangles Italy, and not even touching on Berlusconi, it is all part of the reality and complexity of life here. It is easy to think only of sunshine and olive trees, pasta and vino, art and culture, the stuff of most people’s holidays. However, living here, I am learning to take in the whole, as it unfolds, and integrate it into the picture.  But I think that as a broader awareness grows, it is where I keep my focus that counts, in every respect. So it is firmly on the things I love, and far and away, this is where my heart is, where I am happy and plan to stay.

Years ago, in another world where I used to work, there was a book  I often recommended to personnel who were having a hard time and finding it difficult to see anything positive in their current experience. It was called “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff” by Richard Carlson, and eventually became one of  a best selling series. I was reminded of it this week when I had one of those happy days that had nothing at all to do with big stuff. It was the third day in a row with no rain, so a really good start, and I set off out somewhere to be decided en route.

First stop was the petrol station on the way into town where they fill your tank for you, which feels special in these days of self service everything.  I reversed to the pump and my usual guy told me one of my brake lights had gone, and I understood him – have a gold star, Liz. Whilst he filled my tank I was adding a visit to the garage in town for a new bulb to my list, only to find that he wheeled over a trolley of bits and pieces, found the right bulb, and fitted it. Wonderful.

I had some shopping to do first so I found a space in the piazza, no problem, no one double parked for once. Someone even stopped their car as I stepped onto the zebra crossing,  unless there are traffic lights you can activate you are generally ignored. The lady I like in the little deli, who has spiked platinum hair and a big smile, was on her own and we had a chat, she speaks slowly and clearly for me, whilst she packed up my ricotta, pesto and olives. The girl in the Erboristeria where I am a regular looked up and said “Ciao, Bella”, which always delights me in its familiarity and I feel as though I have lived here for years.

I decided I would head for the sea, but not on the autostrada, via the old road through Lucca and up over the hills before dropping down on to the flat Versilian plain that runs from Viareggio up to Marina di Carrara. It was quiet and easy driving along the coast, now a completely built up area from one town to the next. It is almost impossible to see the sea as it is concealed by one bagno after another, all closed now for the winter. They offer their own strip of beach, loungers, umbrellas, showers, sometimes a cafe or bar and maybe a swimming pool. The well heeled pay for their space for the whole season then they can visit whenever they feel like it. There is always a public beach free for all in each town, but they aren’t easy to spot.

I headed for Forte dei Marmi, new to me, a small town that originated as a port for shipping marble from the quarries in the Apuan alps that rise behind the coast. It became one of the first beach resorts in Italy with a mild, protected climate and long, white sandy beaches. Throughout the nineteenth century the rich and famous built villas in the seclusion of the pinewoods and it is still the fashionable resort, with a topless beach that is listed in the world’s top ten. Strolling around the spotless streets and pretty squares lined with palm trees set back from the coast road I found wall to wall Versace, Prada, Armani, Dior, Dolce and Gabbana, et al, which palls after a few streets of winter grey, black and brown designed for skinny people.

It was very quiet, staff draped over desks, mobile phones to their ears. It wasn’t entirely international big names and there were two shops that delighted me in their quirkiness, only in a place like this could they survive. One sold nothing but cowboy boots, and once you entered it ran back into three more rooms beyond. There were stack heeled boots with pointed toes in unbelievable colours, yellow, purple, green, crimson, studded with silver metal stars, in leopard skin, to the ankle or to the knee, for men and for women. It was fantastic, and if I could have coped with such pointy toes I might have got carried away.

The other sold nothing but shorts for men and boys, not Bermudas, classic elastic or drawstring waist shorts in more designs and colourways than the eye could take in, for the beach. Each of the windows had just one pair for men and one for a small boy in the same design, father and son, how wonderfully Italian.

In this rarefied environment I sat down for lunch in a small and achingly elegant little restaurant. There were only a few tables occupied, but the service was impeccable and the food was really good, albeit expensive, but what else would you expect, and why not for once. And the cherry on the cake was a little flirting. An ageing and rather sad looking man on his own did his best to give me his killer smile, and I admired him for it. Never give up.

It reminded me with pleasure of a similar occasion. I have a friend whose house was being renovated for most of last year by a very good live wire of a builder called Marcello. Whenever I visited he would make much of my name, so to my Liz Taylor I christened him Marcello Mastroianni, the Italian heart throb of the same period, and we engaged in banter about doing a film sometime, if his people could get together with my people.

Just before Christmas I was having lunch nearby with a couple of friends and Marcello was doing the same. Before leaving he came across to our table, took my hand in one of his, kissed it tenderly, then placed his other palm on top. Holding my hand between both of his he looked me in the eyes and breathed “Merrry Chrreestmas, Leez”, very slowly, and I met his gaze, and held it for what seemed like a long time. What a drama, fabulous. The little inconsequential stuff of life is such a delight.

I was surprised to find that this was my fiftieth post. I have been writing for a little over ten months, and I am sure that when I set out I must have imagined it would be more like a hundred by now. But still, fifty seems respectable enough. It made me reflect on what other expectations I might have had that have been adjusted as time passes.

On New Year’s Eve I was expecting that the cats would be nervous and anxious about the fireworks, because they were the year before. In the event there were less than in 2008 because it was a rainy evening, but they were still the noisy variety. I was ready to be the comforter only to find that ears pricked up at first, heads turned to windows, but then there were yawns, a bit of a stretch and a curl for more sleep.  Nobody needed to be soothed, so we are all adjusting.

It is a real pleasure for me living with them and I am so glad they were here, ready and waiting. Their only expectations are to be fed, loved and allowed their own space, which may change on a whim from this cushion to that basket, but as long as that is respected and the occasional territorial argument allowed, they are so forgiving, of me at least, if not always of each other. When I go away for a while it is always a joyful return. I never imagined having a cat again, never mind four, but how glad I am that this is how it is. And don’t really mind any longer if I am perceived as the cat lady, it could be a lot worse.

Probably the most obvious expectation was that by now I would speak Italian pretty well. No less than six Christmas cards from friends in the UK said “I expect your Italian is fluent”… hmmm. It isn’t easy explaining to anyone who hasn’t changed their life in almost every respect that things don’t always come in the order you anticipate. Yes, it seems a reasonable assumption, after all what else have I got to do, I’m not working, and it was certainly an aspiration. But in truth I am still on the beginners slopes, and when I look back to what I wrote about last New Year the one prescient remark was “top of the list – improve my Italian. I suspect it will still be in pole position next year.” And so it is.

If I needed the language to earn my living I don’t doubt I would be a lot further down the road by now, and I have friends who have mastered it, or rather a reasonable degree of fluency, in a year, but few. What you cannot know until you begin the adventure on arriving is how much head space learning everything you need to know will take. Where is this, what is that, how do you do the other – every day for much longer than you can imagine is awash with stuff that needs learning. I remember in the first few weeks coming home one day and crying with frustration when yet again I turned on the hot tap instead of the cold because it has a C on it, for caldo, which means hot. It felt like there was absolutely nothing I knew and could rely on.

Now I can look back and see the stages. At first I tried, far too hard, and was infuriated by my head constantly presenting me with the French word I was looking for instead of the Italian, a kind of automatic pilot reaction, if it’s foreign this is the one we learned. Then I moved on to a kind of unconscious wilfull resistance, I have not come here to work, I have retired, take from my sight anything that smacks of work. Then came an attempt to begin again with a rather more open mind, I really want to do this, but often crushed by my seeming inadequacy in actually making myself understood. And so often people help, so you get by.

Now I recognise something of a milestone, and I can compare it with IT. In the early days of my world of work there were no computers and plenty of secretaries. When the pcs gradually arrived I was deeply grateful that the secretaries were a lot more proficient at learning what to do with them than I was, and avoided them. Then the secretaries were all phased out, and/or developed more fulfilling careers, and I was left in a room with a machine that frightened me, in spite of everyone telling me I would love it when I got used to it. I didn’t believe them.

Eventually, after many months of anguish and inadequacy a day came when something slipped into gear and I had a different feeling - I think I can do this. Nothing stupendous like using multiple kinds of software, just basic typing and getting by, with the occasional eye opening wonder when someone showed me amazing stuff.

Now I recognise that same feeling. I sit up in bed in the morning with my Italian CD, plug in and go, and at last I think – I can do this. Not quickly, with a lot of repetition and a great deal of patience from others, but a corner has been turned. I guess that is something of an achievement. And here I sit, typing away without even thinking about it, still something of a technophobe but happily writing on a machine. So one day I will be chatting happily in Italian and though sooner rather than later would be good, it doesn’t really matter when.

Perhaps that is the most important and wonderful thing I have learned in the last two years, since leaving work, planning to be here, and doing it. The whole point was to let go, allow change and create space in which to find out who I am without all the old familiar framework supporting and restricting me. I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, only that whatever it was I wanted it to be here.

I could never have imagined everything would take so long to fall into place, but it has, and is, and with hindsight not a moment sooner than I was ready for it. This year will be the one where I begin to create my own home, my dream of living in harmony with the earth, and my aspirations for a simple life. How long it takes to come together, and what changes to the plan there may be along the way are no longer considerations of any importance. The only constant that I want to maintain is that this is the most exciting time of my life.

Looking at the weather forecast for the week I picked the only day that said light rain as opposed to rain, or heavy rain, and took the train to Florence for a pick me up of sights and sounds. Light rain it was, gentle drizzle and soft, grey mist shrouding the top of the Duomo and the bridges along the Arno. I had no particular plan beyond wandering where my curiosity took me, something it is so much easier to do on your own.

First stop was Caffe le Rose in the Piazza del Unita Italiana which is only a hop and a skip from the station and where I primed myself with a caffe before the adventure began. It is quite smart, spotless, and usually busy, starting with Italian, Continental and American breakfasts and running through the day with good, simple food. The waiters wear stylish, short black jackets, white shirts and maroon bow ties, and work with speed, efficiency and a flourish that is a performance to be enjoyed as much as a service. Coming from the country it leaves you in no doubt that you are in the city now, and things are different here.

I strolled round the San Lorenzo market stalls which were quieter than usual, there were still tourists, just less, chiefly American and Scandinavian. Sombre stall holders sitting on chairs under their canopies huddled in layers of sweaters and coats, often too listless to drum up trade, or too busy poking pockets of water off their canvas roofs with a stick. The rain became a little heavier so just to get inside for a while I went into the Mercato Centrale for the first time - but it won’t be the last, it was wonderful.

It is a food market like others the world over, full of fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, cheeses, wines, and little specialist shops, busy and bustling with life. Huge heaps of Sicilian sundried tomatoes sat next to extravagant mounds of dried porcini, their pungent scent filling the air. There was an abundance of purple artichokes tinged with green, tall piles of red and yellow peppers, rich red pomegranates the size of grapefruit and sacks of every kind of bean and lentil.

I had been looking for dried pears for some weeks, to make a pear and ginger cake, and here I had a choice! And for choice the stall that intrigued me most had tall jars of sixteen exotic kinds of salt from all over the world, including Hawaiian black lava at 57 euros a kilo and Himalayan pink at 75. Wow. Someone must buy them. I walked out past the flower stall, breathing in the heady scent of pink and blue hyacinths, to find the rain had eased, and I headed for the other side of the river.

This took time as I have a limited sense of direction and a sort of map blindness that renders them only marginally useful, but I was in no hurry and quite enjoyed getting lost. Heading hopefully down a narrow street a little drama was unfolding that gave food for thought for some time. A young girl on the other side was walking at speed, hands thrust in pockets, her face belligerent, eyes down on the pavement ahead. A woman who could have been her mother was hurrying after her, almost running in short steps to accommodate high heels, her face anxious, shouting  in an American accent “OK, so I’ll triple it…” The girl strode on, ignoring her.

Eventually I crossed the Ponte Vecchio and stopped in the centre where the shops give way to a view of the river. On one side there is a bust of Benvenuto Cellini, celebrating his status as master goldsmith of the city, and around its elegant column there are railings, now covered in padlocks of all kinds, with names written on them, Luca and Cari, Manuel and Diana. It must be for luck, like coins in a fountain. A smart brass plate declares in Italian and English that it is forbidden to place padlocks on the railings and there is a fine of fifty euros for those caught offending. But it appears none have been taken off, or maybe they can’t keep up!

Strolling the streets round Santo Spirito I was enchanted by tall, narrow windows on either side of an ancient shop doorway. Each was lined in simple wooden planking from ceiling to floor. In one were all the hand tools required to carve wood - chisels, vices, planes – old, well worn, displayed at random in racks on the wall and placed between examples of all they could create. Delicately worked and ornate pieces illustrated ribbons unfurling, a garland of roses, a wreath of pine cones, and even the hind leg of a horse. Pinned to the walls beside some were the original pencil drawings. The other window displayed the finished work, gilded, and ready to create or restore the walls of classical interiors as they must have done for centuries.

Finally I worked my way back over the Ponte Amerigo Vespucci, more by luck than judgement, and headed for Paszkowskis in Piazza della Repubblica. Having eaten an indifferent pizza for lunch and been walking for five hours I was ready to sink gratefully into one of the comfortable chairs of this very smart Caffe. Tall ceilings, wood panelling, lots of space and a mezzanine level give it an air of a gentleman’s club. An elderly waiter brought my hot chocolate which was just gorgeous, like drinking a bar of the best chocolate, thick and warming, topped with whipped cream.

Looking up I watched two women arrive, take off elegant winter coats and settle themselves at a table opposite. They would be in their early forties, chatting happily and obviously enjoying an afternoon’s shopping together. One was attractively plump and jolly, dressed in red and grey with thick chestnut hair framing her lovely full face which never lost its smile. She opened one of her smart carrier bags and shook out a beautiful violet silk shirt which they both admired before she wrapped it back into the tissue.

The other was tall and slender, with long black boots, a close fitting, white, cowl necked dress and dark hair pushed up into a large, white corduroy cap. She had a perfectly sculpted face, fine arched brows over large dark eyes, high cheek bones and a slim nose over a delicate mouth. Her ivory skin showed barely a crease beyond laughter lines. Opening one of her packages she took out a bottle of perfume and sprayed it generously around both of them. It was a pleasure to watch them, beautifully sleek and urban, sharing gossip and laughing.

Content with my taste of the city I headed home, planning my wish list for 2010 in my head. When I wrote it down on New Year’s Eve it ran to four pages, so I’m going to be busy. Happy New Year.

It’s Boxing Day and I am in that slothful state of over indulgence, feeling very full but still nibbling away at treats too often. It has been a week of all weathers, beginning with glorious sun in a clear blue sky sparkling on deep, soft, powder dry snow. With a lot of effort I climbed the steep path behind the house and walked gingerly along the icy lane to the road. The snow plough had been up the hill, but we couldn’t have got along the lane by car.

As I arrived back Matteo and Angela came round the corner from the house next door, wearing waterproofs and snow boots, to check that all was well at my house. I slipped backwards into the snow coming down the path, laughing, it was so soft it was like sinking in pillows, and we snowballed each other for a while before going into the warmth of their kitchen for a caffe.

The snow was with us for three days and it was really cold, -6C, and stunningly beautiful. The trees and hillsides were perfectly clad in white, there had not been a breath of wind to disturb even a snowflake. This much snow has not been seen here for quite a few winters and even down in town, when eventually the following day Matteo dug out his four by four and took Angela and I to the supermarket, it was thick on the ground and everyone was muffled up to the eyes.

Yet within a couple of days, three at most, it was gone and the temperature rose to as much as 15C. The wind came, followed by heavy rain, and on Christmas Eve I drove through a storm north of Lucca for lunch with friends. I stopped first in town for those last couple of things I had forgotten, to find everyone else doing the same, heads down into the pouring rain, arms stretched by heavy bags, pulling sodden lists from pockets, brows furrowed.

I called in at the jeweller who had been so testy with me when I struggled to make myself understood in Italian. I had since decided that it was best to make a friend out of him then my repairs didn’t keep going to the back of his list because I was the difficult English woman. This was the third piece of work he was doing for me and it was to have been ready the day before. “Signora Taylor” he said as he caught sight of me “Buongiorno, mi dispiace… I’m sorry…” He looked pale and very tired, and I really hadn’t the heart to raise an eyebrow, I’ve been a shopkeeper and I know how you feel by Christmas Eve. We shook hands warmly and he promised that mine would be the first job he did after tomorrow. Oh have a longer rest than that, I said. He looked shocked, no, I will be here, he replied, this is my life.

On Christmas day I joined friends for lunch once more, three of us English, three Australian and two Italian, and we all contributed to our meal. My dish was polenta baked with gorgonzola and topped with shallots, chestnuts and mushrooms. And so the day passed much as it always has for me, with more eating and drinking than enough and thankfully plenty of goodwill.

Yet Christmas like this has only relatively recently been imported and older Italian traditions are still maintained. It is only in the last fifty years or so that celebrating Christmas day with a proliferation of gifts has come about, and there is no culture of sending christmas cards, I buy mine in England they are so hard to come by here.

The presepe, the nativity scene, is central to decorations in most households. Matteo has created a beautiful presepe in their fireplace, building a landscape with little hills, covering all with moss, studding the “sky” with tiny lights for stars and creating each part of the story with lovely little figurines. The shepherds look down from a hill, the Magi are arriving in the distance, and the angel guards the manger.

The originator of the nativity scene was Saint Francis of Assisi who visited Bethlehem early in the fifteenth century and saw the place where it was said that Jesus was born. On his return he described the manger and the crib to illustrate the Christmas story, and so the image has been maintained. And not only decoratively, in many Italian towns and villages on a night before Christmas the story is enacted and Mary and Joseph walk the streets looking for a room, followed by their audience, until they eventually arrive at the manger. Sadly this year many here were cancelled because of either too much snow or rain.

Those who observe religious traditions closely would fast on Christmas Eve until after mass, then eat in celebration but only fish, no meat. Some children still write letters for their parents that day, in as beautiful a hand as they can, promising to behave in the coming year. But many families have their feast on Christmas day, a long drawn out lunch of an alarming number of courses, followed by panettone, the traditional tall and rather dry sponge cake that fills the shelves of every food store throughout December.

Although children now all look forward to Babbo Natale, Father Christmas, arriving with their presents, a much older tradition is the Epiphany celebration on the twelfth day of Christmas,  when the Wise Men presented Jesus with their gifts. Entwined with this is the story of La Befana, an old and houseproud lady who was visited by the Magi on their way to Bethlehem and asked if she would accompany them. But she was busy sweeping and refused, only to reflect later on what she had missed, wandering restlessly forever from door to door looking for the Christ child.

But she is said to visit every child on January 6, the day of Epiphany, travelling on her broomstick and bringing gifts, or for the naughty only a piece of coal, and the night before a glass of wine and some biscuits are left out for her. Christmas comes twice for Italian children.

So stories are handed down and woven together, as they always have been, and Christmas is much the same mix of myth and religion as it is all over Europe, now heavily overlaid by commercial trends. New Year is next on the list and will be a volley of fireworks that will ring round the valley like gunfire for several hours. It is one night I would not leave the terrified cats so we will bundle together on the sofa and talk about the year we have had together and the one to come, and make plans, oh such plans.

This week has been really cold, around three degrees during the day, and yesterday I awoke to the stillness of snow. It looked beautiful, right across the valley, although once the sun arrived it soon melted away. So my main preoccupation from now until March is keeping warm. The house I am currently renting is lovely, three hundred years old and sensitively restored, but with quite large rooms and high ceilings. The gas central heating needs to be on at high to make a real difference to the drafts of chill air that find their way under doors, and if I have it on for long the tank empties at alarming speed needing a very costly re-fill.

So in the morning I have an hour of heating whilst I come downstairs and feed the cats, make a cup of tea and scuttle back to bed with it for half an hour of Italian on tape. Following that I do the same for breakfast, whizz it back up to bed and enjoy the comfort and warmth. Then it’s up and into as many layers as the day demands. If there is sunshine by then I open all the doors and windows to freshen up the house and do a bit of cleaning to keep warm.

My computer is upstairs where there is a lot more light and I have a bottled gas heater on wheels that sits behind me when I am online, and I can trundle it round to wherever I want to be. A bombola of gas lasts me about three weeks and I replace them at the little shop in the village. On Monday I went up to exchange the empty for a new one and Tommaso had run out so he jumped into his Ape and rattled away up the hill to the store. His daughter Serafina made me a caffe and as it was quiet in the shop we sat on the wall outside, looking down over the valley.

She is excited about going to stay in London with friends for Christmas, but for me the best bit of news is that there will be a party in January for the opening of the new bar, a long awaited event. It is a large, handsome four square building painted a deep red, across the road from the shop, built into the steep hillside so that the ground floor, level with the road, is two floors above the foundations. We have all been watching the progress of restoration since I arrived here and speculating as the new equipment went in how long it would be until we can meet for a caffe, a snack or a glass of wine, there is no other bar in the village. And a party is always good news.

Often I have a walk for an hour or two and have discovered many tracks that lead off the roads into the woods, crunching through the leaves underfoot, occasionally coming upon deer in the distance, and once a handsome stag. I still blush when I remember a walk through olive groves last autumn on a day when I was in very good humour, striding along half singing half talking to myself out loud, throwing in bits of Italian for practice. I was climbing up a mule track, certain I was the only soul on the hillside, when there was a slight rustle in the olive tree on my left. Looking more closely I saw a ladder and a pair of feet in stout boots… and walked on at speed until I was out of sight. I am now very conscious that you are rarely the only soul on the hillside. 

If it is pleasant I tidy the garden a little, maybe forage for sticks to light the fire, and bring in logs from the barn. But if it is a grey and daunting day then I will light the fire which is in the little kitchen and cook, making soups, sauces and brodo, vegetable stock, which improves the flavour of so many things. I love my food and I love to bake too, so space begins to run out as cakes and scones pile up. I have to give most of it away or I would be two dress sizes up by now.

In the evening I put the heating on and if I want a little TV for company then the electric fire goes on to warm the sitting room, there is only one radiator and no fireplace so it is decidedly cold. In about an hour and with a dozen candles it is cosy. But I have to keep tabs on what electrics I use or there is overload and everything goes off. Most houses have a maximum supply of 3K, some who choose to pay more have 6K, and whilst I am in favour of the green approach I have to say I am grateful that this house has six. Even so I can find myself suddenly in the dark and think what’s on – yes, the washing machine and the cooker and I’m trying to iron. So one has to wait.

Overall I like the winter much more than I ever did when I was working and it mainly seemed like an inconvenience, making it harder to get from A to B and slowing everything down. But  of course that’s what it is supposed to do, this is our time to rest, like the earth, and find renewal. I am glad to be so much more aware of the seasons and each daily change, and I look forward to the time when I am in my own house with my own land, seeing and feeling nature and the cycle of the year, and working with it.

The commercial approach to Christmas here is largely the same as in the UK, just in a lower key and beginning later which keeps it from palling. There are the same decorations and Christmas lights, but mostly fairly simple, white and often quite elegant. I had a day in Lucca this week and thought it looked beautiful. The narrow streets have little white cascades of icicles strung across them in lights and every shop has its own approach to the Christmas window.

 There are many little trees, simply decorated, my favourite is in Vispateresa, Via Buia, where bare branches have a velvet shoe, a glove, a necklace and an evening jacket hanging from them, and a scarlet coat lies in a heap beneath, all lightly dusted with snow. It was noticeable that the only full on, in your face displays were the chain stores where one universal window will have been designed and dispatched for installation across Europe. May they never prevail.

 One of the joys of Lucca is winding through the tall, narrow streets and then suddenly coming upon a light, open space such as Piazza Anfiteatro, a large oval that follows the same footprint as the original Roman amphitheatre now buried beneath it. Bottega di Mamma Ro is a shop I love to look in here, rustic crockery, kitchenware, furnishings and candles tempt me, and their Christmas window is, for me, the best.

 Someone has lovingly created long cones made of ivory paper, over a metre tall, and then applied a mass of strips of baking parchment that curl upwards, looking as soft and light as feathers, and lit from within by one bulb. They are suspended at different heights like three floating, white trees, shifting a little in the draft of air as the door opens. Inspired, so “green” in their execution and so pretty.

 In Piazza Michele there is the Christmas market every day now, and as always I stopped for caffe at Tadeucci, where the window is full of chocolate shapes, some looking as if they have been carved they are so delicately executed. Santas, a beautiful bell, a large sphere of dark chocolate with a relief of singing angels running round it, and even a chocolate nativity scene. But who could possibly eat Mary and the baby Jesus?

I went to Osteria Baralla for lunch, on the street that winds round the anfiteatro. Most of the year it is pretty busy, tourists and locals, but now it is quieter and the atmosphere a little listless. It is a typical lucchese menu, well cooked and substantial, and I had a farro based soup with lots of bread. But more than the food, I love the building and can look at the detail of it with pleasure each time I go.

It is a long, triangular room, with the entrance at the narrowest point, and a counter runs across the wall facing the door. At the far end there are two broad arches, a mirror fills one, adding to the sense of space, and a fireplace the other. The walls and ceiling are almost all in open brickwork, rising up to high, vaulted arches that have been cleverly woven together over the centuries when one room has been opened into another. I love the handmade bricks, narrowing to thin slivers as they create the beautiful curve of the ceiling, and supported just off centre by an uneven brick column that looks both ancient and temporary.

There were only four tables occupied so as anyone entered we all looked up. Five men arrived, shaking off their coats and scarves, some putting briefcases by their chairs, and settled at a table, two on either side and one at the head. On one side were two men in their twenties wearing close fitting black with a lot of zips, their neat, dark caps of hair well cut above large, black eyes. They could have been brothers. On the other there were two more pedestrian tuscans, solid, square jawed, wearing glasses and chunky, dull coloured jerseys. One was older, they could have been father and son.

But it was the young man at the head of the table who attracted attention. On entering he looked the least significant, a good head smaller than the others, scruffily dressed in a loud T shirt and worn jeans, his straggly blonde hair falling over his shoulders.  Wearing earrings and silver rings on each hand he was not at all a typical Italian in appearance. So it was a surprise when it evolved that he was to hold court over this seemingly ill assorted group.

Whatever they were discussing, and they were not close enough for me to pick it up, he became the centre. He spoke in a light and musical voice, with animation, and his small and elegant hands were never still, giving shape to his words. It was almost hypnotic and his companions listened attentively each time he spoke. It suddenly came to me who he resembled, a young Gerard Depardieu with a neat little moustache and tiny beard, and the same compelling dynamism. When they abruptly got up to go after just one course of what was obviously a working lunch I was sorry to loose sight of him.

As I walked back towards Via San Paolino and my way out of the walls an old man cycled slowly past me in a heavy, loden green coat and black trilby, carrying a few sprigs of holly in one hand, which spoke more of Christmas than every decoration there was. I can’t think of a place I would rather be. And it appears I am not the only one. In September Forbes Magazine, written for the rich and super rich in the US, ranked Lucca number two in their list of the most idyllic places to live in Europe. They recommend a place in town for the winter months and a villa in the hills for the spring and summer. I’ll settle for the hills.

Thursday was lovely, clear and bright if not constantly sunny, but far too good to waste indoors. So the Twingo and I headed for Lucca and then turned right up into the mountains of the Garfagnana, following the Serchio river. As the winding road gets steeper the peaks of the Appenines and the Apuan alps rise more dramatically on either side, now snow capped above the tree line. Castelnuovo, the capital town of the Garfagnana, rising dramatically above the deep gorge of the river, is a fortified hill town, solid and four square, occupying a position of strength on the route from south to north since the eighth century.

I really like this place, it has an air of independence and a style of its own. For hundreds of years possession passed back and forth between Lucca, Florence and Ferrera, along with robber barons who for periods controlled the hills. Now it has a quite affluent feel within the walls, the traffic free cobbled streets that wind up and down are wider than those in most similar towns and villages, and the shops are quite smart. Thursday is market day and has been since fourteen thirty, the usual hustle and bustle of stalls ranged round the town and cries of recognition as men greet each other with a shout and a wave.

I parked by one of the archways into the town alongside eight other cars, just where it says don’t park here on market day or you could be towed away. I must be getting more Italian in my ways, and I didn’t think they would go for nine of us. It was also very handy for my favourite food shop anywhere, so far at least, L’aia di Pietro, which sits just to the left of the gateway. Outside the shop was a table covered in a red cloth and a great many gift baskets of specialities beautifully packaged for Christmas. Around the door there were sacks of potatoes, chestnuts, hazels, walnuts and packs of polenta, chestnut flour and farro, the ancient grain of the area, plump and tasty, a little like barley.

Inside is a delight to all the senses. On the left an archway leads into an enoteca, all three walls lined with bottles of wine behind rustic cupboard doors that are covered with chicken wire. A row of tables and stools is ready for serious tasting. The rest of the shop is full from floor to ceiling everywhere you look and even the beams are laden with hanging hams and salami.

There are honeys and marmellate, preserves of peaches, figs, raspberries, cherries, bilberries, apples and pears. Every shape and colour of pasta, even some striped like ribbons, are piled up in packs along one wall. Cheeses are stacked in rows and chilled cabinets are filled with freshly cooked tarts, sausages and vegetables. Rustic loaves and delicate pastries are begging to be tasted. Every speciality of the region is here and in such prolific profusion. I can never leave without a bag, or two, full of goodies and a feeling of happy expectation at feasting to come.

After a look round the market I set off back down the valley but within fifteen minutes turned left for Barga, approaching on a road I have never taken before, giving me a new perspective on the town. Passing the old red British phone box which looks odd in an ancient Italian town to say the least, I walked up the incredibly steep and narrow little street that rises from the bridge. Barga is a Scottish stronghold, many families migrated there and retain strong connections with the place, hence the gift of the phone box from a Scottish Italian.

Walking through the heart of the town, not very big and very quiet now, there were few places open, but happily Scacciaguai on Via di Mezzo was still serving lunch. The streets are so tall and narrow that entering the buildings on either side is like stepping down into the dark, and though I have enjoyed this place in summer it is ideal for winter. The bar feels light with gently arched terracotta ceilings and very simple furniture. Down a further two steps the dining room is very cosy, wooden floors and rough plastered walls painted a deep, powerful yellow giving it warmth and intimacy.

As an antipasto cheese is often served with honey which I love, and following that I ate a beautiful light pasta and vegetable dish, watching a table of eight and trying to work it out. There was one married couple, sitting at either end of the table, then three young women down either side who were a little subdued. The only man nipped out smartly every now and then to catch the waiter out of earshot and exhort him to hurry with one thing, or bring more of another. The poor young man was rather frazzled, whizzing back and forth trying to placate.

I concluded that it must be a staff party of some sort, maybe an early Christmas lunch. But then to my surprise when I went to pay they were all there too, diving in their handbags and splitting the bill. I hope he wasn’t the boss, how tight was that. Maybe it was something else  altogether.

I took the back road out of Barga, heading up into the hills where there is the best view of the town from above and the sweeping, snow covered mountains beyond. Turning onto a smaller road and then what is no more than a mostly single track lane I drove up and over into the next valley, the one where “my” house is. Over the brow of the hill and dropping down the other side I caught sight of it below, the two lime trees in front now shorn of leaves, and my heart turned over. Coming closer I stopped and looked for a long time.

Well, if it doesn’t work out in the next few months then I have decided one thing – I definitely want to live up here close to or in the Garfagnana. The grandeur of the mountains that arc round the valleys is a glory to behold, the air is fresher up here, and yes, colder in winter, but a price worth paying to live amongst such exhilarating beauty.

It is mild, too mild for the end of November, and the days are greyish with bursts of sunshine. The earth smells damp and rich with rotting leaves and mist hangs over the hillside in the early morning. Olive picking time is here and I was looking forward to it, but sadly our olives haven’t flourished this year. The trees have a two year cycle, one of abundant fruit and one modest, but a cold, wet spring can destroy the early forming olives and inhibit insects from pollinating, so if this coincides with a modest year the yield is very low. 

Last year was super abundant and I picked with my neighbours, Matteo and Angela, hard work but very rewarding seeing sacks of olivi mounting up. It was a lot cooler too, and we had snow fall the day Matteo took the fruit to the mill. This year he began the picking with his parents who came up from the valley but they gave up after a day, they could tell there were insufficient to make it worthwhile booking a pressing at the frantoia.

It varies from one  hillside to another, friends are finding it a good year for them and today on a walk I passed quite a few pickers. Most prune at the same time as they pick and keep the trees in good shape. All the cuttings are gathered up and anything of any size goes home for the stufa, the wood burning stove, and the remaining twigs are burned. If they are left lying where they fall the grass gets tangled round them in spring and is hard to cut. So the hillsides are very active right now, from one man on his own with a handful of trees to whole families at weekends working away.

I visited my friend Sophia, her house is one of a little cluster further down the valley surrounded by flat land that is cultivated by her family and neighbours. I asked her about rape, (raahpay) a leafy vegetable I had eaten in a restaurant recently and she took me out to see it growing and picked me an armful. It is the tops of a kind of beet and I found it very tasty. There are still quite a few green vegetables in season now which is encouraging me  to find out more for my own orto when I buy a house.

There was smoke drifting from a metato, a chestnut drying barn, and I was very interested to see how it works. Every hillside home would have had one years ago as chestnuts were the prime food source for those who worked the land in the hills. A very small, two storey building, it has a ladder up to a window on the first floor through which all the chestnuts are emptied until they pile up to about a metre deep, which may take some time in the picking.

A fire is lit in the ground floor room, slow burning and steady, and kept alight continuously for about three weeks. The heat rises through the wooden ceiling and drying takes place slowly and naturally. As more chestnuts are added to the pile they are turned over with a shovel several times a day for even drying. Then they are skinned in a machine that shakes them furiously until the shells and inner lining are released. Sophia’s two sons who are in their teens do this every year and take the chestnuts to a mill to be ground into flour which they sell. It struck me as a whole lot healthier and more self satisfying a thing for kids to be doing than playing video games.

It reminded me of the metato at the house I almost bought and the same longing returned. It is still central in my heart and I live in hope that the problem that arose will be resolved. I have looked at one or two others since and will continue to do so just in case it does not come my way, but nothing else has lit me up as radiantly, which is why I can’t bring myself to take the pictures off the blog, I continue to think of it as mine in waiting. The estate agents have become friends and keep me in the picture.  In one respect I am more comfortable here, if I had purchased last September I would have been in a caravan now and through the winter, waiting for planning permission to renovate. But this is Italy, maybe I’m just ahead of myself and it will be next winter…

Someone asked me this week if my days are full, which was a bit of a  wake-up call. Time is so elastic isn’t it, I can amble through a day doing really very little at all when I weigh it up, and if I think back to my working life it seems like Superwoman by comparison – how did I stretch it to fit all that in? But as my hero Leonardo da Vinci said “Time stays long enough for anyone who will use it.” So – it’s time for a plan, and to start looking forward and preparing for life in my own home.

I looked back to the post I wrote called Found it! to check if I still felt the same, as one aspect of being Italian that I have taken to heart is changing my mind at will. But it is all still there inside me, a calling to be green in as many ways as I can, renovate the house in an eco friendly way, be as self sufficient as possible and spend most of my days on the land. And as yet I still know very little about how to do that. So there are books to read, websites to find, sources to seek and the never ending Italian to improve so that I can read stuff I need to know. In other words a bit less ambling and a bit more structure to the day, Superwoman.

Those who have seen the UK news will have heard all about Cockermouth and the unprecedented floods in the last few days. I have been watching on TV all that is familiar to me, the bank, the baker’s, the book shop, even people I recognise struggling to come to terms with the devastation around them. Thankfully John is fine, our house is a couple of miles out of town and higher up, but the house he was about to buy is near the river, so you can guess the rest. We know the family are safe, in temporary accommodation, but we feel so sad for them, like many others they have such a lot of hard work ahead.

 So in a somewhat sombre mood I’ll attempt an answer to those who still say to me “it can’t all be as good as it sounds on your blog – what is it really like?” Haven’t we created a strange warts and all culture that has to ferret out the worst of things. When I decided to write it was a conscious choice to be cheerful, who wants to hear about my uphill days, they have their own. And in truth I don’t feel that I have anything to whinge about, I’m where I most want to be.

 But for some, life here could drive you crazy. Most complaints are about waiting, which is symptomatic of life in Italy and there is no escaping it, unless perhaps you are super privileged and have friends in high places. Like all interesting people Italians are contradictory by nature. Individually they are  expressive and will go to great lengths to explain something, often repeating for emphasis. It might not quite answer what you asked, but you will usually get a lengthy response.

 Collectively it isn’t quite the same. Bureaucracy is a minefield of individual interpretations of complex laws and departments do not readily communicate. What one official may say on any given subject could be contrary to another and it is the luck of the draw who you come up against and what sort of obstacles they put in your path. I was advised to apply for a health card, something like a credit card that you should produce if you need a prescription at the farmacia. The first port of call said yes, you need one, go to this office and gave me an address. The man there said no, this is quite unnecessary, forget it. OK. But overall I have been lucky and have had few problems, though I have heard many alternative stories.

For those of us in the EEC it is pretty straight forward to establish residency here, but I have Australian friends who have been here a great deal longer than me who are still waiting. Others were more than in good time for the necessary re-application after five years and had booked a trip to London, only to find that their passports were still held at the office in town on the day of departure and could not be released. No trip, no flight refunds, too late.

Another friend had his wallet stolen, in fairness not here but in London, and spent from January until November going to one appointment after the next attempting to get a replacement identity card. It was such an occasion once it was achieved there was a celebratory lunch.

When I arrived here eighteen months ago a new roundabout was under construction outside the Esselunga supermarket, quite a major junction in town, diverting traffic down side streets which for a new comer was hair raising driving. Eventually a beautiful ancient olive tree was placed in the centre, causing a bit of a rumpus as, for some inexplicable reason, allegedly it was imported from Spain! Work was finally completed a couple of weeks ago.

I ordered something from the US last May and after a month a customs form arrived in the mail requiring me to complete the details before it could be released from Pisa airport. Eventually a carrier tried to deliver, failed to find my house and the packet was sent back to America. The second time it came into Genoa airport, failed again, and the third, Milan, by which time the system had been improved and the third customs form came by email. Finally, though not the fault of the Italian system, there are chancers everywhere, it arrived at my door three months late in the hands of a driver who by means of gestures alone suggested that if I was feeling amorous he was my man. Hmm.. adding insult to injury. He got my drift and legged it.

Waiting is one of life’s Italian surprises, paying is another. I have a large gas tank buried in the garden of my rented house which fuels the hot water, cooker and central heating in winter. Last december I emptied that tank in four weeks, with heating on across eight radiators for only eight hours a day, at a cost of eight hundred euros. This is why up here amongst tree covered hills most people have wood burning stoves. That was quite a shock, only equalled by my car insurance which for the tiniest car on the road was fourteen hundred euros for my first year, dropping a couple of hundred for the second. And it’s not even third party cover. No one could say it is cheap to live here.

But hey, you pay your money and you take your choice.  I started this post last saturday, then my phone line went down and consequently broadband with it. By tuesday it was up and running again which is pretty good compared with British Telecom. Yes, there are a lot of things it is wise to check out if you plan to live here and are less than rich, and you really do need to let go of your own sense of how things ought to happen or you just end up fulminating angrily to anyone who will listen until they start avoiding you.  I heard a raised voice in a bar recently barking angrily “it’s just not the way the British behave.” No, it certainly isn’t.

Two weeks and no post, but then for me this is the year of the unexpected. I have been back to the UK again and I thought I would write a post from there because it is often easier to see more clearly from a distance, but events overtook me. I had returned primarily because it was my mother’s ninety third birthday and a cause for celebration.

Although her Alzheimers is now quite advanced, Mum still has an appetite for life and likes nothing better than being taken out for lunch. She lives in a little flat where she has as much independence as she can cope with and plenty of care on hand. She forgets most of what happens within a few minutes and has a tenuous grasp of time and a childlike view of the world which is overall quite cheerful. So she is easy to be with once you have settled yourself to the fact that everything will be repeated, which really doesn’t matter.

She is very fond of my husband John, having completely forgotten now that she didn’t speak to either of us for five years after we were married as she didn’t approve. It’s very relaxing to have all past family history airbrushed. But now she can’t remember his name so we call him He for ease. Isn’t He a nice man, you are lucky, He’s such a lovely man, etc. On one occasion it was followed by “…and he puts up with you.”  At the sight of my eyebrows arching she did grasp that might not be quite what I wanted to hear and mumbled “that just slipped out from somewhere…”

She kept asking all day how old she was and when I repeated ninety three, rolling her eyes as if this was a new and incredible idea. She looked at me and with the part words, part gestures that make up for the words she can’t bring to mind said “you think, … you are from me… you might…” Yes, Mum” I said “I have every intention of living as long as you”. After a pause she replied “well, after that, He can take me out.”

The unexpected turn of events was all about He and his decision to move house. A month ago John had decided that he no longer wanted to stay in our rather large home just because there was enough room for us all if we happened to descend at once, a rare event. So he had put the house on the market, but neither of us had the expectation that it would sell very fast in the current economic climate. To our surprise a family asked for a second viewing, and once I arrived John suggested we look at their house. We did, he decided and made them an offer there and then and the following day they agreed to sell theirs to him and buy ours.

Suddenly we were galvanised into action, measuring everything, deciding what to keep, getting everything up and running. It was quite exciting really. The house he has chosen is a pretty little Victorian terrace in nearby Cockermouth, close to the river but also everything else a town has to offer, and with four bedrooms so we can still all squeeze in if we come home together. I feel happy that he has decided to make a move for himself, it is a corner turned in accepting that I will stay here and he has his own life there, and it is what suits us both.

So the rest of the week flew by getting as much accomplished as possible before my return. There wasn’t time to do much reflecting on there versus here, but what did strike me was the proliferation of Christmas in the UK. When I left here on November 6 there was barely a sign of the coming event, just a token square metre of wrap and ribbon in one Lucca store. The only place it was evident in display was Ikea which of course will have a Europe wide roll out for seasonal events.

But the minute I set foot in the UK it bombarded me on all sides, advertisements, shop displays, TV, an implaccable avalanche of exhortations to buy things. And I remembered that as a shopkeeper I had been a significant part of all this, reliant on the boost of christmas sales to keep the wheels turning. Yet here in Italy it is a much more low key affair. Now I am back again I see that my supermarket Esselunga has an aisle of christmas stock on display this week but there is little other evidence as yet, though I expect there will be more in bigger towns and cities. Each week it will grow and before long Lucca will look festive and have christmas markets at weekends, but it never dominates in the same way that it does in the UK.

I left England in driving rain and gale force winds, making for a rather scary ascent into the air as we were buffeted from side to side. The Ryanair flight was full as usual, primarily with returning Italians and no sign of arriving tourists. We were exhorted by loudspeakers in the boarding queue to make sure that we carried only one piece of hand luggage onto the plane, weighing no more than ten kilos, which I noticed was blithely ignored by quite a few Italians who had carrier bags swinging at their side.

The air was still and mild on landing in Pisa, the journey from the plane to the passport desk a short walk. In the queue an Italian standing in front of me glanced round idly as we waited and took a good look at me. I smiled. It somehow being obvious that I was English, always a bit of a disappointment, he said “I am sure people have said to you already you look so like Jamie Lee Curtis, I am very impressed.” No, you are the first. I couldn’t bring her to mind, so I googled her when I got home. Crikey, that will do for me. It’s good to be back.

We have had such a beautiful week I have been loathe to stay inside and have been making the most of the sunshine. Each day I have walked through the woods and then around the village, exploring all the different little stone paved streets that snake through it, no more than a couple of metres across, often so steep they are almost vertical. It means that for many residents it is not possible to get a car anywhere near the door, it has to be parked outside the village walls and all shopping carried up to the house.

 A little rose bush in the garden remains in bloom, the grass needs cutting and swallows are still wheeling overhead. I have been eating lunch on the terrace with autumn leaves falling around me, face to the warmth, as once the sun has sunk behind the hills at around five o’clock chilly evening air is quick to take over. A robin arrived a few days ago, a reminder of winter to come, but sadly he won’t see it as Tiger dispensed with him quickly and as with many others I buried the body.

It was All Souls Day and a bright and sunny afternoon when I walked past the little cemetery on the way into the village and was amazed to find it absolutely full of people. Apparently this is when prayers are offered for loved ones who may not have been entirely cleansed of sin at their death, thus excluding them from entry into heaven. A little help from the family may assist. Catholic countries have slightly differing traditions and here  the family clean up the grave, decorate it with fresh flowers and plants and gather to remember the departed. There is a tradition that says the graves may be visited by the souls of the dead that night so all must be in order.

I walked in amongst the crowd and indeed every grave was looking at its best, granite headstones washed clean and polished, fresh white gravel scattered around them, and pots of cyclamen or arrangements of flowers in vases everywhere. Groups stood by their own family’s grave, chatting to each other, offering a prayer, kissing a crucifix. It wasn’t a sombre affair, but there was a respectful air about it, and friends and neighbours greeted each other and strolled round to look at the other graves.

The village priest was there and another two religious figures, all three in robes undertaking a ceremony of sorts. Two of them sang whilst the priest moved from grave to grave blessing each with holy water which he had to re-fill every now and then from a little room in the cemetary walls. He was clearly displeased, though I couldn’t tell why, and barked something at the other two, swishing the holy water around with rather angry gestures so that a few people had to get out a  handkerchief and mop a sleeve or a cheek, but they didn’t seem to mind. I was glad I had happened upon the occasion, apart from the priest it seemed full of goodwill.

I am someone who is by nature a late arrival rather than an early bird, but on the day I went to my cookery class I was first. I whizzed down the hill into town, sure I would only just make it by a whisker, to find that I was actually an hour ahead of everyone else as the clocks had gone back the night before, so it was only nine, not ten. But it didn’t matter, after a caffe I enjoyed a stroll around town where an antiques market was coming to life, bristling with old household and garden tools, pots and pans, glass and china and I had to drag myself away to get back for ten.

The setting for our class was most unusual, a two thousand square metre greenhouse containing over three hundred species of citrus fruit from all over the world, some of them extremely rare and ancient. It is the home of a family business called Oscar Tintori who supply ornamental citrus throughout Italy and Europe. The undercover garden is beautifully laid out and a delight to stroll around, the scent of lemons and oranges in the air and more shapes and sizes of fruit than you can imagine.

There were about a dozen of us there, Italian, German, American and me. Anneliese, who was teaching us, spoke all three languages so though it was primarily delivered in Italian she could  help us out if we lost the thread. We were stationed at tables for two in a large circle around her in the open space at the entrance to the greenhouse and each of us had our own little gas ring, set of utensils and ingredients set out for us.

Tintori staff were there to assist, Tatiana circling with whatever we needed, whisking away empty eggshells, and rushing to return with whatever Anneliese required. Lucia moved back and forth photographing each of us shredding and beating, and Alberto walked from table to table as we worked offering “bravissima, complimenti” to one and all as if we were creating miracles, not pasta.

Happily I was next to Tamara who, though she spoke no English, kept an eye on me and if I didn’t catch on fast enough would put the right things on my board and set me off. It was my first attempt at making pasta and I enjoyed the kneading, turning and rolling, which is just as well as I need a fair bit of practice. At lunchtime we each ate our own cooking and my pasta was a promising substitute for shoe leather. But the sauces we made were really good, spinach and tomato, radicchio and ricotta, and lemon with parmesan.

We finished by making a pomegranate jelly, very easy and very good. At lunch we tried it with cheese along with orange and lemon jelly and although very much on the sweet side I liked them all. I really enjoyed my morning and am glad to have had my first attempt at pasta, an incentive to keep practising. Like a child from school I arrived home with my beautiful Tintori certificate of attendance, my pot of jelly, and full of good intentions.

Vinci is a pretty little town half way between Pisa and Florence and around an hour and a half from my home in the hills to the north. It is Leonardo’s birthplace  and on a lovely sunny day I headed south and stopped en route at Slitti, the superb chocolate producer I talked about in the post entitled “In search of chocolate.” I tried a cup of hot chocolate, thick, creamy and rich - sublime, I’ve never tasted anything in a cup quite as good. I bought a box and see from the instructions that it takes twenty minutes to make, beating the melted chocolate into the milk to just the right consistency. Slow food at its best.

Taking a left turn off the main road south from Monsummano the vine covered land begins to rise and fall gently, and ahead lies Monte Albano. A little way into the hills the new town of Vinci surrounds the original medieval village built on its own small hill, as so many are, with an ancient castello and bell tower at the top, surrounded by a courtyard that looks out across the plain below towards Pisa.

It was easy to park, a quiet but lovely October day with few tourists and all but empty cafes and bars. Inevitably almost everything is named after Leonardo, but there isn’t overkill, only two souvenir shops, and it is a pleasant and very well kept little town. Walking up the steep, paved path to the castello a mass of bright blue flowers cascaded down the wall, lit by the brilliant sunshine. It was here I started out in one of the two small museums, the Museo Leonardiano, divided between the bell tower and a nearby building.

Leonardo was born in 1452, the son of a lawyer, and at seventeen he left Vinci and became apprenticed to the painterVerrochio in Florence. Having the good fortune to be given the protection of Lorenzo de Medici, a master of the persuasive power of words, he was inspired to develop his own innate eloquence  and apparently captured his listener’s attention with ease. This fluency flowed through every aspect of  his work, painting, drawings, and all the systematic written records he left of his thoughts and ideas. Without them we could not have known all he achieved in the fifty years of  his working life that followed his arrival in Florence.

The museum is dominated by copies of his original drawings and scaled down models of some of the machines he designed, beginning with those that reflected improving life in the countryside around Vinci - an oil press, spinning, weaving and silk milling machinery. Then they move onto the logistics of building and many different cranes for moving massive weights in stone. Gradually they become more complex and my two favourites are those with life size wooden models, the bicycle and the car.

The bicycle is beautiful, the concept so simple and elegant it looks almost contemporary, with a leather chain to power the wooden wheels. The drawing came to light by chance, having been on the reverse side of two sheets of paper inadvertently pasted together at the end of the sixteenth century. The pages were not separated until over three hundred years later, in 1966. The car looks like a flat bed cart and was designed to move by a complex system of springs that were powered by a trip hammer. What interested me was that having determined the method of motion, Leonardo had left the details undecided in his drawing and the model was built filling in the blanks, giving the car three wheels and a steering shaft. He must have been forever moving on to the next idea.

The second museum is in the ancient wine cellars of the castello and contains paintings, drawings and sculpture by Leonardo and his pupils and contemporaries. I love his drawings that reflect nature and there is an engraving of a small, circular and stylised design called the Vincian knot, based on weaving with pliant willow stems to make baskets and tie vines in the countryside round Vinci. It is a perfect symbol of symmetry and a delight to the eye.

Perhaps the most intriguing is the current exhibition exploring every aspect of the Mona Lisa, Leonardo’s most famous work completed in his fifties. On one wall there is a spectography, a photograph of the original painting in the Louvre taken at two hundred and forty million pixels, four metres tall by three metres across. The infra red rays penetrate the picture layer by layer, illuminating the technique of the artist, revealing in what order he painted each element and alterations he made to the original drawing as he worked. 

It also gives rise to speculation over subtle changes that have been brought about by restoration work over the centuries. Leonardo was the first master of the Italian Rennaissance to paint in oils, and the Mona Lisa was the first of his paintings in this technique that was to become famous. It may be that in removing the varnish and cleaning up the area around the eyes the delicate and soft lines of the painting that were the eyelashes and eyebrows have been unwittingly removed. It could also be that the enigmatic smile that so intrigues was actually more expressive, and Leonardo’s original intention. These are all weighty matters that art historians and scientists are exploring in preparation for a “trial” that will be held in Florence and judged by lawyers according to the evidence. I wonder what Leonardo would have made of that.

The most bizarre aspect of the Mona Lisa exhibition is the largest collection of parodies that have been perpetrated in later years. There are many interpretations, some looking in different directions, with two heads, and her face encased in an Egyptian mummy. I found it hard to imagine why. But the one that is the most haunting shows the face of Marilyn Monroe superimposed on the painting and there is a resemblance in the eyes, the same archetypal beauty and something expressive beyond words.

Leonardo was the true Renaissance man – artist, architect, draftsman, scientist, engineer, botanist, biologist, inventor, philosopher, poet and musician amongst others. He was ambidextrous, generally using his left hand to draw, and often wrote in mirror script, back to front, which both seem to be examples of an open mind to me. Perhaps the most succinct description of his genius is “The Complete Man”. But none of it could have been achieved without relentless study, a passion for learning, and the desire to communicate all he discovered to mankind. My favourite quote is “The noblest pleasure is the joy of understanding”.

After our long, hot summer autumn has arrived within a matter of days. No rain for so long meant that everything growing slowed down towards the end of august and didn’t fulfill it’s promise in season. But when the burst of rain came earlier this month and was intense for three days the earth was re-invigorated and a carpet of green returned as if it was spring. In fact as october continued to be so much warmer than usual there has even been blossom on some confused cherry trees.

There are very few autumn tints yet as the green is still so strong, only my apricot tree in front of the house is shedding yellow leaves for Tiger to chase. I picked the last fig this morning and the remaining grapes are withering on the vine. Wild clematis are everywhere, only about ten to fifteen centimetres tall, little bursts of brightly coloured blooms that stand out amongst the grass. Chestnuts litter the roads and once driven over become a thick carpet.

On good days there are blue skies, wonderful sunshine and although it is alot cooler, a fresh, crisp feel to the air. The haze of summer heat is replaced by clear light and it seems as though every tree on the other side of the valley stands out individually. It’s like wearing glasses for the first time and thinking, gosh, I’ve never seen it look like this. So to be blessed by such a day on sunday for the Festa delle Frugiate in the village, the Chestnut Festival, was perfect.

My neighbour Angela and I walked up the winding road together, Matteo was out picking funghi, wild mushrooms, and would join us later. So we were free to do as much “what is the word for…” as we liked, me in Italian, Angela in English. As we got to within half a kilometre of  the village I was amazed to find that cars were parked nose to tail along both sides of the road and walkers and the traffic were pushing and shoving their way through the chaos.

The Festa was held in the Circolo, the community centre that can be found in almost every village. This one is up a steep path above the main road and in front of the building there is a large paved square. To the front it is fenced from the drop and the view down across the valley and the rolling hills for miles beyond is really beautiful. We joined the throng making their way into the square and what a lively, noisy scene it was.

In one corner a duo were playing, a stunning young woman singing powerfully and a young man playing electric organ and all that goes with it nowadays that sounds like a full band. Opposite them people were queuing for tumblers of red wine, and on the other wall there was a real scrum to get to the main event, the chestnuts. Behind long trestle tables a large round chestnut roaster had been built, maybe a couple of metres across and packed round the sides with turf. Three men with long handled paddles continually stirred the heap of chestnuts round and round the griddle, occasionally stepping back from the clouds of smoke to mop their brow or pour in a new sackfull.

We elbowed into the queue and eventually got our little paper bags full and some wine and found a spot to sit and peel them. I can’t say they were delicious, even though I love chestnuts, so many cooked at once meant alot got rather overdone not to say charred to a crisp and our hands were soon black. But it didn’t matter, there was so much going on it was just fun being there. Some couples were commanding a little space to dance to traditional lively tunes and how light on their feet they were. Most people were greeting friends and family, sharing babies, laughing, kids and dogs running in and out, crunching the spreading mass of chestnut shells underfoot.

Angela, whose sparkling smile would melt the heart of the Snow Queen, rushed often to friends in the crowd, throwing her arms round one and all and children ran to her as they always do. When we could find a way through to the inside of the building we queued up again for some Necci, little chestnut flour pancakes served with a filling of either Ricotta cheese or Nutella, the chocolate spread that is hugely popular in Italy. They were really good, I had one of each and loved them.

Matteo arrived in due course and sometimes he just makes me laugh so much I have to hug him, and can without a second thought. We stayed until around seven when the sun had just gone down, then he went to get the car whilst Angela and I sat on the wall in the village looking out across the hills to the red sky and feeling happy and content to have shared such a lovely day. There must have been at least five or six hundred people gathered there and really the chestnuts were a token. It was about celebrating autumn, seeing and being seen, and being part of something.

Once home I was just thinking what should I have for supper when the two of them appeared at the front door with a plateful of Matteo’s mushrooms – would I like him to show me how he cooks them? Of course, how wonderful. So with all the seriousness reserved for good cooking he set to and was in his element, Angela and I smiling at each other when he wasn’t looking.

They were very large, maybe fifteen centimetres across the cap, so once washed and trimmed with a little knife he cut them in half  then sliced each half thinly. The stems were sliced lengthways. An equal amount of fine plain flour was mixed with polenta and each slice dipped into it and thoroughly coated. A pan of peanut oil about 10 cms deep, it had to be peanut oil, was heated until a pinch of flour tossed into it fizzed up quickly. Then each slice was carefully laid into the hot fat. 

His concentration was acute, watching every slice, turning each, looking for just the right golden colour to the batter, gently tapping each with a fork to test how crisp it really was. Then after four or five minutes, piece by piece they were carefully lifted out onto a sheet of paper towel to absorb the excess fat and sprinkled with a little salt. That is all, you don’t eat anything else with them, just enjoy. And with that they were gone. What a perfect little feast.

Well, the intent to learn Italian is unavoidable now, after nearly eighteen months I have no excuses left. I could go to classes, but at sixty two my stomach still tightens at the memory of Miss Skinner who taught me French. Not a happy woman, she relished my discomfort when I got out of my depths and enjoyed saying to the class ” let’s ask Elizabeth”, then watching me  flounder. I dread being in a group who romp ahead whilst I struggle, so I’m plugging back into the CDs I brought with me and starting at the beginning again. It’s a set of eight called Foundation Italian by Michel Thomas and I bought it because The Times describe it as the nearest thing to painless learning.

So far I haven’t got past disc three, I have been avoiding it because it is too much like hard work. But needs must. What I like about these CDs is that he doesn’t talk about grammar at all, as it begins you join a class of two who are learning and become the third. As Michel builds up our knowledge of a few words he then asks us to put them into a sentence and I, as the listener, have to press pause before one of the others speaks and work out my answer. Then I press play again, hear what the other guy said, and we carry on. It’s a real bonus if you get it right and he doesn’t.

Michel speaks perfect English of course but with a rather pronounced German accent that some find a little too hectoring. I quite like it, he just sounds enthusiastic to me and his method is described as no books, memorizing or homework. Gradually each section extends from a couple of words and before you know it you have said quite a long sentence. It moves on at a fair pace and you can feel as if you are really making headway and get just a bit cocky. But the test comes in town.

Initially inside my head smug little thoughts revolved telling me that I could say “I am going to see you tonight and I will bring you the book” and how good is that. But when I was in the real world I would ask if there were any wholemeal loaves or some such and be completely stumped by the volley that came in response. It was probably something like “we’ve just run out but there’ll be more tomorrow.” But hold on, I’m only on disc three, I can’t do that yet, and don’t go so fast please. So considerably humbled and having got myself into quite a few very confused conversations I now preface most things beyond the simple with “I speak very little Italian…” so they know what they are dealing with.

Of course practice is of the essence, and throwing yourself into trying without worrying too much about whether it is correct Italian, which is highly unlikely, is the only way forward. Most people are sympathetic and will slow down and keep it simple. I was in the florists planning to buy and looked at the man behind the counter who immediately said in English “bunch – flowers?” and we both laughed. I’ve only had one instance of  complete intolerance, in a shop in Lucca. I wanted something I didn’t know the word for and as I couldn’t see any I asked the lady if she spoke any English. Keeping her back to me and continuing to dust a shelf she replied “no, I speak perfect Italian, what do you want.” I suddenly lost interest and left.

On the other hand there are conversations I have with a lady who has a stall in the saturday fruit and vegetable market that I anticipate with pleasure. She is round and jolly with strong arms, a country woman who looks like she relishes hard work from dawn to dusk. She always talks to me longer than we need to do the necessary and gives me encouraging smiles, gently adding or changing a word, and putting a free handful of parsley in my bag which feels like a gold star.

So having made some progress I now feel reasonably comfortable and get by on gradually improving Italian laced with a bit of English, a lot of gesticulating and a helpful response, although human nature being what it is that can’t always be relied upon. Last week I came unstuck in the jewellers. I had taken in a ring to be repaired the week before and left it with a charming lady who chattered away as if we were old friends. When I returned to collect it there was a tall middle aged man in her place, clearly the owner.

I realised I had no idea what repair is in Italian, but as I would be there to buy, to bring in for repair or to collect I was hopeful that we would get somewhere fairly easily, particularly as there were four other people waiting in the shop. But no. I tried, and was met with “I don’t understand.” At the next attempt it was “are you trying to buy something?”, then came “what are you trying to speak, English or Italian?” at which I had a distinct Miss Skinner moment and wanted to leave. The others were looking intently at display cases in discomfort. Clearly the man was having a bad day from the tight and testy smile that never left his face and I was the last straw.

Eventually he allowed himself to comprehend and asked my name, and oh don’t some people love to be droll when I say Liz Taylor. Rolling his eyes he started banging around behind the counter repeating “Leez Taylor, Leez Taylor…” looking for an envelope with my name on it, gave up in seconds and said “come back when my Mother is here.” Yes, right, let me out, now.

So trial and error, luck and goodwill and I’ll get there. Michel tells us comfortingly on disc one that there are three thousand words in English that are very similar in Italian, which sounds terrific, surely that must be most of them, I’ll be OK. I daren’t check how many words there are altogether but am coming to the conclusion that it’s an awful lot more.

Although it’s the countryside for me when it comes to where I live, I love a day in a beautiful city.  All the bustle and pace is energising, the contrast, colour, wonderful architecture, food and shopping a delight. Florence has it all. My friend Anne and I took the train into the heart of the city, only an hour from town, and had the best of days.

From the station it’s not far to one of my favourite buildings, Campanile di Giotto, the gothic bell tower that stands eighty four metres tall alongside the Duomo. It’s facade is clad in white, green and red marble sculpted into the most elaborate and delicate designs that are a marvel of craftsmanship.

What thrills me about it is that Giotto, who was an architect and sculptor as well as an artist, was appointed to design and build the tower in 1334 when he was sixty seven. He still had the vision and energy to create something stunningly beautiful, and even though he died four years later and it took two others to complete the building over the next twenty one years, they largely stayed with his original plan because it was perfect. It inspires me to think that anyone can go on getting better and better at what they want to do for as long as they like if they have the desire and the passion.

We were heading for the streets that wind round the church of San Lorenzo where the daily market is famous for leather, Florentine scarves and paper and inevitably souvenirs. Once among the rows of canvas covered stalls there is an explosion of colour in fabrics, jackets, belts, shoes, and gloves. Although a market like any other this is not a place to haggle, this is the heart of Florence and the best to be found and they are proud of their merchandise. If they choose to give you a little discount that’s a different matter. I fell for a striking violet wool cape that falls to the thigh and added to it a wide plum and deep purple velvet tasseled scarf  that shimmers in the light. It will cut a dash in Lucca this autumn.

We walked over the Ponte Vecchio, lined on either side by beautiful jewellery shops, crossing the Arno and taking the road past the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens, heading for the Museo Zoologico La Specola. I wanted to see an exhibition called Cristalli, the Giazzotti Collection of the most beautiful minerals in the world. Anne was in two minds, would lumps of crystal really excite, but she decided to give it a go. We both agreed it was absolutely spectacular and we wouldn’t have missed it for anything else.

The room we entered was lined in black from ceiling to floor and glass cases ran the length of each wall. They were so full of mineral samples there were only inches of space between them and the lighting was superb, illuminating each piece and revealing the depth and subtlety of  its colour. The effect on entering was absolutely breathtaking, a sparkling mass of all colours and shapes that nature can produce, from the size of an orange to a football. Gathered from all over the world since 1949 by one Italian, they are his obsession. There were crystal columns of Aquamarine, Tourmaline, Topaz, Quartz, and on and on, and amazing random shapes born out of the chaos of the cooling earth millions of years ago. It made me think about the miracle that the earth is, all that we take for granted and the terrible things we do to her.

Hungry by then we retraced our steps towards the river, stopping in Piazza Santo Spirito which is quiet and full of trees, and eating lunch outside the Osteria. Although it was hot we both wanted something sustaining after all the walking and more to come and opted for simple spaghetti aglio olio peperoncino,with garlic and chilli oil. It was gorgeous and as filling as a feast.

Anne wanted to show me one of her favourite places which is quite a climb, so following the river east a little way we headed up steps to Piazzale Michelangelo, probably the most visited viewpoint in Florence where you look out over the city. Then more steps, but a gentle winding incline, eventually arriving  at the Basilica of San Miniato al Monte, the finest Romanesque building in Tuscany. Standing quite a way above  P. Michelangelo and his statue of David it has an even more entrancing view of Florence and all her glorious domes, churches and towers.

I’m not an avid church visitor but this is one of the loveliest I have ever seen. The facade is decorated in marble like the Giotto tower, white with geometric designs in green. Five huge archways support the upper part that has a golden mosaic of Christ at the centre. There is an incomplete campanile that was used as an artillery post and damaged during the siege of Florence, even though Michelangelo had it wrapped in mattresses to protect it, which conjures up quite a scene.

Within, the height is awe inspiring and the same geometry of design prevails, creating balance, order, and a wonderful sense of calm serenity. Frescoes, glowing byzantine style mosaics and beautifully carved stonework have been created by Florence’s finest Renaissance artists and craftsmen. Overall the feeling of peace that emanates is palpable and I left calmed and refreshed.

For the downward journey we took a more direct and steeper flight of steps back to the old city wall, through an area full of rather chic and contemporary looking little bars. Along the south bank of the Arno canvas had been erected like large umbrellas and under each a different wine merchant was setting out rows of bottles for tastings. On a warm and sunny evening that would be very pleasant.

Bizarre things occur in cities that one could never imagine discovering. Walking back to the station along a narrow little street we passed an open door with a hand written sign on it that said “Guiness book of records attempt for 48 hours organ playing in progress.” Who ever would have thought to find that in Florence! We didn’t go in.

Back home that evening my mind was awash with images, shapes, colours and textures, the best in nature as well as made by man. What a wonderful experience and what a privilege to know I can return, any time I choose.

Back again, hurtling into the motorway traffic round Pisa airport, and only about half an hour of anxiety about what side of the road I should be on this time. Thankfully the Twingo has central locking as for the first few times I am inclined to try and change gears on the wrong side, where the door handle is. Once off the motorway the usual pushing and shoving becomes familiar once more, cars nosing out into the traffic so far that you have to stop and let them in or you would hit them, creativity about what lane to be in,  and a general me first approach. I’m good at horn blasting now though I haven’t quite got to fist waving yet.

A quick shop in Esselunga, the local supermarket, was a pleasure if only for the wonderful scent of the tomatoes, though I was dismayed to see that the lemons were from Argentina, maybe Italy is shipping most of theirs elsewhere. Isn’t it a crazy world. It did remind me that one British thing I miss is the customer service in supermarkets, it is not an option here, you are lucky if they will point and grunt to where you should be to find what you want, never mind taking you to the right aisle as is customary in the UK.

Then to the pet shop where the biggest cat I have ever encountered always comes to greet me, her owner says she will not stay at home but likes to be in the shop all day, I think it’s because she gets to sample everything. Up the winding road to my house and my cats, never too sure about me when I’ve been away this long,  scattering as I approach and crouching under the trees. Eventually they come and make their peace one by one, not wanting to be left out come teatime, and like me, very glad we are all back together again.

I’ve been very lucky, the heavens opened the first week I was away and the much needed rain came in one long downpour of several days, to the extent that there were floods down on the plain. Now it is blue skies and sunny again, around 25 to 28C each day and the earth is sending up new shoots once more in one last green burst before winter. The sun is setting at around seven now and evenings are cooler but it still feels more like the tail end of summer than autumn.

The day after I returned was spent in Lucca. I still haven’t entirely put my finger on why it lifts my spirits so but it does – the combination of beautiful buildings, character, colour, design, the ancient and modern living comfortably side by side gel into something really special. And the relatively small scale within the city walls keeps it human, with a small town feel. By comparison Siena, glorious to behold though it is and a must to visit, feels positively urban.

I had lunch at the Osteria San Giorgio again, tagliatelle with zucchini, tomatoes, rasins and honey, absolutely lovely. Then I wandered the length of Via Filungo, the main shopping street, and though in general it is thriving there were signs of the times in four empty shops that were occupied a couple of months ago. One that always delights me is Piedino, children’s shoes, they have clothes lines across the window display with tiny shoes pegged to them in pairs looking absolutely charming. The prices are almost the same as for adult shoes for some of them, which I guess is a bit crazy for two year olds, but I would lay a bet on this business never having to close.

This morning I went down to town for essentials and decided to book an appointment for an eye test, I definitely need new glasses, so I called in at the optician at a quarter to one expecting to be fitted in next week. But whereas bigger organisations have alot to learn about looking after their customers it is my experience that the small ones could write the book. Not necessary, Signora, we can do it now if you like. I had already bought sunglasses there and liked the service and the range, and it was obviously family owned and run. The son, a pleasant and very polite young man eager to use what little English he could muster took me into the eye test room at the back of the shop.

I was amazed at the designer chair, the remote control for the screen I was to read, the degree of accuracy he was prepared to reach, testing each eye over and over. When it came to the choice of glasses it was just bliss to be with an Italian for whom bella figura, or the impression we create, is as important as it is to my vanity. In order for me to be sure I was happy with my choice he took two pairs of glasses apart, putting the lenses I liked into the arms I wanted and fitting them onto my face with all the care and attention of an artist. Even though it meant he was half an hour late shutting the shop for lunch we were both pleased.

Back home again I am coming to terms with staying put for a few more months instead of moving on to the new house. As this is a fully furnished rental I have only made minor changes to the look of the interior  and haven’t been making much effort recently. So now I must cast a fresh eye round the place and make it pleasing and cosy before winter arrives. Some new cushions I think, a cheery rug, and lots of candles.

I’m about to make a very big pan of minestrone, with Italian old chestnuts like “Volare” blasting from the CD so that I can sing just as loudly myself. Strangely the cats quite like it, the only audience I have ever had to appreciate my singing, which is a bonus. Then tomorrow I am off to Florence to see, amongst all the other delights of just being there, two exhibitions. Whatever goes awry there’s always something to look forward to, isn’t there.

Well, here I am on a pc in the library in Cumbria, back in the UK, not at all where I expected to be, and coming to terms with an unexpected turn of events. I should have been completing the purchase of my new house this month but complications arose, nothing unusual about that in Italy, and I withdrew. All is not entirely lost, the situation may be resolved in the coming months, and as I love the house and the land around it I so much I am going to wait for a while and see if another chance to buy it arises in due course. Nothing else would quite match up right now, all my aspirations were poured into this one.

So for the forseeable future I will stay in the home I have been renting since my arrival last year, I am very lucky that it had not been let following my expected departure. With an unexpected gap where I had anticipated beginning all the activity of moving I decided to come back to the UK to visit family and friends and have been here a week now, adjusting.

It is sixteen months since I moved to Tuscany and this visit is six months since the last. I realise that each time I have returned previously I have slipped back into the well known English way of things unconsciously, not surprising after sixty years. However this time the Italian influence has thrown up comparisons in all sorts of little and often inconsequential ways, and I find myself at what I guess to be a kind of half way house, neither entirely one or the other.

Naturally the weather came as a rude awakening from my summer of siestas in the heat. This morning John and I walked round Whitehaven harbour, a favourite of ours, and I was trussed up in a jersey, jacket and scarf, head down into the wind, hands in pockets and thinking wistfully of the sun. But I have to admit that it has been a plus to be able to sleep easily without waking often in the heat of a still summer night and getting up for a cold shower.

Driving is a quite different experience, I notice how orderly the traffic is, far fewer people at my back bumper pressing to overtake. Yes, there are motorway speed merchants but not as many or as uncompromising in their attempt to clear me from their path. Drivers seem positively patient and polite. I’m pretty sure that’s not what I thought when I lived here.

I used to drink americano coffee black before I left here and ordered it again without thinking – only once. How weak and insipid it seems now, and how much of it there is! I hadn’t realised how my taste buds have become attuned to espresso, even though I do have it lungo, with a little added water. Those few sips are full of flavour, powerful and fulfilling.

When it comes to food I am seduced by the choice in the supermarkets and am feasting on the things available here that are either not in Tuscany at all or are not in season, parsnips of course, and broad beans and peas, last seen in June and not to be found until next April. But I miss the wonderful array of fruit, peaches, nectarines, plums, watermelons up to fifteen kilos in weight and almost more than I can carry, all of it locally grown, juicy and tasty instead of rock hard.

Eating out can be just as good and probably similar in price, if a quite different experience. But is it me or has it become acceptable here to eat in an atmosphere that is thick with the smell of burning fat from the griddle? It was once familiar in takeaways and greasy spoon cafes but to me it now seems to be prevalent in a lot more places and no one seems to notice. I really dislike it. In Italy food is about so much more than just eating, the whole experience counts however simple the menu and the surroundings.

I had to get accustomed to TV again as during the summer I have barely watched it, preferring to sit outside until the sun goes down. Was the commercial break always as long? The ads seem interminable now. Yes, Italian TV has plenty, but nothing like this. Likewise the newspapers, so huge, has anyone time to read them in full and do we need to know so much?

In fact the most disturbing thing that has struck me so far is the announcement of yet another national organisation that has been set up to vet people who are to have anything to do with children. I read about a football coach who has been vetted six times to date.  What is happening to the British culture? There seems to be so much information that an atmosphere of paranoia arises easily, especially around children and governments seem to be pandering to it.  Whatever will this achieve other than lack of trust and fear, and who wants that as the background for their children’s upbringing?

I may well be out of step with current thinking in the UK but this really saddens me and I just hope the tide will turn again before long. For me the Italian family focus and the prevalence of happy, natural relations with children, anybodies and anywhere, is a happy, healthy way to start out in life. It shows on Italian children’s faces and in their confidence amongst other people.

I have enjoyed my visit and have loved seeing people again and catching up, but I will be happy to go home next week, and I feel the scales have tipped now to the point where I think of it as home. I may not have the new house in my sites now, but it could still come, or if not another will.

There are so many things I want to do now that the weather will be cooler and journeys less taxing, fewer tourists, easier parking. I have a list of places to visit, exhibitions in Florence to catch, chocolate makers to track down, and days to while away just ambling round Lucca, my favourite town. Not to mention really applying myself to learning Italian, at last, no more excuses…

The heat of high summer has continued unabated, with an occasional haze of light cloud but no rain. The earth has become so dry that footfall sets off a flurry of dust and the searing sun has burnt the leaves of some of my plants to a crisp, no matter how well watered they have been. Lying in the shade on the terrace was as much as I could do for a couple of weeks until the virus that struck me for a second time in late July diminished. Even the breeze that rises up here in the hills in the early afternoon feels as hot as a hair dryer.

This kind of heat is not unusual but this year it has been unremitting for longer, and everyone talks about it, longing for cooler nights, easier sleep, some much needed rain for their land. Once I felt better and was ready for some exercise I took to climbing the steep mule track at the back of the house in the early morning, arriving at the church in the village in about fifteen minutes. The climb is worth it for the easy half hour walk ahead of me down the winding road, under the shade of chestnut trees and with wonderful views across the hills.

At about the half way point on my circular journey I stop in the village car park where a wild fig has seeded in the wall and flourished, looking for two or three ripe figs. Many wild flowers still bloom by the roadside in spite of the heat and I pass cornflowers, tiny wild carnations and sweet peas, buttercups and meadowsweet. Black berries abound, along with rosehips and the first sweet chestnuts in their prickly green shells falling from the trees.

One sunday morning a veterans cross country run set off from the village before the heat rose. There must have been a couple of hundred competitors and it was a tough route, down into the woods then back up a steep ravine near my house, my neighbours had a table in their garden for everyone to snatch some water on their way past. I saw the front runners cruising by, glistening slightly but obviously practised at saving themselves for the long haul back up the main road to the village.

I was amazed at those who followed, many older than me and although sweating heavily with the effort and sometimes stopping to catch their breath they were still running doggedly on as the sun rose over them. Only a few stragglers slowed to a walk and decided to amble back at their own pace. The village was choked with cars and a ferment of elated competitors who had finished the course and were towelling themselves down, those still coming through, watching families and officials.

Once I was out and about again I came up against the usual august frustration of holiday time. Almost every small business closes for at least a week, mostly for two, and you don’t know which. I set out one day to have a slow puncture mended on a car tyre, top up my mobile phone and take in some dry cleaning. I didn’t manage any of it, they were all shut and re-opening on different days which was hard to memorise. The one public holiday is on august 15, Ferragosto, now marked as the Catholic feast of the Ascension of the Blessed Virgin Mary. But it has more ancient roots, originally celebrating mid summer and the end of hard labour in the fields, a time for celebration and rest.

Last sunday afternoon a friend took me on a long walk in the hills nearby, climbing up through chestnut woods along narrow tracks, pushing through gorse bushes and heather to stony ridges with spectacular views down into the valley. It was quite hard going and our legs were trembling so we sat in the last of the sun to recover, full of anticipation as we had cena, our evening meal, booked at the agriturismo just below us.

Walking through the farm the sheep were just coming into the barn for the evening, long ears flopping, bells round their necks tinkling and happy to feel fresh hay under their feet. Well fed dogs and cats came out to greet us, looking for a stroke. Chickens squabbled in their well wired run, vines were laden with grapes, tomatoes ripened on stakes. Almost everything that is served in the dining room is reared or grown on the farm.

After a quick wash and some fresh clothes we took our table in a large, airy room that eventually filled with guests, all Italian. There was a generous flask of red wine on the table, fresh bread and a dish of lightly pickled mixed vegetables to start us off. Three women were busy in the kitchen and two young men served the food, no choice, you take what comes, and it keeps on coming.

Bruschetta arrived first, little rounds of toasted bread topped with chopped tomatoes or crudo, finely sliced ham. Then came freshly made tagliatelle with wild mushrooms, melt in the mouth delicious, only to be surpassed by more home made pasta, ravioli in fresh sage butter. For Anne, a meat eater, there followed three dishes served separately, roast beef, grilled chicken and wild boar. For me there was a fresh salad and a huge chunk of pecorino, ewe’s milk cheese from the flock we had passed in the yard. Between us there was a plate of canellini beans in olive oil and wonderfully crisp roasted potatoes.

Then came home made cake and two more bottles, vin santo,a fortified sweet white wine and grappa. After coffee we made our way home talking of the memorable meal and when we could come again. Everything included it cost us only twenty euros each for fabulously fresh food perfectly cooked and served the moment it was ready, with a smile and pleasure in our appreciation. Yet another reason why I am here.

Well what a little flurry of excitement. I didn’t mention in the last post that the virus has returned and I have been feeling pale and anything but interesting, it just didn’t fit with the high summer idyll. A couple of days ago I thought I ought to see the doctor, this is going on too long. So, I phoned friends to ask where the surgery is as I haven’t had occasion to visit since I arrived here.

“You sound awful, we’ll take you to casualty, be there in five minutes.” I was very grateful, I hadn’t been looking forward to driving into town. The waiting room was quite full and trolleys were coming in with very sick looking people at quite a rate, so I thought it would take a long time before they could get to someone who was standing on her own two feet, even if only just.

But within five minutes I was called for and taken to a room where a doctor who spoke very good English sat me down and asked for all my symptoms. I am happy to say he was stunningly good looking, I wasn’t past noticing, and I know I will get teased for that as one of my male readers (English) picks me up on every descriptive reference to men that I make, as if it is rather too racy for a lady of my years. But as long as there is breath in my body and eyes to see, why ever not.

He took my temperature and motioned to the male nurse who swiftly produced three face masks, as if they were birds pulled from a hat, tying one on me, the doctor and himself. Then he explained that there was a possibility of swine flu so he was very sorry, but I would need to be moved to the bigger hospital in Pistoia for a few days where they had an isolation unit and were geared up for observation and treatment. I think I just stared at him, I know he was very kind, it all just came about so quickly.

Then he asked me how long I had been in Italy and I told him it was now a little over a year. Ah… well, then possibly… wait, I will come back. And they both left the room for about twenty minutes whilst I sat breathing through the hot, felty feeling face mask, pondering my fate. The people in the UK whom I had spoken to by phone in the last few weeks had all said “swine flu!” when I told them I hadn’t been too well, and I had laughed it off as far too fanciful a notion. And here I was…

But he returned without his mask, cut mine off, and told me that he had consulted with Pistoia and they had said I was not as much of a risk as he had thought was possible. My temperature was just above normal, but whilst my symptoms were similar, swine flu was characterised by a temperature of 38C and over. My visiting family from the UK had all left a month before my symptoms began, so there was little risk that any of them were carriers, I would have begun to feel ill within a week.

Crikey, that was close. I reeled from planning who would feed the cats, would they let me go home and get anything before they took me away, how long might   ”a few days”  be… to thank heaven, now what happens. Blood tests, and the male nurse swiftly and with great dexterity had several little bottles of blood from me in no time at all, painlessly. Well done, I told him, in England they have always taken four or five times to find a vein. “In Italia, uno” he said, as if nothing could be simpler. 

Then chest X rays and back to my patient friends in the waiting room. Trolleys kept appearing from ambulances relentlessly, anxious family and friends waited, each locked in their own fears. A stricken mother gazed into the eyes of her daughter, searching for reassurance, a young woman in her twenties who was doing her best to be calm and soothing. All this goes on all day, every day, everywhere, and as long as we and those close to us are well we never think of it.

Then my name again and back to the doctor, where I expected to be told that the X ray and blood results would be available in a few days. But no, they were there. Nothing untoward, I had a respiratory virus that had got a strong hold, probably because my immune system had been quite low, there was a possibility that it was swine flu, but that was unlikely, so I could go home to rest and stay there for a couple of weeks before venturing out. Antibiotics, pain killers for the aches and fever, that’s it.

With many thanks for such excellent service I was about to leave and the doctor handed me the envelope that contained my X rays and the blood test results. They are mine to keep, and it is my responsiblity to produce them in the future if they are required at any other medical examination. Isn’t that fantastic, to be treated like a grown up and to have hold of your own documents instead of them being filed away who knows where and will they ever find them again.

So I have great admiration for the Italian health service, I was in and out within a couple of hours even though they were very busy, everything was so efficient and the staff were pleasant and responded like humans with hearts, not robots. That in itself must be the hardest part, dealing with such extremes of human emotion constantly.

I couldn’t feel ill in a nicer place really. It is so warm, quiet and peaceful I can just get up when I am ready and join the cats under the vine to idle in the shade. Everything passes, I will feel human again before long. This has taken twice as long to write as I am brain fuddled so I think I will bow out for august and join you again in September. After all I’m not going to be doing alot to write about. The house purchase has been deferred to September too, which is a blessing. So all is well, and thank heaven it is summer.

For several weeks now one long, gloriously hot day has rolled into another, reaching 38C, or 100F, at times. If you have work to do it is testing, but if you can just drift through the day it is wonderful. The very early morning, four to fiveish, is just a little cool, which is very welcome, but as daylight arrives it begins to warm.

I feed the cats at around six and then walk along to the fig tree for my breakfast. They have ripened quickly in the heat and hang ready for the picking, dark, sweet and juicy. Behind the house, pears from one of Angela and Matteo’s trees, far more than we can use, fall with a little thump, joining the heap already being gorged upon by a mass of wasps. Around them the smell of fermenting fruit is thick in the air.

Soren, a german student whose family live here, has been cutting the grass for me down the steep slope in front of the house, starting at 6.30 and working till 11.00, after which he has had enough. Now he has almost finished, the landscape has changed, the earth is baked, the stubble yellow and dry and the terraces are clear cut against the hillside.

A couple of weeks ago all I could see was the head of a young deer moving slowly through the long grass lower down the hill. Last night, for the first time I saw a cinghiale, a wild boar, nosing about on one of the terraces in the twilight. I had heard him before but as he was concealed in the grass had never seen him. He was quite lean, tall and dark, with a thickset neck and powerful head. When he realised I was standing by the fence looking down at him he trotted the length of the terrace back into the dense woodland, but without any great urgency.

Come autumn he will be hunted by many, and this is one of the few things I don’t like about Tuscany, hunting still comes naturally to most Tuscan countrymen. They set out in groups with mobiles to keep in contact with each other, some flush out the animal and then drive him towards others, who position themselves in his path. Autumn mornings and weekends ring with the sound rifles. But for now he is safe, ambling about in the night, snuffling around in the earth looking for whatever it is he eats.

To my surprise I saw a red squirrel this week too, along the lane to the main road, scuttling up the branches of a hazel tree. He wasn’t the only surprise, I rounded a corner to find myself a few metres from a couple stretched out on a blanket on the grass. Tiptoeing past, I nearly made it unseen, but then there was a scuffle and a giggle, and I whispered “non sono qui“, I’m not here, and strode quickly on. I went for a longer walk than planned, so that as I returned they were folding up the blanket, climbing onto his motorbike, and with a smile, speeding away.

The cats play a little after breakfast whilst it is still not very hot, ambushing anything that moves in the grass, then one by one find a comfortable place to stretch out and sleep. As the day passes they move, languidly, from one little haven of shade to the next, slowly rising, yawning, lying down again to roll with legs outstretched, trying to cool themselves on all sides in any little passing breeze. Once darkness arrives and it is ten degrees cooler they are alive again and ready for action, even Josie, and I don’t see them till the early hours, if at all before breakfast.

As the light begins to fade swallows come swooping close to the hillside, catching insects on the wing. Their flight seems fantastic, a miracle of speed, and grace as they almost clip the top of the fence and wheel around to dive back again. They come so close to each other it amazes me that they never collide, but a shrill little warning cry from one or the other changes their direction in less than a second. They are one of my favourite features of summer and I am always sad to see them go.

The sun sets over the ridge of hills to the west and twilight is perfect. As the sky overhead deepens, light still lingers above the hills in a soft, pink glow. For a little while all things growing stand out as if magnified without the brilliance of the sun, the trees that rise up from the bottom of the slope are still, hardly a leaf whispering, the birds are silent and there is peace. As the imminent darkness moves across the sky, the leaves of the apricot tree in front of me darken until they stand out like black shapes against the remaining light.

Then the mosquitoes really come out to play, zinging around me with amazing volume for their tiny size. Well, nothing is a perfect idyll without contrast is it. I have ant bites that are not particularly uncomfortable, but don’t look too pretty, on arms and legs, and sometimes the mosquitoes get me too. I am driven inside to begin the game of spraying whichever room I am in with a mix of water and essential oils that deters the little grey marauders until I am in bed, lightly coated in the same mix, which thankfully smells lovely. Sleep is sometimes hard to find, it is still very warm and the buzz of an approaching mosquito has me alert and covering my face. But eventually I drift away for a while, and another idle day ends.

I am really enjoying this, conscious that once I have my new house there will always be something to do, to learn, to try again, which will be exciting and challenging and sometimes very demanding. So this is my first and last summer of indolence, a between time, and I am making the most of it.

An unexpected sort of a week,  it started out with shivers and shakes and a rather nasty virus that has been affecting quite a few. So I was laid low for several days but am now on the right side of it and feeling perkier. To my amazement the completion of the house purchase had been brought forward by a week and should have taken place this Thursday. But that was just for starters.

I had a call from Jenny, the estate agent, saying sorry, Liz, about turn, it’s now all going backwards. Apparently the title deeds are not quite as straight forward as it first appeared and though it is not going to create an obstacle it will take more time for Nada’s geometra to unravel them and have the paper work straight before we all appear in front of the notary. As we are now approaching august when everything grinds to a halt in Italy for the holidays she thought it unlikely that we would have a date before mid September.

So I rearranged my thoughts to another six to eight weeks until D day. The phone rang once more half an hour later, Jenny again. She had called the notary to cancel our appointment, explaining the hitch, only to have him say that he thought it would be easier to put right than we assumed and we could still meet the date, possibly. She had spoken to the other parties involved and the situation now stood at completion on thursday this week, or friday next week, or early august, or mid september… no one can really be sure… Well, I had a good run before the Italian factor kicked in, so I can’t complain.

However, I am really pleased that following an introduction from Jenny I now have an architect who will help me complete the project. His name is Loris Bottaini and he has an office only about twenty minutes from the new house, where I went to meet him and his geometra, Igor.  It is in a row of tall buildings on the main street, with a beautifully carved and faded oak front door leading into an austere stairwell and three flights of stone stairs. At the top Loris has the office to the right and Igor to the left and they shout to each other between the two.

Loris is a big man in every sense, tall, portly, dressed in black and carrying his sizeable girth in front of him slowly and with care. I would guess in his fifties, his large, oval face is framed by quite long, black hair, greying at the temples, and he has big, dark eyes that reflect his sense of humour. In contrast Igor is quite tall, slight, toned like an athlete with a small, greying beard and probably about forty something. You couldn’t find two frames as unalike.

The first time we met, on reflection I could see that Loris was putting me through hoops to check what sort of obstacles could be in his path. His English is sketchy but better than my Italian so we get by, mostly, and wave our arms about a lot if we get lost somewhere in translation. “Planning permission is essential” he said, looking me in the eye darkly, waiting for a reaction. Of course, I said, we will do nothing without it. “It will all take a very long time you know, this is Italy”, yes, I said, I think it will. And so on, until he was reassured that I wouldn’t be expecting things to happen quite unrealistically.

By my second visit he was more relaxed and eventually he was telling me about his early life, he spent many years in Sweden before returning to Italy and was unsettled by the contrast for some time. “Italy is full of nervous energy, things move backwards and forwards all the time, today it is yes, tomorrow it is no, you can never tell. In Sweden yes means yes, and no means no, you know where you are.”

I would say that he is now entirely acclimatised as sometimes our meetings just disappear, he will phone me a day or two before and say “Liz, there is a problem with the day, I will call you next week, ciao.” But that’s OK, I like him and he has already had some good ideas. One of his major assets is that he is a local so he knows everyone on the comune,the council for Coreglia Antelminelli, so he is well placed to get planning permission applications to the right people in the right way. So all in all I feel that I am on the way.

On another front, war and peace reached a finale at the weekend. I had relaxed my attention to the tomcat, only to find that he was re-doubling his efforts and that Tiger was looking listless and unhappy again, staying indoors and sleeping round the clock.  So – with renewed vigour I was back in action, waiting behind doors, luring, all to no avail.

Then on friday night we were all fast asleep when there was a chilling howl of rage, a scream from Tiger, and a mighty scuffle. The tom had obviously come in through a window, on the attack. I leapt out of bed, the other cats fled, and at the sight of me the tom followed, all of them belting downstairs.  With a towel I did my best to corner him. We were stock still for seconds, then he leapt, the fruit bowl went flying and shattered shards of pottery crunched underfoot as I lunged round the kitchen, kicking lemons out of the way. Then, a stroke of luck, he ran upstairs again into the second bathroom where the window was shut and all I had to do was bang the door. The cats and I had a good talk about what a fright that was and went back to bed.

The following day I asked my neighbour Matteo if he would come and help me put the tom in a carrying box. He disappeared into the bathroom in his long gardening gauntlets with the cat box and Angela and I stood outside, holding onto each others arms at the crashing, yowling cacophony that ensued, willing Matteo to come out unscathed. At last he did, the tom shaking the sides of the cage in fury.

That afternoon, once all the cats had taken a good look and knew what was afoot, I set off into the hills with the tom in the back of the car and didn’t stop until I was two hours from home. Finding a quiet lane, but within sight of a hamlet so he wouldn’t feel entirely isolated, I opened the cage and off he bounded into the woods. Home again to freedom and peace, for all of us, at last.

Most days I walk along the lane to the main road where the large bins are for depositing rubbish, one for anything glass, metal, plastic, or tetrapak and the other for general waste. Up in the village there is another for paper and cardboard too, and apparently some of it now goes straight back to the local paper mills for re-cycling. Some areas are also trying out brown bins for food waste so that it can go to compost and I hope that will be taken up everywhere eventually.

It is a lovely little five minute walk along the single track lane, a steep bank upwards on one side and down on the other, both tree covered and with dense undergrowth. The branches meet overhead and sunlight dapples through, pigeons scatter as I round the corners, and different wild flowers appear each month. Usually Patch will accompany me, sometimes all of them, getting anxious as we near the road, ready to turn for home.

The weather has settled now and daytime heat rises to around 30 to 35C, cooling at night to between 21 and 23. Walking along the lane this morning there was the feeling that everything green has pushed itself to its peak  and is resting in the sun. Elderberry branches are heavy with fruit, like clusters of little green peppercorns, beginning to ripen, and the mass of tangled brambles are showing hard little blackberries.

My apricot tree has shed all her riches, the fallen fruits being shared between the wasps, the ants and me. There were not many, maybe around fifty, but a great deal more than last year’s one! It is an old tree, as tall as the house and it had become straggly and over burdened with branches, so I gave it a good cut back last autumn which helped it to focus a little more on fruit. I was amazed to see how many tiny green apricots appeared initially, only to be blown free of the branches by April winds and scatter in the garden, no bigger than peas.

Further along the hillside there is an old and very large fig tree, huge leaves spreading out to protect its growing fruit from the birds. Last year nothing was ripe until the beginning of October, but yesterday I noticed that not only is the tree loaded with figs this year, mostly still green and hard, but a handful are ripe now. They are one of my favourite fruits and though I picked three, dark and juicy, thinking I would have them for breakfast they were eaten right away, I couldn’t resist.

At the end of last week I went to the new house as I had promised Nada I would make a list of anything there that I wanted to keep and would buy from her. It is still full of Cesare’s family things, huge old beds, a random assortment of wooden, straight backed chairs with woven seats, an ancient Singer sewing machine, rickety old spinning wheels in the attic, baskets galore for picking fruit and vegetables, and in one of the catinas a large collection of garden tools.

Cesare was there, strimming the grass along the walk from behind the house to the chestnut barn, covered by a thick apron and with a clear visor over his face. He stopped to greet me courteously and after a few words I went into the house, uncomfortable that I was raking over his past, in his presence.

All I really wanted was a dozen of the chairs to keep in the attic for when there are plenty of people to feed, a couple of  capacious baskets, the kitchen sweeping brush, bound from reeds, an old fashioned sieve that was hanging on the wall, the kind I haven’t seen in years, and a couple of wooden spoons, worn to a perfect shape by years of stirring. And the collection of garden tools, that will be a marvellous start. It will give me pleasure to use the same things he did in the garden, and his wife used in the kitchen.

As I was finishing he appeared again, took off his strimming gear and indicated that we might walk round the garden. He is small and stocky, strong arms still muscular and no belly on him, in fact a lot fitter than many men much younger. His square face is brown, with small, dark eyes that dance, and I would guess could turn to thunder, framed by a good head of greying hair. Loud and wheezy, his voice raises if I don’t understand, which is most of the time, so we set off across the terrace at a shout.

To try to achieve some common ground I said how wonderful the two huge, old lime trees are that stand in front of the house, like guardians. “Diciannove cento e vintecinque” he said proudly, nineteen twenty five, a year before he was born, planted by his father to bring shade to the terrace in the heat of summer. So he has watched them grow all his life, and for a moment I was torn that he can’t stay here and live beneath them till he dies. But he showed no emotion, smiling and unsentimental, concealing well what is buried within, as Italians do with their deepest feelings.

We walked the grass terrace to the barn, then he turned up to the left and climbed the gentle hillside, past the olives, talking all the time about the trees. We reached an old pear tree, heavy with fruit, and he shook the trunk vigorously so that little yellow pears with pink cheeks, no longer than two to three inches, rained down on me. Laughing, he pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and we gathered them up.

Completing a circle of the garden we arrived at the back of the house, and he stopped at a small plum tree so laden with ripe, pink fruit her branches were brushing the ground. “Vieni“, come and pick, and the plastic bag filled until I thought it would burst. Laden with fruit I left him, with friendly farewells, wishing my Italian was much better and I could ask him so much more.

My mind raced ahead as I drove away, to this time next year, hoping that by then I will be on top of things, maybe a tall order. I have so much to learn to keep the land as well as he has. But if I am, and Cesare is still going strong, I hope he may come and walk the garden with me again, to see that I have kept it well, and gather the summer fruit.

The weather has been very unsettled for a couple of weeks, an hour or two of sun, then sudden cloud and storms, thunder, lightening, power off, the works. Later there may be sunshine again, or misty haze and low cloud across the valley. It means unplugging the phones, computer, TV, and any electrical equipment as soon as a serious rumble rolls through to avoid a lightening strike down a cable. I have been holding back on going to Florence for the day as when it rains, it really rains.

So I am getting down to the nitty gritty of everything involved in buying the house and am very glad to have come across people who are making it less daunting than it initially sounds. The estate agents are an English couple who speak fluent Italian so communicating with the owners has been a lot easier than it might have been, and we seem to be well on the way to a pretty straight forward completion. I can’t quite believe it.

The only house buying procedures I knew about previously were British and the Italian system differs quite a lot. Initially a complication may arise from the law on inheritance, which states that when a spouse dies 50% of his or her property goes to the remaining spouse, if there is one, and the other 50% is divided equally between the children. This can lead to multiple ownership over several generations, and before the property can be sold permission must be sought from every aunt, cousin, nephew etc. who has a share, however minimal. Sometimes they have gone to live abroad, or simply moved who knows where, and I have heard of it taking two years to trace all the owners of a property before it can be sold. I am fortunate that my house has only two parties involved and both are agreed, so we are underway.

Whereas in England a solicitor would act on your behalf in purchasing a house, here a geometra is usually appointed. He is something akin to a building surveyor in the UK and he undertakes all the searches on the property. The procedure as a rule is in three stages, the first being the exchange of a letter of intent once the selling price is agreed, and the payment of a small deposit by the buyer, in my case a cheque which is held by the estate agent. This secures about a month to undertake the necessary searches.

Then comes an initial contract which acts as a promise to buy and sell and is legally binding. Primarily it ensures that the price cannot change, the date for completion is fixed, and the buyer pays one third of the price there and then. If the buyer backs out the deposit is lost, but if the vendor backs out he has to pay back double the deposit. As one third is generally a serious amount this must focus minds and avoid sales falling through.

For the final stage, completion, both buyer and seller are present at a meeting with the public notary who is witness to the signing and makes sure everyone understands what they are doing. The remainder of the price is paid there and then, along with all the fees and taxes.  The overall cost of buying a property is generally between 10 and 15% of the purchase price, which is a tidy sum. The buyer pays a percentage to the estate agent, the geometra, the notary, tax on the building and at a separate rate on the land if there is any, and stamp duty.

Sometimes, if all searches go smoothly and there are few reasons for delay, by agreement the middle stage or initial contract is waived and the process goes straight from letter of intent to completion, as it is in my case. So if all goes to plan we should seal the deal on July 31 and the appointment is already booked with the notary.

The owners, Nada and her husband who are acting for her father, Cesare, who is eighty three, have been very welcoming and friendly. Nada is a whirlwind of a woman, probably approaching my age but with blonde hair, an athletic figure and a loud, excitable voice that only stops to chain smoke. There was no haggling over my offer and as there is no one living there currently, at my next visit she gave me a key to the house, urging me to come at any time, no appointment needed, just treat it as your own.

She rushed me to the garden, arms waving impatiently for me to follow, showing me where the salad was growing in the orto, then back to the kitchen where she had left dishes, oil, vinegar, coffee, and a towel, all I might need for a picnic. Then she ran down the steps to one of the cantinas and came back with a wooden garden rake which puzzled me, until she began to rake cherries off the tall tree near the house and fill a bag for me to take home, all the time chattering at top speed. I was quite exhausted when she left, but so warmed by her generosity and trust.

So in little more than three weeks it could all be complete and when I visit and look at it all I am lost in wonder at this actually happening. There are some demanding times to come of course. Planning permission is needed for the extensive amount of work to be done and the fastest that is likely to be processed is October or November. Then the work itself begins at the worst time of year, roof off, ceiling heights raised to reach current regulations, beams switched from one direction to another to allow for a staircase, new windows throughout, etc. Six to nine months? Who knows. And most demanding of all, I shall be living in a caravan in the garden, with four cats…

This last week has been dominated by the cat saga again, which escalated to an obsession. When I returned from Garda I thought Tiger was looking a bit listless and staying indoors longer. Within a couple of days it was clear he was not well, so off we went to the vet, one of my favourite people in town. He is superb at his job, specialising in piccolo animali, with the waiting room divided into gatti on one side of a low wall and cani on the other.

He is tall with long arms and legs, his green overalls hanging loosely round his lanky frame. His face has strong features, bold eyebrows, dark eyes, a long nose and prominent chin with a little grey beard. His hair is all but white, slender threads sleeked back over a balding crown then bushing out into fulsome curls around the back of his neck.

Thankfully he speaks English quite well, in a slow and deliberate way that requires his full concentration. His mood can swing in a moment from solemn and silent to laughing eyes and a quick riposte. Not long ago he was suggesting that I give the cats fresh meat and fish regularly as a change from processed cat food, and I pulled a face and said I was a vegetarian and didn’t really like cooking it. He shrugged his shoulders, spread his hands and said “Alora, well then, get a rabbit!”

Athough there is not a trace of sentiment in the way he deals with the cats, there is genuine concern to do all he can. It emerged that Tiger had a high temperature, and for the next three days I took him to the surgery every morning to check in case it was dangerously high. The only cause seemed to be trauma, a result of constantly being attacked by the tomcat in our garden who does not want another male on his territory. Probably it escalated whilst I was away in Garda and there was just my neighbour feeding the cats.

This enraged me. That cat who had so easily outwitted me last time I tried to catch him was now not only frightening Tiger, but also threatening his health and well being. So I renewed my efforts to catch him and thought up variations. I have another larger cat carrying box which he hadn’t seen, this time with a vertically hung door at one end so I would need to leap out and bang it shut myself.

Knowing he always pads round the front garden once it is dark, I put the lights out at ten o’clock and sat behind the front door, waiting. It was midnight before he appeared again, and I spent the time thinking about my new house, what I would put where and how I will decorate it. Then there he was. The minute he was totally in the box I shot outside, ready to bang the door shut, but too late. Reacting like lightening he had twisted round and leapt out, and was off. Again.

Frustrated, I went back to plan A and resumed trying to catch him with the original cage, string hanging from the upstairs window. Five times I had him across the week, only to lose him, the last being when at the critical moment the string broke.

In the meantime Tiger was recovering, and it appeared the antibiotics he was on as a precautionary measure where having some beneficial effect. Ultrasound showed a swelling in his abdomen, and with his fur shaved off a scar was evident. Probably a cat bite or claw strike was the cause, and infection must have created an abcess. But his temperature returned to safe levels, he regained his vigour and was back out on the rampage at night, regardless of the inevitable.

Yesterday I was bringing him back from the vet and whizzed into Esselunga for a few groceries, feeling despondent. I was relieved he was well of course, but still feeling concerned about the continuing attacks. My eye fell on a  packet of Walker’s shortbread, an old friend, and once home I sat under the vine with a cup of coffee, comfort eating. Then I noticed that miniscule crumbs of shortbread were moving, slowly but steadily. Looking more closely, there were tiny ants, lifting their own size and doubtless body weight and setting off with it across the plateau of my table, headed back to camp with their prize. And what a journey that would be, down the table legs and who knows where into the undergrowth, carrying a huge burden.

But is it a burden? To them it is all in a days work, keep on searching, keep on carrying, whether the journey succeeds or fails there is no dwelling on it, just on with the next. And here was I making a veritable crusade out of my efforts, despairing at my lack of success.

Yes, it’s a problem, I don’t want my cat hurt, but perhaps I don’t need to take on the whole burden, he must be learning how to handle himself, and the situation, because he keeps going back out there, and coming home again. So just chill, Liz, see how the next week goes, but think about something else, why don’t you. Isn’t it crazy how life can narrow down if you let it. I’ll go to Florence next week.

I can hardly believe that I have found my new house so quickly, and it is everything I want, and more. I thought it would take weeks of looking. I have spent a lot of time checking with local estate agents, most of whom were less than encouraging when I gave them my wish list, and even more trawling though websites to cover the area within an hour of Lucca. There is no shortage of properties, you could spend weeks online eight hours a day and still not cover them all. Eventually I built a short list of possibles and fixed appointments to view the top two.

The first ticked the boxes, without lighting me up, but the second… home. It is, for me, absolutely wonderful, I knew right away it was the one and I still keep being overcome with excitement that it is real and I am on my way towards it. I have made an offer which has been accepted so the legal process is underway.

It is north of Lucca, up the Serchio valley which leads to the Garfagnana, beautiful high mountain countryside between the Apuan and the Appenine Alps. Halfway up the valley road I turn right and up a series of extreme hairpins for about fifteen minutes, with breath taking views of jagged peaks across the Serchio, to the little town of Coreglia Antelminelli. From here a country lane winds gently down round endless blind corners into another, much smaller, wooded valley.

There is a left turn off the lane down a long track towards a river, with tall firs on either side, which eventually opens out into meadowland. To the right a little path lined with fruit trees and stacks of logs leads to a small chestnut barn, and then on into woodland. To the left it arrives at the back of the house, a farm probably about a hundred years old, built into the side of  gently sloping terraces.

Steps climb up to the left and lead round the side of the house to the front, opening onto a large terrace. One side is walled, with an old stone trough built in and spring water running into it and on the other steps lead down again to the lower level and the entrance to two large cantinas or cellars. Straight ahead of the house, maybe ten metres away, stand two huge ancient lime trees, framing the view between them.

It is perfect. Looking straight ahead from the house, between the limes, I can see right up the length of the valley to the church tower of Coreglia Antelminelli, way off in the distance. A grassy terrace leads to another little barn about fifty metres ahead. To the left the land sweeps gently up, back towards the lane which is concealed in the trees. There are a few olives, many cherries, apples, figs, pears, walnuts, and more that I haven’t taken in yet. To the right it rolls down to stands of vines, a large orto or vegetable patch, another large stone trough complete with spring and eventually to the edge of a cliff from where there is about a twenty metre drop to the river rushing below.

The house itself is very simple and thankfully almost entirely un-modernised so I can do what I like with it. The front door leads from the terrace into a living room with an open fire to one side and a second room to the left. At the back of the living room there is a kitchen and a little stairway, more like a ladder, leading upstairs through a trap door to the two rooms above. And that’s it. The only modern convenience is a toilet in one of the cantinas. 

No one has lived here for some time, the old man who owns it, Cesare, now lives with his daughter Nada near Coreglia. But although he is eighty three he still comes to the house everyday, in his little three wheeler Ape, to look after the land. And it shows, every vine is perfectly pruned, every tree ready to fruit, the orto full of vegetables, the grass cut and the logs sawn to length and stacked perfectly. I could not have wished for better or more beautiful land. He has even built quite a large, shallow pool on the hillside so that water from one of the springs runs into it and the sun warms it before it is used to water the vegetables. They don’t like it to be too cold, apparently.

So here is my heaven. The house is just right, I can open the two rooms downstairs into one living area, put in a new staircase, turn one room upstairs into a bathroom, convert the little barn for guests and spend the rest of my life learning how to look after the land and growing things. The chestnut barn may well make winter quarters for a horse. There are over thirty acres in all, most of them steep, wooded hillside that will look after itself, but on the cultivated land I will have my work cut out following in Cesare’s footsteps.

It is not that long since I had no idea this is what I wanted. I have done a little gardening but not a lot, John and I had an agreement that I decided everything to do with the house and he the garden, then we didn’t argue. I certainly know nothing about tending vines. My Dad was a wonderful gardener, but I took little notice, it was for old folk. Well here I am, what I would have considered back then to be pretty old, with everything to learn, a heap of work in front of me, and loving it. Yes I’m a little apprehensive too, but that’s all part of the challenge. Bring it on!

Our few days around Lake Garda were really lovely. We stayed at Torri del Benaco on the eastern shore of the lake, about 20 miles north of Verona. It is the prettiest little place. The first time we arrived here, in May several years ago, it was dark, the taxi rounded a corner and we were on one side of a tiny horse shoe shaped harbour filled with a handful of yachts and fishing boats, and on the other side was our hotel. Little olive trees circling the road round were strung with tiny white lights reflecting on the water and it was so beautiful we both drew breath at once.

So we had no hesitation in returning and it was just as pleasant as the first time. The Hotel Gardesana is not large and is very comfortable, with rooms that look out over the boats to the castle opposite, the stone built jetty for ferries and the lake. The large terrace on the harbourside is perfect for just idling and sipping whatever you wish whilst watching the passeggiata as one and all stroll by on their way along the promenade.

Everything is very green and colourful, there are alot of well kept trees and oleanders flourish in white, pink and deep magenta along with brilliant red geraniums. Little restaurants line the edge of the lake, some with seating and large umbrellas on decking over the water, and of course fish is a speciality. Everywhere is pristine, not a hint of litter, and in the evenings there are stalls along the streets and round the harbour selling paintings, jewellery, and bric-a-brac.

One morning we were having coffee on the harbour side when a  small, bright red motor boat swept in and a couple moored and got out for a stroll. A family of swans was on the water, parents and two young ones, still grey and fluffy and staying close to their mother. Father took exception to this intruder, I think it was the colour, puffed up his feathers and went for it. When the monster would not respond he kept on sweeping round it from side to side, angrily taunting it, wings beating, whilst his family waited on the other side of the water. When the couple returned they had some difficulty getting back aboard and had to depart in haste, with the swan in hot persuit until they were out on the lake.

From end to end Garda is about 32 miles and at its widest 10 miles across, the largest of the Italian lakes. As the northbound ferry zigzags its way back and forth across the lake from village to village, the mountains rise ahead on either side, the views are glorious and the fresh lake breeze is exhilarating. Approaching the northern most village, Riva del Garda, there are towering limestone peaks sweeping straight up out of the water, some still with patches of snow near the top.

In contrast the other end of the lake has gentle, vine covered slopes on either side, and the prettiest southern village, Sirmione, is built along a promontory, complete with castle and ancient ruins. All the villages have their best face to the water where the boats come in, brightly coloured hotels and houses, little cafes and restaurants, masses of greenery and flowers, and each with their own identity. They work hard to appeal and there is obviously strong competition to attract visitors. Sailing from one to another, stopping wherever you wish, is a lovely way to spend a day.

The weather was sunny and bright when we arrived, and as each day passed it became hotter and a haze settled across the water. By our last evening it was decidedly sultry, grey clouds were appearing and we were tetchy, bickering about nothing of any consequence. We ate at one of the restaurants along the edge of the water and I noticed two other couples impatiently arguing with each other as they set out for the evening – we’ll go here, no we won’t, I want to go there. So there was tension in the air, it wasn’t just us.

There is a gesture instinctive to Italians when they are roused, elbows shoot back, palms spread, chin thrusts out, and eyes blaze  - So? are we going to fight, because I’m ready… It’s a warning, often taken up without hesitation by the other party until the argument wears itself out, or they are dragged apart when it gets to extremes. But usually there is an end, goodwill returns and all is well, the heat having been taken out of the matter. It seems to me so much healthier than the icy chill and tight lipped brooding that often accompanies restraint.

As we began to eat the breeze strengthened, the clouds massed overhead and the staff were distractedly spending more time looking at the sky than the customers. Then thunder rolled, lightening flashed, and the rain came down. We were urged to go inside, but as the umbrella we were under was quite large John responded with “we are alright where we are, thankyou” and with thoroughly British fortitude we finished our meal where we were.

The worst abated quite quickly and we walked back to the hotel to find that there was a large party underway. As two thirds of the terrace was undercover they, too, had carried on, music was playing and couples were dancing, along with lots of small children. It was a christening party, the baby looked no more than a few weeks old and happily swung from one pair of arms to the next whilst presents were opened, all embraced and grandma strode proudly round the gathering with a laughing child under each arm. Storm over, harmony restored.

I expect I could be described as having been on holiday for the last year, and I wouldn’t argue with that. But having my husband John here on his holiday this week has been another of those milestones that make me realise how much my life has changed.

We set off with good intentions to see the sights and covered a fair bit of ground in the first couple of days, but it has got progressively hotter which John finds uncomfortable, so the pace slowed right down to sunbeds in the shade of the vine. In the past I would have been champing at the bit, eager to get up and get going and snapping round his heels. But now it really doesn’t matter, when he goes home again I have all the time I want to do what I want, so I can be indulgent.

But we have seen friends, curious to meet the absent husband, and had some lovely meals out, including lunch at Da Carla’s down in the valley. It is quite a large old building not far from the river, surrounded by trees and overlooking a little man made lake where people fish. There is a big restaurant inside, high ceilings, typical tuscan rustic decor, a pizza oven in the kitchen, a large fireplace in one corner that is very welcome in winter and a bar to one side. Here Mamma presides, a stocky little no messing with me sort of a lady, taking the money and moving around to cast an eagle eye over proceedings when it is busy.

In the summer there is a spacious covered terrace for eating outside. We started with the house antipasto which just kept on coming on large, oval plates that filled the table. Prosciutto as finely sliced as tissue, salami, fagioli or beans dressed with a little oil and seasoning, a vegetable salad, small onions like a much milder version of English pickled onions, slices of cheese, and a variety of bruschetta e crostini,  grilled bread with garlic rubbed across one side and topped with mushrooms, tomatoes, various pates, or just olive oil and garlic. It was a feast in itself. I was glad I had a frittata coming next, a lovely light little omelette with asparagus, but some went on to an assortment of grilled meats and vegetables that once more filled plates and stomachs to capacity.

I like eating here and brought Rachel and my grandchildren on a busy saturday night when it was almost full and very jolly. I have never noticed an Italian pick at their food, they eat with gusto and attention, taking real pleasure in what is on their plate, as well as their lively conversation.  There was only one man we thought got the short straw, of his own volition, that evening.

He was there with his wife, a chubby and hungry baby and the grandparents, and he had with him a new child seat like the top off a high chair, still in its box. Whilst Mamma settled the child on grandma’s knee and started feeding him right away from a dish in her bag, Papa got out the new chair and began to put it together. The others ordered, he read the instructions again, a waitress brought him the restaurant high chair, but he swept it aside and continued assembly, this way, then that, until he was gritting his teeth. The family ignored him, the baby was fed, all the antipasto plates arrived and everyone set to with a will. He struggled on, grabbing the odd mouthfull, and finally, not long before everyone had finished, he won. The baby was asleep by then and Mamma was ready to go…

This is the only valley where fagioli di sorana are cultivated, in a little micro climate of good earth and moisture that creates the perfect conditions for these thin skinned, tender little beans that look like canelli beans, but with a much sought after delicate flavour. A traditional way of cooking them is in a fiasco,or flask, and one of these arrived at the table of a couple next to us, looking rather dramatic. It was a large glass bottle with a long neck and a round base, like a chianti bottle without the straw, half filled with cooked beans.

They are poured into the bottle with some virgin olive oil, a few sage leaves, some garlic, salt and pepper, then covered to three quarters with pure spring water.  A cotton cloth is tied over the mouth then the beans are very gently cooked without boiling for four or five hours, traditionally in the ashes of the fire, until all the water has evaporated. The couple were spooning them from the fiasco onto their plates, drizzling more oil and clearly enjoying them.

Tomorrow morning we are travelling up to Lake Garda by train for the last few days of John’s visit, to a lovely little hotel on the lakeside where we can catch the steamers that sail constantly from one end to the other, stopping at villages along the way. I am looking forward to it and that will feel like a real holiday.

It will be the first we have had where we each leave not only for different homes, but in different countries. We are very lucky really, we each have what we want. I am very grateful to him, for I know that ideally he would prefer me to be with him, but he has a big enough heart to let me be myself where I want to be. We speak daily and are a constant and valued part of each other’s lives.

But just to check that all was really OK and he wasn’t pining too much, last night over supper I said “if you could have only one wish for the future what would it be?” He thought for quite a while, and I watched his face, then he said “well, I’d really like to have it proved that aliens exist before I die.” So that’s alright then.

It was my birthday last weekend and I had invited some friends for lunch under the vine on the terrace, to shade us from the midday sun. In the event it kept the rain off, though we had to dive inside at times until the worst of it had past. But it wasn’t quite as bad as I had expected, having seen a local weather report with charming English translations that said “for Saturday, a tempest”.

This week my husband John has arrived for a holiday so we are on the tourist trail. All in all the combination of completing my first year here, being another year older and showing my family the places I love has given me the impetus to take the next step, which is to take root. It has been a year of finding my way, experiencing every season and thoroughly enjoying idling about after retiring from work. But the house I am in now is rented and my contract expires at the end of October, so it is time to start looking for a home to buy.

There is certainly plenty of choice. From time to time I have been idly looking through estate agents windows and at their websites and prices are inching down as the recession bites, like many other countries. The range is considerable. There are modern villas, with pools and the full on dream holiday look, town houses and apartments full of character or sleek and contemporary, rustic houses in tiny villages, old farms, and any amount of collapsing barns waiting to be re-built.

There has been a big market here for many years in second homes that can also be holiday rentals. I think anyone with a few stones on top of each other and a handkerchief of land has had hopes that some enterprising stranieri, or foreigner, will happily part with a heap of cash for very little. But this year the chances are considerably less.

I have a dream of what I want, and it is quite a tall order. I love being in the hills, so that is first choice, surrounded by peaceful countryside and with no immediate neighbours. I want some land, but gently sloping rather than steeply terraced, fruit trees, and space for a vegetable garden. I would love to have water nearby, a river or a stream, or maybe a spring. The house does not need to be big, enough space for me and the cats and with a barn or outbuilding that can be converted into a place for family and friends to come and stay and relax in their own space.

I am quite happy for it to be fairly remote, as long as it is within about an hour of Lucca, I have become so attached to the town that though I would never choose to live in an urban environment I want to be near enough to visit easily. Other than that I am not fixed on any one location, which could mean some uprooting again, just when I have made friends here. But I feel strongly that finding the right house in the right surroundings is the priority.

It is more than likely that whatever I find will be old and need quite alot of work, and people have warned me of the dangers that lie ahead if I buy a ruin – endless quests for planning permission, fruitless months of waiting for electricity and phone lines to be connected, spiralling costs of building work, etc., and all in Italian. So I would like to find something a good bit less than a ruin, but am not daunted by quite a lot of work to do. Been there and done that in the past, though admittedly in English.

The reaction from those I tell varies. Quite a few think I have lost the plot, and though they couch it with considerably more tact, I can tell that if given a free rein it would be something like – are you nuts? At your age? taking on land and an islolated house in the country, you’ll be far too lonely, over worked and ruined by the cost of it all by the time you have got it habitable. What you should buy is a nice little house in a village, already completely refurbished so that you don’t have to do a thing, and with just enough garden for a few flowers, then you can cope with it.

No way. That makes me feel that the only thing needed to complete the picture would be a stack of knitting patterns and a big tin of cocoa, and I am a long way from ready for that. I want to start again, with a clear idea in my head of the home I will create and the life I will lead in it. I want everything I do to be as eco friendly as I can make it. I want to get my hands in the earth and grow things. I want to cook for big, happy gatherings and feed people in the sunshine, and the odd tempest. I want to gather my cats round me on winter nights in front of a fire and hear nothing but nature around us. And that is just scratching the surface, I want alot of things, and I plan to make them happen.

So this is where it begins, with hopes and dreams, and plenty of excitement. I shall be online and in estate agents and looking at properties pretty soon, and I don’t intend to compromise on the vision. It is out there somewhere and I will find it.

I was cat catching at six o’clock yesterday morning. Not mine, my kitten Tiger’s father, and quite possibly the father of all four of the feral cats I have adopted, come to think of it. He is king here, a wily, aggressive and domineering male who rules supreme over my garden. At first I included him in feeding time out on the patio, if not life indoors, but he just bolted his food, shouldered everyone else out of the way and ate theirs too. No one dare deny him.

Now that Tiger is grown the sight of him is a red rag to his father who is not going to tolerate another male round here. I hear a snarling growl, a yelp from Tiger, and two identical tails fly through the long grass, one in hot pursuit of the other. Thankfully son just has the edge and eventually he creeps home to hide, darting nervous glances behind him until safely through the door.

I have failed in every attempt to keep the bully out, there has to be a window open for the others to come in and out so of course he uses it too. And in the summer the doors are always open. So he lurks at feeding time, which is now indoors, ready for me to look the other way, then is in like a flash, the others step back, and he cleans out their bowls. I have smacked him with a brush handle, soaked him with a bucket of water, used all manner of cat deterrents, shouted like a she devil, and he just runs far enough away to sit down, lick his paws and give me an imperious stare.

A couple of days ago I came home from shopping and all the cats were in the garden, which is unusual, there is normally at least one asleep inside when it’s hot. As I opened the front door there was a rushing past my legs, out flew the enemy, and there was a warm patch on the sofa where he had obviously been asleep. Not a crumb of a cat biscuit in the bowls of course, or a teaspoon of milk. That is enough, I thought, you are not taking over our house, it’s war now. Short of killing you, which I really can’t bring myself to do, there must be a way of winning this battle.

That night in bed a plan came to me. If I could just catch him I could bundle him into the car and drive him far away, then set him free in a similar landscape to the one he knows, away from roads. He has grown up in the wild and is without doubt a survivor. Then we would have peace and everyone could relax, and Tiger could be king of our garden.

Snowy is the one to wake me in the mornings, at sun up, which is now about five thirty. She doesn’t make a sound, just jumps onto one side of  my bed and runs over my legs to the other, then sits watching me, waiting for signs of stirring. Breakfast is inevitable as she carries on until I get up. So yesterday morning I fed them as usual, then set a trap.

I have a wire mesh cat carrying box for taking them to the vet, oblong with a domed top and one end that is held on by two clasps and drops down flat as a way in. So I let down a long length of sturdy string from the bedroom window to the garden, put a bowl of food in the box and tied the string to the top of the door that was flat on the ground, leaving enough trailing in the grass for it not to be obvious. Shutting my eating cats inside I went up to the bedroom window and waited.

Within a couple of minutes he was inside bolting down the food, and I pulled up the door behind him. I quickly tied the string tightly to the window handle and shot downstairs, victory in sight. But as I was about to grab the clips and snap them shut, he saw me and threw himself against the door. The string gave just an inch or two, allowing him to force a gap for a moment and wriggle through it, writhing like a snake, and bounding away. Foiled. Cheated. So nearly home and dry. I let the others out to finish off what he had left and banged around the kitchen getting my breakfast in a fit of frustration.

An hour or so later I was doing the ironing and I began to laugh. My mind had travelled back a couple of years to what I would have been doing right now at this time in the morning – driving to work and planning the day. What deadlines are coming up, I need to finish the figures for the bank manager, are there any staff meetings, those emails must go today, I should check if that magazine is generating enough responses from our ad, is my lunch in my bag or have I forgotten it again. And there I was, in the here and now, single mindedly concerned with catching a cat.

Not that many years ago I thought I would work for as long as I could and never considered the alternative. It seemed to me that the lives of retired people had shrunk and couldn’t really be as interesting as a life absorbed by the variety and demands of work. But now I am here and far from that world I find that, for me at least, it is quite the reverse.

What has changed is gradually filtering out all the clutter that filled my head, motivated by necessity, and letting go. I realise I never really switched off before, or had any peace. And now it is so much simpler. Yesterday I was fixated on the cat, tomorrow I may bake cherry cakes or go into the hills with a picnic, I’ve no idea yet.

But in the spaces in between I am free to let my mind relax, and then inspiration comes flooding in, because at last there is room. And inspiration brings ideas, opens me to how I think and feel which I am finding is quite different to the years of reactions born of habit, and no space in which to review. There are things I now want to do with my life that  I would never have thought of then and it is opening up, not shrinking. Yippee!

The kids went home yesterday after a glorious week of brilliant sunshine, and today the temperature has dropped by half, it has rained all day and the clouds look set to stay a while –  we were so lucky. It is quiet, the cats have appeared again now they are safe from fast moving small people and are asleep in their usual places. I am back in a sweater, but I don’t think it will be for long.

We went to Lucca twice and hired bikes to ride round the walls which was great fun. It is a broad, tree lined avenue with no traffic, just other bikes and pedestrians, on the top of the wall, from where you can look down into the town as you cycle round. It’s very popular and as well as locals who get around on bikes as there is limited traffic in Lucca there were lots of visitors, all nationalities, many of them on tandems.

A favourite of mine for lunch in Lucca, and I hope to make it dinner before long, is Osteria San Giorgio on Via San Giorgio, just off Via Fillungo, my favourite shopping street. There is an archway on the right that opens into a little courtyard surrounded on three sides by ancient brick walls four stories high. A flight of five steps leads up to the restaurant doorway, lined with plants in pots, and in summer time there are about a dozen tables outside in the courtyard which is lovely and quiet.

The interior is one large room divided by a broad archway that was probably once a wall, high beamed ceilings, and simple, rustic decor. There are wrought iron wall lights stretching out into the room a little like Parisian street lights, around twenty tables with check cloths and a notice board on one wall where people have left notes about their meal, and messages for friends.

The menu is described as cucina tipica Lucchese and I love the simplicity of really fresh ingredients that make  up most of the dishes. One of my favourites when it is a little cooler is zuppa lucchese, a soup  made with farro, an ancient grain and the Tuscan equivalent of barley, enriched with a good brodo,stock, and vegetables. This is readily available in a lot of restaurants, but the best I have tasted so far was here.

I’ve had little spinach pudding shapes in a parmesan bechamel sauce, asparagus with broad beans and peas, vegetable ravioli with carbonara sauce, and a lovely scrambled egg dish lightly mixed with sliced salad onions, skinned tomatoes and asparagus pieces in butter -  gorgeous, and I now make it at home.For meat and fish eaters there are lots of options that of course I never look at but I have heard plenty of exclamations of delight as dishes are tasted. Puddings are not really a big deal in most Italian restaurants and if I feel like one I often settle for a simple and unadorned panna cotta.

Service is quite good, nothing exceptional, but efficient. One day when I was having lunch potential waitresses were being interviewed by what was either one of the owners or the manager, a small, thin, sharp faced woman in black who took each arrival into a corner by the doorway and gave them a quick run down of the essentials. Very little was asked of them, mostly just their phone number, and they were dispatched within two or three minutes. She must have been pretty confident of her ability to weigh up the likely candidates right away.

One of the things I like about it is that it is out of the way of the busy main streets so it doesn’t fill up to capacity at lunch time, though it may at weekends, so it is a pleasant and relaxing atmosphere. I guess it will be quite a lot busier for dinner too. But on each occasion I have eaten there, admittedly in spring and early summer, not high season, there have been only a handful of tables occupied.

Last time there was a table for four that was quite entertaining. A young couple were having lunch with her parents and it was obviously an occasion, though it took me a little while to work out that it was the couple’s anniversary. He gave her a gift first, a rather lovely silk tunic dress that she shook out from it’s wrapping and admired. By now the other three tables that were occupied were craning necks to see as well as me.

Then she gave him two books that obviously pleased him from his reaction, and a Superman T shirt which caused much mirth. Frankly I would have given him one too, he was quite beautifull in a curly haired, wide eyed, Greek god sort of a way. By comparison she was rather plain with a pale, pinched face and glasses, but when she smiled, which was frequently, her face lit up and she was truly lovely.

The parents gave them a satellite navigation system which obviously went down well with him, though those of us at other tables exchanged puzzled looks – was he always late for family occasions? Had he got lost on the honeymoon? It seemed a rather odd present, but then we were getting far too involved and I don’t doubt it was noticed, but not taken amiss.

As I got up to leave I felt that I had been part of a very happy occasion as well as having a lovely meal, and I caught the eye of the young woman and sent her a silent thankyou. She beamed back at me with such radiance that she quite outshone the Greek god, a reminder of the power of a smile.

Rachel and my grandchildren are staying with me this week and as it was Adam’s seventh birthday yesterday we hit the beach in style. Viareggio is an hour’s drive from here, and with ten kilometres of white sandy beach it has become the principal resort on the Tuscan riviera.

A few hundred years ago the coastal plain was a flat expanse of mosquito ridden marshes that were barely habitable but much sought after by both the city of Pisa and Lucca as a sea port. Eventually Lucca were the victors, drained the marshes and encouraged habitation and boat building which has developed into today’s international shipyards in Viareggio.  

In the mid nineteenth century there were the first serious attempts to create a seaside resort. Almost all building was in wood, due to the proximity of so much timber on the hillsides close by, and a fire in 1917 destroyed much of the town in one night. The restoration has led to many lovely liberty or art nouveau inspired buildings along the broad expanse of the passeggiata a mare, or promenade, lending the town an elegant old world charm and an air of prosperous times past.

The Carnival held in the weeks prior to easter is one of the most significant in Europe, famous for the floats that parade the length of the promenade. Over the years they have developed into huge, elaborate papier mache constructions made by craftsmen, often caricatures of celebrities, politicians and sportsmen. Carnival is prevalent throughout Italy in spring and is epitomised in a Viareggio carnival song, “such fun, such madness, this universal frenzy that makes us all re-born.” I’m not missing it next year.

The first grey clouds in a fortnight loomed over us as we headed for the sea, but once there they remained stacked up just behind the town and we were blessed with clear blue sky and brilliant sunshine. Four kilometres of the beach is public and free to all, the remaining six being a series of privately owned businesses that each have a strip of beach maybe twenty to thirty metres across running down to the the water.

We walked a stretch of the promenade weighing up which looked the most inviting and took our pick. It is still quiet now, most will not have been open long and have a sleepy air of nothing much stirring. It was really very smart, a little built up area of showers and changing rooms, a swimming pool not open yet, a small simple restaurant and then rows of well spaced deckchairs and sun beds stretching down the beach.

The owner welcomed us in perfect English and explained the drill, the price depends on how many deck chairs and/or sunbeds you want and then they are yours for as long as you wish. I told him it was a birthday treat so we would have one each of both, and though it should have been sixty euros he smiled at my excess and only charged me forty with typically Italian spontaneous generosity. In the July and August high season I think it would be around a hundred for four.

The weather, though hot and sunny, was gathering for a storm that evening, so the sea was more restless than usual and the waves that rolled in were quite impressive, terrific fun for racing in and out. As the strip of beach along the water’s edge remains free for all to stroll along there were vendors of holiday gear out in strength already and we were offered any amount of sunglasses, handbags, sundresses, bangles and beads, and a reflexology foot massage.

There is a great deal more tolerance here than in the UK of those making a living selling what they can carry, and they will sometimes even pop out at traffic lights with lighters and packets of paper hankies. In my town there are a handful of Africans who walk the streets and the main piazza daily, and now we recognise each other we exchange a smile and a hello.

Adam’s current preoccupation is being cool, which means rigorous vetting of anything he is to wear and instant rejection of what is not cool, if you are seven. His best present was a mobile phone, he spent the journey looking for a ringtone cool enough, and I thought he might not actually look up from it for the rest of the day. But the sea was a perfect distraction and unconsciously he reverted to a little boy on a beach with a bucket and spade and all those waves. It got me too and I was dancing in and out just as much.

Boy it was hot, and I hear that most of Italy is currently in the grip of a heat wave, not just us. So when we wandered out in a haze of heat on the promenade the only thing for it was a big ice cream. Once home the clouds had gathered, thunder started to roll, the wind got up and lightening flashed round the sky whilst rain lashed down, for about half an hour. For once I didn’t have to water the garden.

I shall be off to Viareggio again, the walk along the water’s edge can last as long as you want it to, the shops look terrific, and the marina at the south end of the town well worth an amble round. The birthday was given a cool rating, and Rachel and I got terrific tans, so success all round.

The way they do things here is something that catches up with your consciousness slowly, once you have got over the being new and everything is different stage. In fact less is different than it feels at first, it’s just happening in another language and with other forms of expression. But a lot does appeal to me and add to my pleasure in being here.

I like the fact that many garages have petrol pump attendants. In the UK they largely vanished years ago and self service is the norm. But at the bottom of the hill on the way into town there is a relatively small filling station, four pumps, with three staff who fill the tank, wash your windscreen, top you up with oil if you want and are generally ready to help.

On an early visit I confused the number of litres showing on the pump with the amount in euros to pay, and handed over the litres number saying, no change thank you, to the astonishment of the young man with his hand out. I couldn’t think why he looked so grateful until my next visit, when I registered which way round the dials were, and the difference. I am now treated with real customer service, and always tip, though not quite as much, and it pays.

I dislodged the nearside wing mirror on some protruding scaffolding on the way down the hill one day, scuttling into the side to avoid a huge wagon coming up who was not interested in the fate of midgets like me and the Twingo.  As I pulled in for petrol the mirror was clanking against the side of the car, and to my delight, between them they fixed it, successfully, no charge.

The alternative is of course, the opposite, self service, no staff at all and you put notes or your credit card into a machine to fill up yourself. This still makes me a bit nervous, my first effort in a garage on a quiet road was a failure, I put in my ten euros and slotted the nozzle into the tank, and waited – nothing. Eventually I had to leave, ignominiously, having stood there for ages. A friend showed me another time, I had neglected to tell the machine which pump I wanted the fuel to come from, idiot, so someone else would receive mine for free.

The Twingo air conditioning has been blasting away during these last two weeks of glorious heat, but it wasn’t cool. So I took it in to Angelo, the mechanic, who had a look. “No frigo, all gone” he said, “you go for gelato, I put frigo in Twingo, everybody happy.” So off I went for my ice cream whilst he filled up with refrigerant, and now we are blissfully cool in a couple of minutes.

I was clothes shopping in Lucca this week, in a lovely rather quirky shop on Via San Paolino called Gong. Always on walking into a shop someone will say buongiorno or buona sera within moments of you entering, you are never ignored. But in this instance I liked being taken in hand by the lady whose shop it is. She designs the clothes herself, all in natural fabrics, linens, cottons, silks – stylish but casual.

I am an English pear shape and often tend to wear long and loose tops to conceal my nether regions. I was wearing such a shirt that day, which exasperated her. “Why do you do this, cover up in a sack when you have a good body. Look, put on something shorter, it shows your waist, your legs look longer. Your tummy? It is perfetto, you are a woman not a stick, I design my clothes for real women.” Of course I bought something, and am now reviewing my wardrobe. I really like it that Italians will tell you like it is, regardless of how you think it is.

One day in Lucca I noticed a pink bow attached to a front door, and have since seen several, either pink or blue, with a little card announcing the birth of a child, which I think is charming. In the travel agents windows there are computer generated posters announcing a wedding and the honeymoon destination, so I assume that guests can leave a contribution to the cost with the travel agent as a wedding gift, which seems like a good idea. I hope Allessio and Allessandra have lots of kind friends who will dig deep as they are off to New York and Mexico in July.

There are communal notice boards in all towns and villages of any size where deaths are announced. Posters relate the name, age and a few details of the deceased, well designed and often decorated with flowers or a picture of Christ or the Madonna, and say where and when the funeral will take place. I am heartened that longevity seems common, most are in their eighties or even nineties.

Such are the fragments that make up everyday life. Wherever you live, the way things happen appeals or it does not, you are in a place that gives you joy, or not. Some people focus on what exasperates them but that seems a waste of time to me. I like the little discoveries that delight and if something is irksome, it will pass. I am where life feels good to me, and here I will stay.

When I decided on Tuscany as my new home there was one huge plus in its favour that I had not then realised. I knew I had eaten some pretty good chocolate here, but had no idea how much more there was to come. Italians love chocolate and there are more master chocolatiers here than in France and Belgium combined. It gets better – in Tuscany the area between Florence and Pisa is home to so many fine chocolate makers it has been dubbed Chocolate Valley. It is my task to research and report.

The first I visited, Cioccolato Slitti, is on the outskirts of Monsummano Terme, on the main road south through a rather dull commercial area. I had read about Andrea Slitti who originally worked in his father’s coffee roasting business until his interest in chocolate led him to study it, develop his own laboratory, and then begin manufacture. Over the last twenty years he has won a fistful of gold medals at international chocolate makers competitions.

The shop is very well designed and elegant, finished in beautiful materials, cream coloured stone floors, pretty little tables and chairs in the cafe alongside, a light, airy atmosphere and well laid out displays of all the products, beautifully packaged. I went with a friend who very generously let me loose to choose my own birthday present. You can also buy loose chocolates and slabs, one of the most popular being latte-nero, or milk-dark, a milk chocolate with a much higher concentration of cocoa than most which gives it the smooth flavour of milk but with less sweetness.

There is a posh version of chocolate spread with chopped hazelnuts that I haven’t tried in case I become addicted. The cocoa I have bought and used in baking, and the difference is marked, a chocolate cake to remember. The most unusual things are replicas of old tools made in chocolate, ferri vecchi, a bunch of keys, pliers, spanners, all dusted in cocoa “rust”. On this same theme a box of chocolate coffee spoons is a real indulgence, stir your espresso until all but the handle melts, then nibble it, a mocha treat.

Apparently Italian chocolatiers are known for their creative spirit amongst their peers and are always striving to come up with new flavours and ideas. Andrea has said that sometimes he starts with a name that intrigues him and then finds a flavour to match it, which struck me as wonderfully Italian, coming at it backwards. Someone said to me recently when I asked a question, “that’s far too logical a train of thought, Liz, no Italian would answer it.”

Moving on to Lucca, I discovered Caniparoli Cioccolateria as it is on Via San Paolino, my usual route on foot into town through Porta San Donato. It has an unassuming shop front and I didn’t home in on the chocolate for several visits, until one day I noticed there was a queue out through the door and I stopped to look in the window.The focus is on indulgently large chunks and slabs of chocolate sold by weight, cremino bicolore in two layers, a version of milk-dark, and sheets of chocolate scattered with almonds, hazelnuts or sultanas.

Piero Caniparoli is a chocolate maker and pastry chef who trained in France, Belgium and Switzerland before coming home to set up shop in Lucca fourteen years ago. So there are cakes and biscuits as well, and trays in the window piled with brutti ma buoni, bad but good, or as an English advertising campaign for cream might have had it, naughty but nice. These are the most moreish little nutty meringues I have ever tasted.

Inside the shop is not very big, simply laid out round an L shaped counter, and decorated in a restrained and contemporary art deco style. The walls are painted a deep burgundy with mustard borders, a wonderful combination, the counter panelling is rich, dark wood with a simple carved motif, and the one decorative feature on the walls faces you as you enter, a beautiful mirror inscribed in silver with the Caniparoli name.

Under a glass counter there are about a dozen varieties of handmade chocolates freshly made. But my favourite are the torta, cakes in all colours of chocolate. They are not deep, only one layer iced in a glace sheen, decorated with huge chocolate shavings, sides rolled in chopped pistachios perhaps, or orange segments ringing the top. I haven’t bought one yet, I am savouring the moment to come.

There are very smart but simple little brown kraft carrier bags for your goodies that, along with the name of the shop, bear the words, “People are divided into two categories – those who love chocolate, and those who don’t want to admit it.” I think that is a pretty good observation.

Who would have thought of chocolate festivals? There is one in Monsummano Terme in November, in Barga in December, and in Florence in January. I went with a friend to Cioccolosita, the one in Barga, a little medieval walled town north of Lucca, on a cold but wonderfully bright, clear December day.  Chocolate makers had temporarily taken over any available space in buildings that faced the little narrow streets, laying out their wares and all serving cups of steaming hot chocolate. I am aiming for Florence next year too.

Of course such art comes at a price, and will leave a sizeable hole in your resources. But the experience in taste is sublime. The research will continue, though I have to pace myself, there is a danger of going at it full tilt, with the inevitable side effects on my waist line and my purse. But in the interests of the blog it has to be done, doesn’t it.

A week has slid by and I have written nothing. I blame the sun. It feels like summer is here already, and never more welcome. I know I have harped on about the rain but feel vindicated since hearing that Italy has had more rain in the last twelve months than it has since weather recording began two hundred years ago! This week has been gloriously warm and even hot, reaching 27C, and I have been lying out in the sun every minute I can, wandering back into the house in that wonderful sun- hazy stupor, beyond stringing two words together.

The acacia trees are heavy with creamy white blossom and driving down to town the air is full of their scent. Sandals and T shirts are back on the street, some are buying ice cream at nine o’clock in the morning,  improbable sun dresses in exotic colours fill every dress shop window, and we all linger in the air cooled fruit and veg hall in Esselunga a bit longer.

Walking down the slopes in front of the house I am waist high in wild flowers. There are patches of overturned earth, maybe two or three square metres in one place, where the cinghiale, wild boar, have dug them over looking for whatever it is they eat. I hear them at night sometimes, snuffling and stomping about, they are pretty big and can be fierce if provoked, albeit they are vegetarian. Fortunately they have never come right up to the house and had a go at the flowers.

The vine has sprung into life and grown a canopy over the table on my terrace in less than a month. My newly planted beds along the front of the house are growing fast and need watering every evening. The sheets are dry on the line in half an hour. Little grass snakes are beginning to slither out of the undergrowth onto the lane to bask in the warmth.

The relentless march of the ants has begun again, so many kinds from tiny little things almost too small to make out up to bodies the length of a fingernail. They are vigilant in their attempts to make it to my kitchen bin and I am spraying a half and half mix of vinegar and water along their route daily, which sees them off for a few hours. Huge, buzzy insects bumble around the garden and occasionally into the house, crashing into windows in a panic. Lizards whizz up the walls and sometimes into the house, ladybirds settle on me and the occasional butterfly floats above the long grass.

Indoor winter entertainment for the cats is mainly football (I can’t get away from it). On the path down to the house there are two huge cypress trees that shed little round berries which open out and harden into a really good cat sized ball. They bring them in and spend hours racing back and forth the length of the sitting room, play fighting to get the ball. When I move the settee every couple of weeks for a vacuum session there are always about thirty lost balls.

Come spring and summer this is abandoned in favour of outdoor pastimes, chasing any passing bug, bird, mouse, cricket, or lizard and mauling it mercilessly. I am dealing with bodies daily. But I am glad to say all cats are well and healthy and it is a pleasure to see them laze in the sun with such content, full and happy, when I think back to the raggy little bunch of hungry bodies they were when I arrived.

Each evening when it has gone quite dark I look down the hillside in front of the house to see if the fireflies have begun their spectacular show yet. I had never seen them before I arrived here and it is quite amazing. They are winged beetles who are nocturnal and produce  flahes of light in their lower bodies as a mating signal, males have courtship patterns to attract females. This begins some time in May and they have not started yet, but when they do the whole hillside is alive with little points of pinky red light, really bright and moving back and forth, thousands of them. I can sit at the window watching them for ages, it is quite magical. A treat still in store.

Just in case this all seems a little too much like Wonderland, it is due to rain tomorrow, all day, with thunder and lightening. That’s truly Italian, nothing if not extreme.

May 5 was my first anniversary, the day I arrived in Italy in 2008. Re-reading my Day One post I have been reflecting on what has happened to me in the last year and how I feel now about moving to Italy. 

I drove to Lucca today and negotiating the ring road I remembered how terrified I felt at first. Now I find myself quite at home in the haphazard traffic, with only a slight intake of breath when someone pulls out, or even reverses out straight in front of me from a side road or their driveway. Scooters and bikes whizz past on either side, young men overtake on blind corners, motorways are speedways for macho men who must blast you out of their path and almost touch your back bumper in the process. OK, OK, I shout, and move over, hardly turning a hair. I use my horn a lot  more than I ever have before.

The language is rich in sound, fuller, rounder, and requires you to throw yourself into pronunciation without reserve in order to be understood, and of course reserve is the last bastion of the British so at first this does not come easy. My Italian is still pretty basic but what little I know gives me pleasure, it carries much more emotion than English and is delivered with real expression and gesticulation, something I now find comes naturally. Just buying a lettuce is an experience.

This unleashing of reserve also unlocks emotions, and it has surprised me with hindsight how easily I now allow myself to show my feelings. One evening Angela came round to see me and I did not try to conceal the fact that I was on the boil about something and nothing, I can’t even remember what now. I burst forth in a torrent of temper whilst she stroked my back, soothing and comforting the angry child in me. Patch was sitting at my feet and started to attack my shoe lace with vigour. Angela said “be careful, Patch, Liz is dangerous today” without a hint of irony, as if it was the most natural thing to be.

Nonetheless, I find that Italians are more than just happy go lucky souls who simply wear their hearts on their sleeves, they can be both extremes. Whilst they are wonderfully expressive and free with their feelings on one level they also contain hidden depths that are private on another. There are contradictions, conservative and opinionated being as common as tolerant and easygoing. A complete change of tack in mid argument comes naturally which can be confusing, but if you adopt the same approach, very liberating. It all makes for an interesting and layered culture that I enjoy.

When I dress to go out now I am inclined to try things I never would before, choose colours I’ve always though a bit too much, wear bold jewellery and feel good about all of it. The way you look may not amount to much in the sum total of what kind of human being you are but it does not mean that you cannot take a lot of pleasure in it, and Italians know how to do that, and appreciate it. 

There are things in Italy that could drive you to distraction if you let them, bureaucracy being high on the list for most foreigners. There is little rhyme or reason in how things work and it often comes down to the individual you have to deal with. I have heard many tales of bitter frustration, delays, injustice, and beating of fists on doors that simply refuse to open. There is nothing for it but to go with the flow and resign yourself to the fact that all may not happen when you choose, but when someone else does. If you can live with that it does bring about a kind of tolerance that is actually much more relaxing than getting uptight. I find I am more easygoing than I used to be, I can’t change things so why worry, and it is a less stressfull way to live.

Children are happily welcomed almost everywhere. It is lovely to see open affection, anyone will stroke a child’s hair, pick them up and cuddle them, and children are entirely comfortable with it. This is such a joy after the political correctness paranoia that surrounds how anyone should engage with a child in the UK and I wouldn’t even know how to begin to describe that to an Italian. I can play with kids in supermarket queues or in the street and mamma will just smile proudly, and no one has ever hustled their child away with suspicion – why would they, children are wonderfull and who wouldn’t love them.

Eating is important, the day revolves round meals and they are respected. Almost everything stops for lunch at one o’clock and doesn’t start again until three thirty or four. At first I found it hard to adjust and there was an onset of panic if I hadn’t got my act together and got into town in time to shop that morning – such a long wait till they opened again. Now I have embraced it and actually like it, the day can stretch if you want it to, everything is open longer, and actually just taking your time over lunch and then relaxing is great. And in the summer heat that’s all you want to do.

The summer sun is glorious, I love the warmth reaching right into me and time passing with very little happenning, just drifting, mind wandering in and out of this and that, or not at all. I’ve stopped thinking I should have “done something” with the day, just being is perfect.

I know that this is not a recipe for living that would work for everyone, some would hate it, but all in all life in Tuscany seems pretty much tailor made for me. I am sometimes asked if there are things I miss, apart from friends and family, and I have dug deep and given this alot of thought. Yes, there is one thing – parsnips, you just can’t get them here.

There are many unassuming eating places here that offer a fixed price workers lunch, usually at around ten to twelve euros, which typically includes two or even three courses, wine and coffee. There is one in town that I visit quite often and really enjoy. It is in the corner of a now abandoned and rather ugly commercial site and the entrance would be hard to find if you did not know it was there.

There is a dry wipe board with today’s menu just in at the door, which is the only place you will find it. A  long, narrow corridor leads past the till then the room opens out into a large, busy space where five or six girls are whizzing in and out with steaming platefuls of food for around thirty tables. It is an odd shape, no walls run square to each other, and I imagine it was cobbled together out of the space left between other buildings. Although absolutely basic it is clean and bright throughout and the girls wear fresh green aprons, so with the buzz of noisy conversation it has a very cheery feel to it.

I am welcomed and feel very much at home here and am now accustomed to one glass for both water and wine and one knife and fork to be kept for the next course. There are quite a few working men, sleeves rolled up on old, worn work shirts, buttons straining over bellies as they lean into a plate full of pasta for starters. Some like to sit alone and give their food their full attention, others obviously look forward to company and a table for two will grow to four, then six and maybe eight as the meal progresses. The waitresses take all the furniture moving in their stride and are extremely efficient, keeping everyone fed and happy.

At other tables there may be the bank manager and some of his staff, or the guys from Enel, the Electricity company, in dayglo orange jackets, office workers, a few families, friends having lunch together and a handfull of ex pats like me. One elderly Italian couple are always there, she has beautifull gleaming white hair piled up elegantly on top of her head and both of them look extremely healthy and content.

Although it is rare to find a vegetarian main course anywhere, other than a cheese plate which is quite common, I never have any difficulty in choosing from either or both of the antipasti or primi courses that come before the secondo,the main. There are plenty of vegetable and pasta options that are imaginative, and tasty. One of my favourite winter warmers is spaghetti simply in spicy garlic olive oil, or a big plate of minestrone or tuscan bean soup, and if I’m really hungry, both.

For something more special I love Locanda Zacco up in the hills above Montecatini Terme, in a tiny village called Goraiolo. Often country places offer good food but in very simple, sometimes even drab rooms where the surroundings are not considered. But at Zacco everything is lovely. I had Sunday lunch there with friends today and it was, as always, a delight. There are wide, arched windows around three sides of the dining room so it feels spacious and light and in the summer there is a lovely garden for al fresco dining.

Inside the decor is rustic chic, and perhaps a little more French than Italian in style, but imaginatively put together and very pretty. The young man who welcomes and serves is smiling and gentle, always remembers people and happily recommends or translates. Today I had sformato di riso asparagi, rice cooked with chopped asparagus which had a gorgeous delicate flavour, followed by pici con cacio e pepewhich is a wholewheat pasta in a tasty and slightly peppery cheese sauce. The others had rabbit cooked with sausage rolled into a terrine and sliced. I finished with the ubiquitous tiramisu, but it is unlike anything I have had in the UK, fresh, feather light and delicious.

Today there was a large party of Italians and Spaniards, gathered following a wedding the day before, seated the length of the room and all very jolly. They must have been told about the wine cellar below the dining room because between courses almost all of them took to their feet and filed down to inspect with much merriment, some a little more unsure of their footing than others.

At eight hundred metres above sea level, surrounded by woodland and with spectacular views down the hillsides to the vast plain below, this area is a very popular summer retreat out of the city heat. People who live in Florence or neighbouring towns have summer houses up here and the family will arrive when school finishes, Dad joining them in august when Italy is on holiday. So in summer Zacco thrives, also having eight simple but lovely bedrooms.  In winter it is very quiet, often shrouded in mist and almost empty, very cosy if you get it almost all to yourself.

Coming back down the winding road the sky had cleared completely and the sun felt wonderful, so I abandoned the ironing and sat in the garden enjoying the warmth and watching the cats attacking any passing fly or leaf. Angela and Matteo came to thank me for the chocolate cake I had left at their back door last night whilst they were out, in gratitude for Matteo’s help in cutting the grass which is growing so fast I felt jungle bound till he freed me with his strimmer. We sat watching the sunset with a bottle of wine and laughed a lot and I felt very happy. Now the moon is up over the ridge of hills across the valley, it is silent and peaceful except for Snowy snoring like an old man, and the ironing can wait till tomorrow.

It has been warm and pleasant, sometimes quite hot, but typically April with sudden showers and clouds never far away. In between digging and planting my garden I have been out and about in the Twingo enjoying the freedom of better weather. Random images come to mind like snapshots of the last week, reminding me of the things I enjoyed.

I have had some remarks about the blog, from men of course, who never look at women, do they, suggesting that I seem to have an eye for a young man in tight trousers. Tailored, I said, fitting like a glove, a very different thing. But to redress the balance a little, there were older men who were memorable this week.

Driving down the hill to town the road crosses several bridges over steep ravines and one of them is about a couple of hundred metres from a little farm. Now it is warm again there is an old man who spends several hours a day just sitting on the bridge watching the cars pass. He is quite frail, a little stooped, and has an impassive but eagle eyed gaze – I feel as if I am being timed in and out of town, and maybe I am.

This would not really be remarkable were it not for the fact that he is never alone, there is always one or more of the family with him, usually young women but at weekends sometimes men. I never see them speak, though I guess they must if something really unusual passes by, they just sit patiently by him on the bridge, keeping him company. This says so much about family and what it means in Italy.

Driving up narrow, sometimes single track lanes into the hills north of Lucca on a gloriously sunny afternoon there was another old man sitting on a wall, oblivious to passers by. In an ancient, torn sweater and knee bagged work trousers, faded and comfortable, his leathery old face was turned to the sun, eyes closed, and the welcome warmth. Nearby his handful of tall, black sheep with long, floppy ears cropped the sweet, new grass in the shade of a horse chestnut tree. It was the picture of contentment.

In a prettily painted and decorated restaurant in Barga, a lovely little walled hill town, grandfather, father and son sat at the table just in at the door and waited for lunch. Grandfather read the paper, father kept an eye on arrivals, both drinking tumblers of red wine and son, who looked about fourteen, wore a T shirt that said ” I really don’t care what you say” and looked like he meant it. A steaming dish of beans in vegetables was put in front of them, the paper disappeared and they settled down to eat. Mamma came from the kitchen every ten minutes or so with something else, or even just to put her arm round son, pat his cheek and watch him eat.

On sunday I went to Lucca and began my day with one of the concerti aperitivi that, to me, seem like such a good idea. Three quarters of an hour of music in beautiful surroundings, followed by a glass of wine and something tiny and tasty before leaving to find lunch. It was in a wing of Teatro Gigli that must once have been a chapel. The high, vaulted ceilings and stone walls have been sensitively paint washed to a whiter finish, then very well lit so that there is a sense of height, light and airy space. Nothing is dark, even the seating is creamy white.

The music, Boccherini, originally from Lucca in the eighteenth century, was enchanting. I sat in the front row and above me the stage, where once there would have been an altar, was curtained in black. A young man and a young woman, neither of whom looked more than twenty, both with dark hair and wearing black, came from the wings carrying violins and took their places opposite each other, with only music stands between them.

They began to play, light, cheerful pieces that were delicate and uplifting, like a series of short stories unfolding and elaborating on their talent. At the start of each piece they smiled at each other and began, perfectly in accord. Lit from above, the impact was so simple and dramatic. Everything was black except for their pale faces, moved by their music, and the splash of vibrant colour on their polished violins that caught the light as they moved. Every now and then as a bow met the strings with some force a puff of resin dust would rise in the air, caught like incense in the light. Sometimes there are moments that distill perfection.

After lunch I went to Villa Bottini, a lovely fifteenth century Lucca villa that paved the way for the design of so many more to come, where there was an exhibition of contemporary jewellery by twelve leading designers. Each room in the villa is covered in many coloured frescos, and even though it seemed unlikely, the striking examples of modern jewellery from collections all over the world sat very happily amongst the past. There were things I really loved that were a joy just to see, but the one that made me laugh was a very cleverly designed cut out silver brooch that read “loading please wait”. I would love to wear that, preferably in a bar.

Between the practicalities of day to day living, such was my week, and a very happy one at that.

Tuscan cooking is largely traditional and predominantly based on the seasons. Though the encroaching supermarkets now offer more fresh produce from further afield it is still a lot less than I was accustomed to being surrounded by in the UK. I realise that I took it for granted that I could buy almost any fruit or vegetable at almost any time and had forgotten to think about what was actually in season and when.

At first I made shopping lists out of habit, only to find that several fresh things weren’t on the shelves, and had to be replaced by what was. There are now all year round basics of course, some imported, but by far the greater proportion of produce on sale is Italian. Now I am learning to love the arrival of what is in season, find recipes that make the most of it and enjoy it at its peak. As a vegetarian I am discovering plenty of new ways, and ingredients, to cook.

Right now, approaching May, there are young and tender fave, broad beans and piselli, peas, so good I have often eaten them raw with bread and olive oil before I even get to cooking them. The market stalls are full of artichokes, and cherries and this season’s courgettes will be here soon. Making the most of them during their peak means that eating  has a greater sense of involving treats, and there is always something to look forward to.

Most meals are simple, unpretentious and largely traditional. Tuscans, like most Italians, can discuss ways to cook things for hours, but they mostly stick to what they know and treat anything outside of their experience with suspicion. If I take biscuits I have just baked round to Angela and Matteo’s house they are warmly received but tentatively nibbled, with glances exchanged between the two of them until they are convinced this is safe.

The fresh pasta shop is a joy to discover and I am working my way through a wide variety of ravioli stuffed with different herbs and vegetables. Cheese, too, is seasonal I have discovered and the man in the deli used to get impatient with me asking for the one I had last time, but now he knows I am a sucker for trying what has just come in. My favourite this year has been a goat’s cheese covered in raspberries that gave it the most heavenly flavour and I love pecorino made with ewes milk in many varieties from fresh and quite soft, lovely as a desert with pears or honey, to very hard and almost as strong in flavour as the better known parmigiano.

In a rural area like this almost every home with even a scrap of land will grow their own vegetables and fruit as a matter of course, plus olive trees and vines. Even though most people now have jobs that are not on the land they will work on what they have whenever they can. The terraced hillsides are dotted with little ram shackle huts made of any old timber and corrugated iron, often with a canopy of vines or kiwi fruit for shade in the summer heat when they down tools for lunch.

Olive oil is essential to cooking here, not just on salads as we tend to use it elsewhere in europe, but with almost everything from simple bruschetta, often my lunch, to soups, meat, vegetables and even deserts sometimes. Last November I helped Matteo with his olive harvest. The first picking begins then and the oil produced from it is fresh, green, a little peppery and quite thick. It is absolutely gorgeous, and a very popular arrival.

Picking carries on into January as some prefer their oil with more maturity of flavour, given the olives have longer on the tree to develop. Pick early and the rain may drown the crop and lessen the oil content in the fruit, or pick later and frosts may wither all the olives – neither are a guaranteed success, and some years there is barely a crop at all. Last year there was abundance, but a high water content which has to be drained off at pressing, so there was less yield per kilo.

A few country folk still forage for wild greens and herbs and it used to be part of a cook’s role to know the best sources in the surrounding area. I have a recipe waiting to be tried for nettle frittata, using the most tender young growth of the nettle quickly blanched in hot water to take away the sting, chopped and mixed with beaten eggs. It is like a thick omelette, flipped over to cook lightly on both sides, and then cut into slices like a cake. Anyone want to try?

Funghi, mushrooms, grow wild in the woodlands and are gathered in autumn by many who know the edible from the others. One of my most memorable meals was a plate of a variety of fresh mushrooms that Matteo had just picked on a woodland walk, very lightly battered and deep fried.

The nickname for Tuscans throughout Italy is mangiafagioli, the bean eaters. Close to here the Sorana valley produces beans renowned for their delicate flavour and thin skins and the area cultivated is small enough for them to be in limited supply and much in demand. A simple plate of very gently cooked beans will just be seasoned and served with olive oil to accompany grilled meat perhaps. In the winter months hungry workers are filled with thick bean soups, and a local grain called farro comes into its own.

Farro is similar to barley, plump and earthy, grown for thousands of years in the mountains north of here, the Garfagnana. Farmers produce for export now what was once simply fed to their animals, it has become so popular. Farro and bean soup is a meal in itself, and I like it used in a substantial risotto.

But my winter favourite is chestnuts. The hillsides are covered in chestnut trees, you can easily gather your own, and they were the subsistence diet of the poor. Many farms have a little barn that was originally for the storage of chestnuts for use throughout the year, and they were and still are ground for flour too, though I am not enamoured of the taste of baking with chestnut flour. They arrive in November but are gone again by the end of February and I love them for roasts and casseroles and with farro. 

It is, of course, how previous generations everywhere lived, by the season and off the land around them, and it is one of the things I like most about living here that those traditions are still respected as important to our benessere, well being. And the fact that well being is high on the average Tuscan agenda suits me perfectly.

I have fairly straight hair with a bit of a wave, but as a small child I was convinced it was curly. My mother took me to an ice dance show, and all I can remember is one of the men in sparkly costumes skating straight at the barrier where I was sitting in the front row, then stopping with a dramatic flourish to pat me on the head and say “hello curly top” before whooshing away. A few days later I said to Mum,”look at all my curls bouncing about on my head like little brown mice.” She explained that we were all given the hair that suited us, and mine was wavy and very pretty, not curly. But I knew better - the man said.

Such is the power of a word from strangers. I have been persuaded to try all manner of haircuts over the years, often by hairdressers new to me who promised fabulous results, and sometimes it worked, but sometimes I would rather have put my head in a bag for a month till it grew again. So I was anxious to find a good hairdresser when I arrived, and as there are so many in town took advice and went to Carlo.

The salon itself is beautiful. Entering from the street just off the piazza the spacious reception area opens into a large room, down three steps, and under vaulted ceilings. Some of the walls are ancient handmade brickwork and archways intermingle with chestnut beams. The colour theme to complement the natural materials is burnt orange and yellow ochre, and deep yellow limestone floor tiles are patterned with mosaics. Seated at the backwash there is a huge and very ornate gilded picture frame on the wall opposite, with nothing in it, just to be admired for itself, and a lovely hand painted screen has no purpose but to look beautiful. The chairs are chocolate brown leather, simplicity itself in a semi circular design and very comfortable, and the contemporary lighting is strung on diagonal wires across the room. All in all it is dramatic, elegant and luxurious.

Carlo fits into this back drop very well. Quite tall, he has an imposing presence and carries himself with aristocratic bearing. In fact his face could be straight from a renaissance portrait, high forehead, strong brows with smallish dark eyes and a long prominent nose, his face framed by flowing shoulder length hair. In autumn and winter he wore chestnut cords with a cream shirt that draped beautifully, and chestnut hair, or black jeans with a crisp white shirt, black shoes and hair to match. In summer he has tan combats, multi pocketed, with desert boots and always there is a piece of jade on leather round his neck and a bracelet of coloured threads at his wrist. It is casual, but studied, and suits him well.

The rest of the staff are young women, his daughter Carla does the colouring, a slender beauty always in black with burnished hair tumbling down her back and a welcoming smile. They work hard, if there is not a client to look after then there are basins to clean, windows to polish, and they set to with a will, well aware that Carlo misses nothing.

I was alarmed to find on my first visit that not a word of English was spoken so he more or less did what he wanted, keeping it simple and neat. A few months later, when I thought I had a  handle on enough Italian to cope, I asked, I thought, for short, but not very. Carlo’s eyes widened slightly and he drew in his breath, but then inclined his head graciously and set to. It didn’t take me long to realise that I had said very short, and I left with hair down to the wood. But still a superb cut, even though I did feel pretty manly for a while. I make sure I work out what I am going to say with more care now.

The clientele have largely been coming for quite some time from the way all are greeted, slip into their chair, and straight into a lively conversation.  One day a tiny, elderly lady, birdlike but with great charisma, ambled to the centre of the salon whilst waiting her turn and began a story. With great vivacity and many gestures she turned from one of us to the next, there were huge gales of laughter from all, and several others chipped in too. I couldn’t pick it up as the Italian was too fast, but it made me laugh just watching all of them and being part of the good humour and good will.

Last week Carlo was trimming a head of wonderful silver hair as long as his, and matching beard. A young man arrived, tailored with the elegance of a magazine advertisement, absolutely immaculate down to the silver buttons on his shirt, intent on selling him some hair products. He stood behind him and they conversed in the mirror. Carlo became quite animated, arms waving, voice rising, and I started to feel alarmed about the hair and the beard, could he really be concentrating? The young man stepped outside, to use his mobile, head office I guess, then came back for round two.

This went on another three times, until eventually a deal was struck and Carlo at last smiled, slapped the young man on the back and they parted with great affection. Amazingly the hair and beard were a triumph, and why should I have worried, their owner sat through it all without the least concern.

He is a really good hairdresser, one of the very best cutters I have ever encountered, and I am amazed and delighted that this standard is available in a small provincial town. But it is a reflection on the Italian sense of style, making the best of your assets and presenting them well, spending time and money on it too. Though for me the comparison is that in the UK I travelled two hours to a city for a haircut as good as this and paid three times more.

Good Friday was warm and sunny, the perfect day to visit Lucca. It was also the day the Twingo was booked in for it’s Revisioni, or MOT as it would be in the UK, except that in Italy it is only necessary to have an officially documented service on older cars every two years. Angelo at the garage had given it the once over a few weeks ago as I was a little nervous about how it might make out, being eight years old.

Little things were beginning to fail, like the driver’s side door handle, meaning I had to get in the passenger side and wriggle over. “This handle is very, very tired,” said Angelo, “but no for me, necessary you go to beauty shop.”  A trip to the car body shop with Sophia to translate soon fixed that, a young man took out the internal door panel there and then, spent ten minutes jiggling about with wires inside, and put it back together. It worked perfectly. No charge, it’s a pleasure for a friend of Sophia, big smiles, shake hands all round. But the front tyres were a problem. “These tyres no beautiful, for Revisioni necessary beautiful tyres” said Angelo. So I left the Twingo with him for the day and got the train to Lucca.

I have no doubt that what has been written about Lucca would fill a considerable library, it is such a remarkable and ancient city with an immensely colourful history that begins even before the Romans. The surrounding sixteenth century walls have been maintained so well, preserving the old city centre within. Six gateways lead through the walls, but traffic inside them is limited, so apart from plenty of bicycles pedestrians can wander at will.

I visit every couple of weeks, just to amble through the little narrow streets of four and five story buildings, paved with dark grey basalt, and each time I find it uplifting and a joyful place to be. The architecture is a wonderful layering from medieval times through to glorious and well preserved art nouveau shop fronts, each hand crafted. Everywhere along Via Fillungo, the prettiest street of shops, there is carved and polished wood, over arched by wrought iron as delicate as filigree, and gilded glass with exquisite lettering, now fading and foxed, but all the more lustrous for it.

One age has given way to the next with such grace. In Piazza San Michele, the original site of the Roman forum, many shades of terracotta are now woven together in the brickwork, many styles sit comfortably side by side, and little jewels of design and decoration abound. The white marble church dominates the centre of the square, but with space around it so you can stand back and take in all there is to delight the eye in every direction.

Easter is celebrated with style in almost every shop window. In an elegant boutique there are shades of violet in shirts and jackets, with the zing of just one lime green scarf. A little bookshop has upwards of a hundred tiny eggs hanging on threads like a bead curtain across the window. Everywhere feels washed clean and polished, winter swept away and a new season beginning.

My favourite place for a coffee is Taddeucci, a pasticceria founded in 1881 on the east side of Piazza San Michele. It may not be the best, I don’t know them all, yet, but I love it. The window is full of glorious swirls of chocolate eggs and rabbits, candied violets and rose petals. Just in at the door there are beautiful framed certificates, delicately painted, acclaiming success. Written in gold lettering across the back wall is “la nostra ditta non ha succursali” which I think means literally  – our company has no other branches – but I take it to be a spirited declaration that this is the one and only Taddeucci. (If I am wrong I hope someone will correct me, my Italian still leaves a lot to be desired.)

The interior is long and narrow, rich with carved and polished dark wood. Down the left hand side runs the high, glass topped counter beneath which are little cakes, followed by hand made chocolates, then the house speciality, buccellato, a sweet bread flavoured with aniseed and sultanas. On the walls behind are rows of elegant glass jars full of colourfully wrapped sweets. Opposite there are glass cabinets full of jams, bottled fruits, teas and coffee.

The far end is crossed by a chocolate and cream coloured marble counter where coffee is served. One person only can fit behind it and everything they need is within reach. Three people standing on the other side and it’s full. But Italians don’t generally linger over their caffe, two, three sips of espresso and it’s gone, a little cake perhaps, held in a napkin, then they are off, revived.

But I am an English wimp who likes her coffee lungo, with added hot water, not just because I prefer it that way but because it gives me that little bit longer to stand at the counter sipping, and taking everything in. All has been designed so thoughtfully,with such a sense of proportion, making the best of the limited space in ways both practical to use and pleasing to the eye. The same could also be said for the olive skinned and chestnut haired young man, son and heir I think, who is often the one making coffee, and whose terracotta coloured jeans are so perfectly tailored, fitting him like a glove.

And with such pleasures my day was filled. I have no inkling of the time ever arriving when I will have had enough of Lucca. It seems small enough to feel friendly, like a little market town, and people are greeting each other wherever you go. It has history, tradition, elegance, richness and variety, colour, form and individuality of craftsmanship, and all within easy reach. Yet each time I visit there are little streets I haven’t ventured down before and new surprises still to discover. My day was perfectly complete when I returned to find the Twingo had passed the Revisioni without breaking the bank, and home we drove, on our beautifull tyres.

Well, I think it’s time to come clean - I have cats, four of them. Vanity has kept me from declaring them to date as  there is a somewhat loaded way in which people say of women of a certain age, “…and she has cats.” An image comes to mind of grizzled hair, baggy old clothes, lumpy sandals and cats stretched out on every surface. Young John tells me that I am in the clear because the official number to qualify as a cat lady is five, but that’s a bit close for comfort.

Actually, I never planned to have any, they just happened to be here. My landlady had told me that cats lived in the woods round the house and came to be fed when there was anyone staying. One in particular, a ginger, black and white tortoiseshell, was bolder than the rest and had been named Patch by her young children. And there she was when I arrived, shouting the odds, looking for food, her small, wiry body thin to the bone, with more bare skin than fur. When I put some food out two more appeared, one grey, one white, and rushed at the bowl, bolting the biscuits between them.

In that first week I was busy unpacking what worldly goods I had brought with me, and after a few days started to take empty boxes to the cabana, a little barn in the garden. I heard a squeak, looked round, and there in a dusty old armchair was Patch, with four very young kittens. I lined one of my boxes with an old towel for them, and it turned out that all three cats got in it at night and bundled up together.

Patch was a loving mother, but a wanderer. To my amazement I found both the grey and the white cat suckling the kittens and treating them as if they were their own. There was no competition, but there were some disagreements. Patch took to bringing the kittens in her mouth to the front doorstep, or even round to Angela and Matteo’s house, leaving them there, and forgetting. The grey, who by then I had named Josie, was not happy about this and I would see her trotting briskly past the front door, taking them back to the safety of the box, one at a time. I decided that a solution may be to bring the box from the barn to the doorstep, so we gave it a try.

Eventually I put out another smaller box for those nights when someone got grumpy and wanted to sleep in the spare room. It made me laugh when I came down one morning and they had all somehow managed to squeeze into the little box together. But sadly the kittens were dying, they were just too weak, and eventually there was only one tiny black one left. Every morning I opened the front door and picked him up to see how he was doing, and one morning as I glanced back into the box I saw a little black tail and thought “oh my god it’s come off…”

But there was a tail on the kitten in my hand, when I dared to look, and in the box were four new, tiny kittens, and a tired but happy white cat, Snowy. So off we went again, everybody being mother, and even when Patch’s last kitten died she was not too concerned because she had shares in the new ones. After giving birth Snowy was exhausted. She also had a nasty tumour on her ear which concerned me as it bled a great deal, and I asked a friend if the local vet would think I was a crazy English cat freak if I took a feral cat in to be treated. He’s a vet, she said, you pay him, he isn’t going to say no.

The verdict was pretty dramatic. This was the worst case of malnourishment he had seen, if this cat had kittens again it would kill her, she had no strength. Her teeth were all rotten and must be hurting her a great deal, and a good part of her ear would need to be cut off to deal with the tumour. Crikey. I really hadn’t thought past just getting her ear fixed and this put a whole new slant on things.

It was make my mind up time. The tom who prowled daily was going to ensure that there were regular pregnancies, so I would either be burying kittens or feeding more cats. There appeared to be two options – shut the door and leave them to it, or go the whole hog, take them in and look after them properly.

No contest. I bought loads of cheap throws, in tasteful colours of course, to cover every surface they could scratch and stain, told my landlady I was incredibly grateful for being allowed to keep them in the house when I hadn’t actually asked her, and opened the front door. They stood stock still and stared at me – had I lost my marbles? Forgotten the rules? Cats outside at all times. Then very gingerly, one paw at a time and looking at me after each step, Patch led the way in.

Now all three have had the operation and there will be no more kittens. Happily one of Snowy’s survived, so we have a boy, Tiger, who was brought up by all of us. After several months of feeding, inspite of having almost all her teeth out, Snowy is now so well the tumours have gone and her ears are safe. They are still wild cats, they will flinch and scatter if I move too fast and they remain afraid of other people, but gradually we have learned to get along together pretty well. They are terrific company, one is always sitting alongside as I write the blog and all are appreciative of their home. If anyone had asked me if I was going to get a cat I would have said no without even considering it. But not now.

One thing that most people seem agreed upon is that this has been an unusually wet and miserable winter in Tuscany. Cold is expected, but we have had five months of rain. Landslides have been regular along the steep slopes of the road, often running across it. Some neighbours who live nearby use spring water instead of being connected to the mains and all their pipe work was crushed by falling earth. Matteo and Angela next door found heaps of earth that was their garden piled up in front of the house four times, all to be shovelled away. So spring, now that it is here, is extremely welcome.

The breeze is still chilly, but when there is sun it feels warm and wonderful, and with all the watering the land has had there is an explosion of green. The grass round my house is currently rather like a meadow but I am loathe to cut it just yet as I am enjoying so many wild flowers. There are swathes of violets, tiny blue speedwell, pink herb robert, pale green hellebores, white wood anemones like stars and many more. In fact a friend counted the varieties in one square metre of the long grass in her garden one May and found twenty seven. After watching so many disappear over the years in the UK this is glorious to behold.

It has been energising to get out and about again without bunching up against the rain and the cold March winds. Last week I went with a group of gardening enthusiasts to San Andrea di Compito, south east of Lucca, an area famed for the cultivation of camellias which are now in full bloom.  Some, reaching around seven to eight metres tall and more like trees, are the first to be introduced into Italy three hundred years ago from Japan and the far east.

It is a lovely village, known as Borgo del Camelie, in a sheltered valley only a little above the plain surrounding Lucca. Close by is a Camellietum – a collection of many varieties open to the public. A small, gently sloping ravine with a stream running through was once terraced to grow beans, and has now been restored to conserve as many varieties as are available. It is such a simple and natural little woodland site, terraces rise one above the other alongside the tumbling water. Camellias of every shade between deep red and pure white abound, each with their description and origin, and many with a message saying they have been donated, often in memory of someone.

We travelled on into the next valley to visit the fifteenth century Villa Massei. Originally a hunting lodge for a Luccan family, it is now privately owned by the American writer Paul Gervais, who with his partner has recreated the garden over the twenty seven years they have lived here. Open by arrangement for groups, it is an enchanting example of a formal Italian garden, surrounding a beautiful old villa, fattoria or farmhouse, and the original shepherd’s house, now restored and available for holidays.

There are manicured lawns with towering ancient cypresses, a long colonnade supporting roses, yet to bloom, and leading to a little pool with fountains, and formal courtyards of box shrubs clipped into shape. A huge camphor tree casts shade over a courtyard and terrace leading to a grotto, which must be gloriously cool in the summer heat. My favourite was a hillside with two rows each of seventeen cherry trees, one rising behind the other and now covered in a foam of perfect white blossom. Five are netted for fruit for the house, the rest are there for the birds, and looking up into the sky as he told us this, I saw my first swallows this spring.

There have also been a couple of garden events that I have really enjoyed. Floraviva was held at the agricultural college nearby, one of the first to be established in Italy and which originally taught students from all over the country. It is a beautiful and imposing building set at the top of gently sloping terraces, along which exhibitors of plants, pots, and paraphernalia laid out their wares. All the participants were local and I bought superb geraniums from the college’s own greenhouses for only two euros each.

Another rather grander affair was VerdeMura, a gardening exhibition set along a stretch of the ancient walls that surround Lucca. They are broad enough to take two way traffic, though they never will, and bicycles are the fastest things to move along the gravel pathways. It is a wonderfull walk right round the walls looking down into the town and takes around an hour at a leisurely pace. A section is closed off for the exhibition and fills with specialist growers of olives, fruit trees, roses, and a huge variety of plants alongside local foods and crafts and even gorgeous hats! I was wooed into trying on and a little clutch of women gathered to encourage and comment, and I almost succumbed.

Inspired, I have stocked up on pots of shrubs, herbs and flowers to revive the garden. This is to act as encouragement so that whilst all the necessary digging is done I can see what is waiting to plant. But first I needed some tools, and this came as rather a surprise. Used to a spade and garden fork with handles no more than waist high, I found that there is no such thing as a fork, unless it is a curly pronged thing for turning hay, and a hoe is the alternative. My spade also has a very long shaft and will take a little getting used to as it is almost as tall as me. But it will be good to be out in the fresh air and stretching beyond moving my fingers over the keys of my pc!

PS – I went straight to it, and working away in the sunshine didn’t notice grey clouds until there was a thunder clap, a torrent of rain, then hailstones the size of peas. It looks more like a lake I am digging right now…

Receiving mail in the early days of being here was a real pleasure, someone, somewhere knew where I was, even if it was only the bank. I was outside one morning when I heard singing coming closer down the path at the back of the house, and then the postman swung round the corner. A fairly small  middle aged man, stocky but quick and agile, strode up to me and holding out his hand formally introduced himself  in Italian, “buongiorno, I am Alessio, are you Elizabeth Taylor?” Much banter followed, he rolled his eyes, said I looked too young, all the right sort of things.

I explained that I had taken the house for a year and he looked impressed. Then he made a formal presentation of the mail, holding it out with both hands and beaming proudly as if he had written and posted all of it himself. I accepted with equal formality and gratitude and we made fulsome farewells. Since then we have developed a good rapport and I enjoy his occasional visits. He no longer sings coming down the path and I assume that it is a discretionary tactic when visiting holiday houses in case you come round a corner to invade someones privacy as they lie in the sun with little on, or whatever. I must look a safe bet for keeping my clothes on.

Sometimes I have met him in the street or in the village post office, whereupon he will declaim in a loud voice to all in earshot, ” do you know who this is? LIZ TAYLOR!!”  This is usually met with a weak smile at best or complete indifference, but it has not yet deterred him. It did not surprise me to hear that he is part of a local amateur dramatics society.

One morning in late autumn I heard him shout my name with rather more urgency than usual. I opened the door to see an unsmiling, accusing face in front of me, small black eyes fiery, long greying wavy hair bouncing “what have you done?” he demanded. Startled, I stepped outside to where he was pointing. The previous day I had pruned back hard the shrubs along the front of the house that were old and in need of a fresh start. “It’s OK” I said apologetically, “they will grow again, better, in spring, really…” “Hmm…” he said, thrusting the mail into my hands and striding away without another word.

So far this appears to be my only black mark and as far as I am concerned he is a most reliable part of the mail service. We have an understanding that if I am out and the mail is too large for the ridiculously small box on the wall by the front door, he will leave it in the plastic shopping bag secreted behind the geraniums. During the one time he was away in the eleven months I have been here I got no mail. Then I discovered, a few weeks later, that the relief post man had been leaving it in a dark corner at the back of the car port, under a hole in the roof, in the rain.

The service as a whole is pretty good, it takes about a week to send and receive mail from the UK, though my longest to date is three months. The Post Office in the village, purpose built and a utilitarian piece of concrete, entirely out of keeping with the surrounding old houses, is open three mornings a week. Sensibly there are two chairs and a bench seat as there is only one man on duty. He sits at a desk behind the counter, hunched over his computer screen, whilst those waiting keep up with the news.

Unlike Alessio he is quietly courteous, inclining his head slightly in a bow at the end of transactions. He looks like a character from Dickens transposed into a contemporary setting – lifeless khaki coloured clothing, thinning sandy hair, small eyes behind round glasses, bringing everything that must be read close to his face and peering at the screen intently, muttering. All he needs is half mittens and a quill pen. So this winter I was rather surprised to find him in a jaunty navy wool hat with a large Napoleonic N embroidered on it in red, and have decided there must be hidden depths.

Until a couple of weeks ago Alessio had never given me the slightest hint that he spoke a word of English. I always struggled through our little conversations in Italian, gradually improving as they were usually not very demanding. Then one day he was delivering something I needed to sign for and unexpectedly said “here is my pen, please.” I looked at him, surprised, but he ignored me and putting away his receipt book made a few observations about the improving weather, again in English.

This sudden revelation, his latest little dramatic flourish, nudged me back into English too, and I responded with “yes” instead of my usual “si”. Holding up one hand in front of him he proclaimed “no, no, no, no, no, Liz. My English teacher say to me it is – yesss – tongue is here, at front, like this – yesss.” I followed suit, then with a flourish of his hand in a farewell wave he was off round the corner of the house, no doubt tongue firmly in cheek, leaving me standing on the doorstep, practising saying yes…

It takes a lot  longer than I had imagined to evolve from one way of life to another. Even after almost a year here I still feel that I am only scratching the surface. But there are little milestones along the way. The first was on a visit to Montecatini. I had decided to venture out further afield for the day, it was summer and gloriously hot and sunny.

Montecatini Terme is a spa town that in its time was one of the popular places to take the waters in style, a little like Bath in England. Its now somewhat faded splendour still has charm; there are broad, tree lined avenues, beautiful buildings, fashionable shops and grand hotels, now looking a little frayed round the edges. The thermal baths are still there and offer all manner of health treatments.

I walked past one of the grand hotels, surrounded by a garden with palms and flowers. Through the elaborate railings I could see guests sitting under the trees with drinks, dressed in new, brightly coloured  holiday clothes, looking at menus, sitting back and relaxing in the sun. All that a holiday should be. In contrast I was on a mission to find a cherry stoner and a spatula, as cherries were in season and I wanted to make a cake. It suddenly struck me, yes, this is so different from a holiday, I actually live here, I’m not going back next week. Writing it down it seems so obvious, but often simple things strike home the most.

I found a little shop bursting with kitchenware and a jolly, round lady running it who spoke not a word of English. The “ciliegia” stoner was pretty easy as I knew the word, but the spatula took rather more effort. I set to with a mime, mixing in an imaginary bowl a “torta” which happily sprung to mind as the word for cake. Then I put my imaginary cake tin next to it, and with over blown gestures ran the imaginary spatula round the bowl capturing every last bit of mixture and dropping it into the cake tin. Then I smoothed the top with the spatula, and put it in the oven.

The lady watched me intently, narrowing her eyes quizzically here and there, frowning, then smiling encouragingly, and finally shrugging with palms outstretched at the end to indicate that she was no nearer. So off I went again with a new cake, making the gestures bigger and bolder, quite oblivious to other customers. On the third run she suddenly clapped her hands together with an “aaah…”, dived into a box and triumphantly brought out a spatula. “Brava!” I shouted, and we beamed at each other as I settled up, a good job done by both. When I got home and was unpacking my shopping I started to take the cellophane wrapper off my purchase and noticed that it bore the word spatula… I had just assumed it would be another word in Italian and it had never occurred to me to try asking for that!

Another milestone was buying a car. I had a hire car to begin with until I got my residency permit allowing me to be a car owner. Naturally most dealerships are Fiat and I had assumed that was what I would be most likely to buy, but on my first visit I pretty quickly fell in love with a tiny Renault Twingo. It’s snub nose and vertical back end make it a cinch to park, it’s engine is still sound even though it is now eight years old and we whistle along at a pretty good speed, rattling somewhat but keeping up with the locals. The only nasty shock was the thirteen hundred euro cost of car insurance.

I really like the fact that as a “stranieri”, a foreigner, I am treated with courtesy, often with warmth, and always with tolerance. Tuscans will help all they can with my bumbling attempts to make myself understood. I am beginning to feel part of the Italian way of living and liking it alot, though every now and then I come across odd things that divide us.

A few days before Christmas about a dozen ex pats planned to meet for a celebration lunch together in a local restaurant. It is a bustling, lively place with a simple, hearty menu where many people eat who work in town. One of the party who had just returned from the UK had brought a box of crackers and handed them out to each of us. We started pulling them amid much laughter, and I noticed heads swivel at other tables at the snap of each one, like a mini firework.

They looked bemused and were struggling to see what it was that was creating the noise. I asked one of our party why it should seem so surprising to Italians and she said that crackers are almost entirely unknown here, something that we English take so much for granted as part of christmas. We continued reading out our mottos and showing each other our little gifts while blank faces stared, then shrugged at each other. Finally, as we unfolded our hats I saw the looks of complete bewilderment and imagined the exchanges in Italian, “look! now they are putting pieces of paper on their heads…”

Christmas itself was a milestone, my first, and as the sound of many fireworks rang round the valley at midnight on new year’s eve, like a battle ground of machine gun fire, I made my resolutions. Top of the list – improve my Italian. I suspect it will still be in pole position next new year.

Storms here wondrous to behold, a full on Italian drama. They can be expected at the end of summer and again in the late autumn as warm air meets cool coming down from the mountains. It begins with a rumble of thunder that gradually grows to a rolling crashing, interspersed with flashes of both sheet and fork lightening that completely light up the sky. The show lasts sometimes for a few hours, sometimes intermittently throughout the night, and is often accompanied by a torrent of rain.

I was warned that up here on the exposed hillsides it is very important to unplug all electricals, pc, tv, phone, etc., as soon as a storm begins. Lightening regularly finds its way down the wiring, blowing up appliances on the other end, and keeps electricians in work making good afterwards. And the main fuse is likely to be tripped several times during a storm anyway, plunging you into darkness till you find your way to the board to switch it back on. My landlady thoughtfully left a torch in the bedside table for such occasions, which she described with cheery British spirit as “all part of life in the Italian mountains.”

I woke early one morning in mid November and realised it was unusually silent outside. Every now and then a short, sharp noise would cut through the stillness, as if something was breaking. Opening the shutters I was amazed to see that there was about ten centimetres of snow. The weight of  it on some of the olive branches was too much for them to bear and they snapped, cascading a flurry of white onto the slope below. The hillsides were transformed into a beautiful world of white, wonderful to see but making it a bit tricky getting about. Winters generally are pretty cold, and February reaches well below zero on frosty nights, only climbing a little above during the day.

But the snow was short lived and was followed by rain, rain, and more rain for the next four months, with a few grey days in between and the occasional glorious burst of sun. The steep slopes became so water logged that there were frequent “franas”, such a gentle word for the upheaval of earth, rock, roots and trees that slid down hillsides, often onto the road. We had two on our lane and there have been several on the way down to town, one blocking the road completely for a couple of days until it was contained within huge concrete blocks, allowing one lane to open. They are still in place in case any more earth slips down the near vertical hillside that edges the road before the weather settles.

On a cold, clear evening during their Christmas break from work, my neighbours, Angela and Matteo, asked me to go with them up the hill for Mandarin punch. Intrigued, I happily agreed and along with Matteo’s brother, Claudio, we set off in their four wheel drive, past the village above us, climbing to a scattering of houses higher up the mountain where there is a little bar. Although holding my breath at the casual way in which Matteo took the hairpins, one hand on the wheel and only a cursory attempt to slow down a little, I was so pleased to be included in their outing I was happy to take it as it came. Angela is in her late twenties and the young men in their thirties and here they were taking me along, over sixty. It is one of the things I really like about the culture here, it is far less defined by age.

Mandarin punch turned out to be a rather sticky bright orange, served in little glasses topped up with hot water, and very warming. We sat round a log fire and my Italian improved. Angela speaks a little English which coupled with my as yet sketchy Italian makes for interesting conversations of half and half. Eventually we decided to head back down the hill and have an impromptu supper together in their kitchen. Angela would make pizzas and I would nip home for a bottle of wine.

Driving back down the mountain was rather more alarming than coming up. Matteo took the bends head on with macho spirit and Angela’s cries of “slow down” as she saw my face were ignored with laughter. We hurtled through the village, gathering speed along the straight above the church. This prompted my Italian to stretch to “Matteo, I want to stay in Italy but not in the cemetery!” The laughter increased, and Claudio was so taken with my remark he rolled about in the front passenger seat, repeating it, helpless with laughter, so that I thought he may well turn the car over if a corner on two wheels didn’t get us. But I couldn’t help being warmed by his praise for my “spectacolo” wit, and smiled at the thought that if we didn’t make it back we would at least die happy.

I shut my eyes tight as we whistled along the single track lane to our houses, and we were there in seconds. I went home for the wine and a few minutes to recover and then we spent a happy evening at their kitchen table. I even remember singing Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday”, right through, something I have never done in England since I was a child, such was my concern about my inability to hold a tune. Whether I did or not it didn’t seem to matter, as I am discovering about so many things, living the Italian way.

The domestic realities of life here take a while to appreciate. Italy chose not to have nuclear fuel stations, so is now dependent on buying in alot of  its supply from France. There have been limits set on domestic usage and the electrical supply is 3KW per household, or 6 if you opt to pay extra both for the upgrade and the power you use.

I am all in favour of this green approach, although I am very grateful that my landlady opted for the 6KW.  It is so easy in the UK simply to switch on whatever appliance you want without a thought, but here you get caught out until you learn how much is too much for the system. For example, if you have only 3 KW and switch on the kettle that’s at least a third of your power source in use, never mind the lights, heating, etc. So very few people have electric kettles.

I hit overload one evening when I was preparing dinner for some friends. Just at that crucial bit when I was almost ready, several things were in hand on the cooker and I was finishing the table. It was quite dark so I switched on the outside lights that lead down from the lane to the house, and click – darkness throughout. Panic, till I realised that it was not power failure, then dither, what to switch off? Can’t be the cooker, got to eat – can’t be the outside lights, don’t want broken legs – sitting room lights, arrive in darkness?  Then I remembered candles and quickly lit them, and thankfully switching off the sitting room lights was enough to re-start the power.

So heating is generally either by gas or wood, as the surrounding hillsides have a plentiful supply of timber. Many houses have stufas, wood burning stoves that are piped round the house and are the most economical heat source. My house has a 700 litre gas tank buried in the garden which powers the boiler for heating, hot water and the cooker. There is a dial that indicates how much fuel is left, if you hit it hard enough with a brick. In my first six months of summertime I didn’t really grasp how fast you can use up the gas once the heating is on.

I suggested to a friend living on his own that if he wanted to entertain at home sometime I would happily do the cooking for him as I enjoy it. One day he phoned to take me up on the offer, lunch for eight, tomorrow… Crikey, that meant moving fast as it was already lunch time. I decided that I’d cook almost everything in my own kitchen and transport it up to his house at the last minute as I hadn’t even seen his kitchen let alone used anything in it.

Racked by indecision, as I often am when it comes to menu planning, I pored over my cook books for ages till I had thrashed out what I thought would fill the bill, then whizzed down the hill to Esselunga to shop. By evening I had all I needed assembled and decided on an early night, setting the clock for seven.

At around eight the first pan went on the cooker and a few minutes later I  thought, that hasn’t even begun to simmer yet, what’s up? The flame was very low, there was a final splutter, and out it went. No gas, the tank must be empty… At first this seemed impossible, it had only been filled four weeks earlier, and I had looked at the dial a week ago which said there was plenty. But then there was no avoiding the reality. It was Saturday morning, no chance of the tank being filled again before Monday at the earliest, so no heating, hot water and right at this moment more crucially, no cooker.

So - set to and prepare everything, I thought, weigh it all out, put it in bags, get yourself up the hill, check out everything in the kitchen -  just do it. So I did, and with help from the host and copious supplies of red wine it all actually turned out very well and everyone enjoyed their meal, even me. Coming back down to my house in the early evening was less fun, it was dark December and very cold. I wasn’t hungry and could think of nothing nicer than a warm bed, except that it was a lot less than warm without my essential hot water bottles. I decided to try the neighbours.

The couple who live next door are now good friends, and when I appeared with my bottles, asking if I could fill them, they looked at them as if this was a rare find – they seem to be unknown here. They don’t have a kettle of any kind, but boil water in a pan as needed. I have an abiding memory of Angela carefully filling the bottles with hot water from the pan on the cooker, using a soup ladle.

On sunday I lit the log fire in the kitchen and piled some bricks on either side to rest the BBQ grill across that I had found in the barn. I heated water to wash and cooked like a cowboy, all of which took time so the day slid by. And at least I could do my own bottles too, but roll on monday was all I could think. I went shopping in the afternoon to warm up in Esselunga, and as I drove home at six there was the gas tanker, hooray. I went inside and put everything on, just because I could.

A full tank of gas cost eight hundred euros, which is now more or less the same in pounds, and lasted a month, so that was a bit of a shock and I have been a little more prudent with the heating. I also know now that you need to hit the dial on the gas tank really hard with the brick. Funny what a mix of things you need to know to get by, isn’t it.

I feel very comfortable in these rural surroundings, they are similar in many ways to where I grew up – lots of little family businesses with plenty of old fashioned courtesy and customer service if you know where to look for it. The modern day giants are here too, there are superstores within reach and the obligatory Ikea an hour away, but the traditional still exists alongside.

To complete my new set of credentials I needed an Italian identity card, and for this there had to be three new photos as I had used those I brought with me for the residency permit. I assumed I would have to find a booth and put up with it, but a friend told me about the photoshop in town where I would have excellent service and infinitely better results.

It looked like any other modern photo shop, lots of posters, bright lights, all sorts of cameras. I approached the man at the counter, I would say in his fifties, tall with dark hair, slightly bent forward, and smiling, expecting that once he knew all I wanted was identity card portraits it would be quite quick –  sit there, look here, click and that’s it. But no, it couldn’t have been less like that.

He nodded, beckoned me to follow him to the corner of the shop and drew back a curtain, ushering me through the archway into another little room. As our communication was largely by mime due to my inadequate Italian, he took a paper hankie from a box and looking in the mirror on the wall gently dabbed his cheek then patted his hair, indicating that I might like to touch up a little before we began. He then discreetly withdrew, pulling the curtain behind him so that I had privacy.

Peeping through the curtain a couple of minutes later to check on my progress, he saw I was ready and came back in, opening his hands in front of him approvingly at the sight of me, “bella, bellissima, Signora…” I felt quite lovely. Then he positioned me in the chair opposite the camera tripod, gently moving my head just a touch this way, then that, with infinite care as if I might break. Finally we were ready, he smiled, and I couldn’t possibly have done anything else.

He took four different shots, moving me just a little between each, then gestured for me to stay comfortably in the chair whilst he developed them, which only took a couple of minutes. Then he placed them on the counter and we both bent over them whilst I chattered away in English about the merits of each, forgetting he couldn’t understand. But his eyes responded to each remark, though he was careful to make sure I chose the one I liked best without influence from him.

Finally I pointed to my favourite and he beamed - we agreed. He printed copies for me, and whilst he was completing them I looked in my handbag for the last one I had left from those I brought with me. I put it on the counter and said, look, that is so bad, and yours is so good. As he peered at it his face changed to utter distaste, “but Signora, that is a…a… slot machine”, he said, finding the English words and pronouncing them slowly as if nothing could appall him more. I put it away quickly.

I enjoy producing my Carta d’Identita when required, unlike my passport where the photo makes me look bald and ancient. I was so pleased with it I used the same picture on the header of the blog, though Chris, the designer, has done amazing things to the background. The whole experience in the photo shop took around twenty minutes, was an unexpected pleasure, and the photographs cost less than those from the despicable slot machine. That’s service.

For anyone planning to stay in Italy for some time there are hoops to jump through, but EU citizens have it easier than most as no visas are required. I can’t begin to explain the rules because the law surrounding permission to stay is undergoing change and is a movable feast, currently varying  from region to region. But it certainly involves getting to grips with Italian bureaucracy, not known for clarity and simplicity.

I was very fortunate to have  introductions via my English landlady to various ex pat friends of hers who helped me find my feet in my first few months. One introduced me to Sophia, an Italian who had been brought up in England, then moved to Italy, and as a consequence became fluent in both languages. With her children growing up and time available, she was ready to take on some translating work and agreed to assist me in visits to local government offices. I can’t imagine how I would have got by without her.

It is possible to acquire a simple permit to stay for up to five years, but I wanted a full residents permit because currently without one you are not allowed to own a car in Italy. My hire car was too expensive to run indefinitely so I intended to buy, and our first trip to town was to check out the current requirements  to start the ball rolling.

I had with me what documents I thought might be needed and after waiting our turn on the bench by the door in a dusty old office we were summoned to the desk and Sophia explained my request for residency. Expressionless, the official leafed through what I had brought. Hmm, yes, OK, not enough, you need to come back with all the following  – passport, proof of somewhere to live, evidence of five thousand six hundred euros in an Italian bank, three photographs - birth and marriage certificates? no, not needed.

The next office further down town was a modern block, lighter and cleaner but airless. Sophia requested a Codice Fiscale for me, a vital personal tax reference number issued to everyone on yet another piece of plastic and essential for buying anything of value or ordering  goods and services. A pleasant lady filled in my application form, whilst explaining what she was doing to a group of kids who were on a school visit to find out more about local government. It obviously wasn’t going down a storm.

We were politely introduced, they mumbled buongiorno, and smiling, Sophia translated the administrator’s attempt to lighten the proceedings a little –  ”well, you can tell everyone back at school that today you met Liz Taylor!” They looked at me blankly, then shrugged at each other, as nothing registered. She tried again “OK, so tell your parents it was Liz Taylor”.

In due course I had all the necessary paperwork and we went once more to the office in the Piazza for my permit. The same official looked through everything I had brought, then asked for my birth and marriage certificates. Even though he had said not needed last time I had brought them just in case, and proudly produced them.”Ah, perfetto,” he said “then when he actually started to read one changed his tone, “no, no, no, no, no, no, no…” they should be the international version. Never heard of those, what  language are they in, Esperanto?

He sighed, and kept saying “impossibile”, but Sophia just remained quiet and respectfull so I followed suit and we stood there whilst he repeated that there was nothing he could do. My mind was racing ahead as the chances of owning a car soon receded. Then he turned to his computer and began to type, chattering away to Sophia. After about ten minutes he pushed a piece of paper over the desk for me to sign, and I suddenly realised it was OK, though how I have no idea. He explained that the police would visit the house in the next couple of weeks to verify that I did live at that address, then my residency permit would be ready to collect shortly after that, and so it was.

It was rather similar when, as an EU citizen and retired person, I was transferring my UK National Heath entitlement over to Italy. We entered an immaculate office where a man sat at a desk in the centre of the room, hands folded neatly until Sophia explained why we were there. No, not possible here he said, with the usual Italian array of gestures, you must go to the office in the next town, I don’t process those applications. She stood quiet and waited, and so did I, and a couple of minutes later he sighed, took all my details and printed out my registration form. I handed over an English certificate that said it had to be completed in Italy and returned to the UK. He waved it away, “the English authorities are so far behind in their knowledge of EU law, this is not necessary.” I sent it back myself, just in case. 

Overall it had been a great deal easier than it often turns out to be, apparently, if somewhat confusing. But I have become accustomed to the Italian ability to change your mind in an instant, and I like it. Once you accept that it is a natural part of life here it is actually very liberating because you can do it yourself at will. Do I want to go to Florence tomorrow as arranged? No, it’s hot, I’d rather be in the garden, I’ll tell them I’ve changed my mind.

From my house to town takes about twenty minutes in the car, winding down the hairpins of the mountain road and into the valley. Although its origins are medieval it isn’t one of those picture post card Tuscan towns, but is a mix of ancient and modern, stretching out along either side of a river and joined by four bridges.

All daily shopping needs are here, and more besides. There is a bespoke shoemaker with a little shop full of many coloured leather hides, and an even smaller traditional shoe repair shop. There are of course modern print shops now, but also the printers that first began in 1485, where the original old presses are on display and you can buy beautiful handmade paper. Naturally there is a handmade pasta shop, a couple of delis, and plenty of fashion, shoes, hairdressers and pharmacies to meet the Italian priority of the “bella figura”, or making a good impression.

The main piazza is like the town itself, sloping gently down from one end of a long rectangle to the other, very broad and quite impressive. Cars park down either side, and frequently double park as Italians like to get as close as they can to where they are going, preferably at the door. This is generally treated with tolerance, and though I have seen a Rosa Clebb style traffic warden I have yet to see her book anyone.

One morning I pulled into the kerb on the main road to answer my mobile, and when a police car stopped alongside I just waived the phone at him, and though he glowered he moved on. It was several weeks later whilst driving the same stretch that I noticed where I had stopped before is the police designated parking space, and he had let me stay! In fact, I have very cordial relations with one policeman in particular.

Saturday is market day, no traffic is allowed into the piazza and it fills with stalls selling clothes, shoes, household goods, fabrics, cheese, hams, honey, plants, and a separate smaller piazza is home to fruit and vegetables. The town fills, people meet and greet, and it is a busy hive of activity. One morning I was circling the stalls, feeling particularly happy to be out and about on a bright sunny day, pleased with the chunk of parmigiano I had just tasted and bought at the cheese stall. I had a woven handbag with an open top over my shoulder and dipped in and out for my purse.

About to pay for a pretty little mat to go in the hall, I slipped my hand into my bag, and couldn’t find the purse… that awful feeling creeping over me that it really wasn’t there, and it wasn’t. Apologising, I left the mat and stood back to think. Where had I been? Could I have left it there? So – back to the cheese stall, a few halting words of Italian and alot of miming. This didn’t help much, though they paid me a great deal of attention they still kept coming up with another variety of cheese I might be asking for. Then the chap from the ham stall came across and we went through the whole routine again. Finally, it was understood that I had no purse, and no, I hadn’t left it there. Though very solicitous, of course there was nothing more they could do for me, and they were busy.

What to do. I paced the piazza distractedly, there was, or had been, six hundred euros in my purse as I had bills to pay, and all my cards, driving licence, etc. Eventually I decided I ought to go to the police station and report it, however unlikely it was that it would be found, there was just a chance.  As I reached the top end of the piazza, my eye was caught by a policeman bending down to pick something up. As he straightened up I saw that he had my purse in his hands.

In the time it took for me to make a bee line for him through the shoppers he had opened the purse and was looking at the picture on my driving licence. I rushed towards him shouting “it’s me!”, and he raised his head, recognised me and smiled a welcome, ”Mrs Taylor…” I was so relieved and pleased and happy I hurtled at him and threw my arms round his neck, hugging him tight for a moment. Taken aback, he gently loosened my grasp and bringing my hands down from his shoulders said, very kindly, “a little control, I think, Mrs. Taylor”.

I thought this was a bit rich coming from an Italian. But when I was recounting the story to a friend who has lived here a long time she said “think about it, this is a little place and it’s market day, the poor man is surrounded by everyone who knows him, all his wife’s relatives, and there he is before he knows it with a woman draped round his neck.” She had a point. Of course there was no money left, but all my cards were there, and as he said, don’t worry, God will bring you some more money. I could have kissed him for that, but just managed to think better of it.

Unlike the gently rolling hills and lines of cypress trees typical of central and southern Tuscany, the hillsides here in the north are steep and thickly wooded. These are the foothills of  mountain ranges that lie beyond and in summer you would not guess there are  houses tucked away in the trees. To reach mine I turn left off the road up from the valley and wind along a single track lane, a near vertical bank climbing up on my right and a steep drop down to a stream on my left. There are a couple of hairpin bends, two passing places, and one false move would take you over the edge, unless you happen to be just where one of the only two barriers are placed. This is a cul de sac which leads to four houses and mine is the first.

 From where I park my car I am looking out over the roof of the house and a path zigzags down the bank to reach it. Facing south with all day sunshine, the terrace is about six or seven metres wide along the front of the building with a wonderful view out across the valley to the hillsides and skyline beyond. A canopy of vines shades a table and chairs in the summer, and my sunbed sits under an apricot tree which reaches up to my bedroom window. From here the land drops steeply down in narrow terraces to the stream in the ravine below. Once farm land but now uncultivated for many years, there are olive trees, and to my delight an ancient fig tree that still bears fruit in October.

A ten minute  upward climb along a track behind the house brings me out, breathless, at the church on the lower reaches of a lovely medieval village which is stacked improbably on the hillside. Here there are the essentials, the village shop, the post office, the hairdresser, a pizzeria open at weekends and a restaurant – this year hopefully to be joined by another. If I walk back down the spiralling main road it takes half an hour, with glorious views that sweep down the length of the valley.

Within the house the downstairs sitting room and kitchen are cool and dark,  compared with the brilliance of summer sun, and a welcome relief from the heat of high summer. Once the animals would have been kept here with the family living on the floor above. This has now been transformed into bedrooms with plenty of windows and light. There are cotto tiles everywhere, stone stairs, an open fire in the kitchen and thankfully, a super modern bathroom.

So this is where I begin to unpack on day two, a little dismayed that it is grey and raining and quite chilly for May. In fact the rain continues most days until the middle of June which surprises and depresses everyone as it is very unusual. As a result everything grows like crazy, the edges of the lane along to the road and the hillside rolling down in front of the house are waist high in grasses and more wild flowers than I have seen in years. As the house takes shape with my things in it I begin to think about venturing forth and exploring a little further, and I also need a top up at the supermarket.

This time I’m not so tired and I feel more confident and relaxed. But at the check out I still need to concentrate, the total clocks up on the till not just in euros but also in lire for those who still hark back. It’s like having pounds, shillings and pence displayed  as well when you pay in Tescos. So I don’t  really notice the little sticker that is placed in my hand with my receipt and change. But putting the coins in my purse as I move clear of the next customer, glasses now back in handbag, I peer at this little shiny silver thing. Absent mindedly I think it must be some sort of charity sticker, peel off the back and stick it on my lapel. With hindsight it never occurred to me that I hadn’t put any money in any body’s collecting box.

About a week later I am back again for another bigger shop, and am ready to spend time just ambling through taking more notice of everything. At the beginning of the first aisle I see a large poster and a selection of rather nice plain white Villeroy and Bosch china underneath it. Stopping to see what’s what I recognise a picture of one of those little stamps, a bollino apparently. All slowly becomes clear – for every so many euros spent you will be given so many bollini. In a leaflet holder attached there are cards with spaces for the stamps, eight for two espresso cups and saucers, twelve for a set of plates, fifteen for a salad bowl… Oh no, I’ve had mine on my lapel all week. Where have I been? Who have I met? No, don’t even think about it…

 Glancing round to check no one is watching, though why it should matter after a week I don’t know, I raise my hand to my lapel, peel off my bollino and stick it in the first space on one of the cards. It leads in due course to a handsome salad bowl, so whilst wince making at the time, it is not a complete disaster. But I confess it takes me quite a while to go into Esselunga without casting an eye round the tills to see if they have noticed the idiot English woman is in again.

“…So anyway, he said to me, he said, are you coming or what? And I said, what do you think?” It is around 6.00a.m. and I am standing at the Ryanair checkin desk at Liverpool airport. It is quiet and the girl at the next desk has no customers so is passing the time telling the girl at mine about the night before. My girl checks my booking and passport, yawns hugely, and ignores both of us. From the look on her face I would say that last night was a non starter as far as she was concerned and not worth the makeup. “Overweight” she says, “pay over there”, pushing a slip across the counter for £35 in excess baggage.

I am not surprised, I was shoving things into my suitcase impulsively in the hours before I left that I had never planned to take, as if a few more possessions would somehow bring “home” with me. Much the same is happening at the desk where I am to pay, two girls rake over the coals of the night before. After a couple of minutes I say “excuse me, could I interrupt for a moment whilst you take my money?” The blond with the pony tail swings round to face me and snaps “Oh, so we’re not allowed to talk now are we not?”

Trundling through to Departures I think of the two hours I so enjoyed whistling down the M6 in the early morning dark with young John, chattering away. Being archetypal Northern Man I was almost undone when he said in a roundabout way that he would miss me, and I hugged him hard and had to run. I’m going to miss them all so much… I think of the faces of our two cats as I left the house, gazing at me silently, knowing, as cats do. By now I can hardly see and walk straight into the end of an island display in Boots which reminds me I want adaptors for my UK plugs.

Once onboard the service is amazing. A handsome young man leads the flight crew with a genuinely welcoming manner and good humour. He speaks fluent Italian and switches from one language to the other effortlessly, reminding me that I have yet to begin learning. The crew are efficient,  patient and smiling, even selling scratch cards with enthusiasm. We touch down at Pisa to the recorded fanfare of trumpets that announces yet another Ryanair flight has landed on time.

Now comes the bit that has been filling me with trepidation – driving on the other side. I collect the car from Avis and gingerly creep round a quiet bit of the car park until I think I know what I am doing. I set off, muttering to myself non stop “on the right, stay on the right, on the right…” This is so all consuming I forget the directions I thought I had memorised on the plane and take the first sign I see for Florence. I know I want to go east, but that’s about as good as it gets.

An hour later I am nearly at Florence, much too far east, and it takes me another hour and a half to find my way onto the right route. Just as I think I am getting the hang of the car and relax a little there is a blast like the foghorn on an ocean liner that makes me yelp and leap in my seat. In my rear view mirror I see a huge lorry so close to my bumper its headlights are above me. Foot down, hang on.

Relieved to get off the motorway I find my way through what will become my local town up a fairly quiet mountain road to my new home. I have visited once already a couple of months ago to check it out, and there it is, tucked into the hillside, ready and waiting. To my surprise, John’s nephew Clayton, who has driven here in a transit van with my belongings, is here before me, even though I gave him the wrong directions to the house. Not only that, all the boxes are off loaded and inside. We sit on the terrace looking at the view with a cup of tea, and I realise I am here. Then he is on his feet and away, moving on now to his Dad’s house in Spain, aiming to be over the border by tonight. I am reeling at the thought.

Now what. It is late afternoon. Think. Well, of course, food, etc., it doesn’t just stop because I’ve got here, it is only just beginning. I check out the cupboards and set off back to town to find the supermarket I passed on the way here. If I stock up well I can spend the next day or two just settling in and unpacking.

It’s a pretty good store, Esselunga, and my trolley is piled high. After the effort of finding everything I wheel into a queue and wait, brain in neutral. As the guy in front moves through I begin to fill the belt and by the time my trolley is half empty the girl on the till notices. “NO, no, NO – carta veloce qui!” she shrills, rendering me motionless, gazing at her wide eyed with no idea what she means. In exasperation she points above her head, and of course there it is in big letters on a sign about two metres long – ten pieces only. As fast as I can I hurl everything back in the trolley, blushing and apologising, in English of course, to all in the queue behind me. No one had complained about my huge trolley full in the fast queue, and they were surprisingly accommodating, smiling patiently and making room for me to back out without a hint of impatience. How very nice, this bodes well.

Back up the hill again, I unload the shopping and make something to eat  that is quick and easy, unpack only what I need for the night, shower and fall into bed. The high ceiling above me is lined with terracotta tiles between chestnut beams. The evening is quiet and still, and the peace is welcome. I cannot even think any more and am very soon asleep.