Highway Code

Early Friday evening down at the co-op. The woman behind me in the scrum has two items to my two dozen. I smile and beckon her forward.


General description of Italian Driving

"Va avanti" (You go in front)

"Grazie mille" (Thanks a lot)

"Non sei Italiano?" (You're not Italian are you?)

"No. Sono Inghlese" (No. I'm English)

"Lo sapevo!" (I knew it!)

But what exactly did she know? Did she conflate good manners and Englishness? (A mistake that comes from watching too many Merchant/Ivory productions) Or - formal queueing being anathema here - did my actions mark me as foreign?

Of course through the prism of our own culture, the stereotype/archetype boundary is fuzzy. Statements that begin, "all English people," "all Italians," are only ever going to be partly true unless they end "are various". Perhaps there are more similarities than differences between the English and the Italians. The differences just loom larger in the mind?



A sign every ten metres



A major difference between Italy and England is the number of rules here. Rules, regulations, legislation - endlessly quoted chapter and bloody verse. Everywhere evident and everywhere ignored! And everywhere side-stepped, elided, got round. Breached a rule? Find the rule that trumps it. Trust me, there will be one.

This paradoxical love of and disregard for rules is the diffrence sui generis between us. It's the underlying impulse that expresses itself in myriad behaviours.

It's most evident when it comes to driving. Italy is the only place where I've seen a set of instructions printed under traffic lights with the relevant laws dated and numbered in small-print beneath. Instructions! For traffic lights! Apparently we haven't all worked out that red means stop. Mobile phones appear permanently glued to Italian ears too. Gotta chat "Sto facendo una telefonata!!" (I'm on the phone!!) Of course the law is the same as England where it's not so overtly flouted.



Unaware you were on
a wiggly mountain road?



Crossing the Swiss/Italian border is funny. Cars funnel from the orderly clean, green, pure and wealthy Swiss motorways into the checkpoint lanes and then, just as if someones poured poison into the ant colony they're off all willy-nilly; everyone for themselves foot to the floor. That is every car with an "I" registration. 

This means: There will be weather



 A friend tells me it's just the same in Spain. Perhaps it's something to do with Catholic culture? (Catholicism in Italy is social and cultural, not religious, I was told!) The rosary beads wrapped around the rearview mirror being some kind of insurance policy..... that and the intercession of saints to get you off the hook if you didn't play by the rules.

My Cultural Life

Rehabilitated dispensa

Battling hibernation mode. Devouring novels as if books are going out of fashion; which of course they are. Trivial acts, slight mistakes, chance conversations with major repercussions, causing lives to switch tracks. That's this years recurring theme. Last winter, if memory serves, it was missing persons. Themes coalesce around seemingly random choices. Been zipping through the rapids of Anne Tyler, Carol Shields and Deborah Moggach. Lulled by the calm surface of Jon McGregor's flat monotone until pulled by an undertow. Wading through the treacly narrative of an Alan Hollinghurst. Such prolixity: why use two words when ten will do?

Reading novels is partly a substitute for writing them. Had one in gestation for about a year now. Got the structure, got the narrative, characters and tone, completed one section out of three – about thirty thousand words – but have now gone all Rimbaud. Hoped that reading others might be a way to kick-start the process, get back into the mood. I can tinker and meddle about with what's already done, but the first sentence of section two has not materialised. Anyone care to patronise me – in the archaic sense of course? Might help slough off hibernation and block out distractions like the crushing need to get on with painting the apartments and planting the junipers.

Other distractions from the real tasks at hand include renovating the old dispensa – larder cupboard. I've put some pictures of the various stages on facebook and I'm still not sure about the burnt umber finish on the cornice at the top and the bottom. It was all going so well until that point.

Hosted two rabbits at new year. Two rabbits and their vegan companions. Indeed, capodanno – new year – was an entirely vegan affair. All delightful, quirky, cosmopolitan Italians. This meant carte blanche to step out of the straight-jacket of culinary correctness and roam. A Mexican wave for the chimichanga. Raise a glass for an unapologetic mouth-watering moussaka. Sing the pleasures of cous-cous and baklava. That's the beauty of cooking for vegans, ethical vegans at least: no snobbery and no faddiness. Nobody bothered that eating a polenta dish after a risotto was eating two primi, “Due primi – come meraviglioso” Two fingers to convention! Nobody even baulked at English food! None of the usual snorts of derision, outrageous gurning or allusions to fish and chips. Good old Cranks recipe sformata di noci with roast spuds, spinach and gravy – that's nut roast if you hadn't already worked it out. Slips down with a crisp prosecco as easily as penne al'arrabiata.

Spent a lovely weekend with friends at their house, Casa Verde, in Vellano - betwixt Lucca and Florence in the hills north of Pescia. Vellano defies gravity perched on an impossibly steep incline. Civil engineers would demur from building it these days - it's seismic territory, prone to landslides. Health and safety gone mad! Casa Verde is right at the top of the village and so the views are stupendous and take in the Dieci Castelli or Ten Castles, a constellation of hamlets scattered at lower altitudes through the mountains. At night you can see the Milky Way above you and the ten towns ghostly glowing below.

The visit was opportunity to spend an afternoon in Lucca and parade around the park atop the walls. From there we witnessed municipal trucks collecting the recyclable waste bins in the streets below. A pretty unremarkable thing you might think, except that in Lucca the recycling bins are underground – they appear like a small bin on the surface - and like a scene from Thunderbirds, they rise up out of the ground. The bins are such an eyesore in most places I hope other ancient cities will their cue from Lucca.

Vellano - Altopescia

Bigger, better, best might as well be the city's motto because right outside the church of San Michele in the Piazza they've built a gargantuan presepio – nativity scene. It's the new testament myth recast as Italian contadini – subsistence farmers. There's field of vines, mature olive trees – these weigh a ton – and even traditional stone terracing. After all the effort they went to, the Brico style (think B&Q) flimsy lean-to wood store that they used as a cattle-shed and houses the figures of Mary Joseph and Jesus, let's it down somewhat. It should also be noted that one of Mary's arms seemed to be detached and caused Jesus' head to flop over her arm at such a strange angle asphyxiation could be the only result. They're usually a bit more home-spun than this, but these scenes are a feature of every town and they are inexplicably popular... a bit like the grottos that spread across England like a rash from October onwards. Somehow, they make the things they represent even less believable.

 

 

Also stretching credulity was the Cowboy Cow – outside Mercato Usato an amazing emporium just outside Lucca. (Sorry, I didn't have a camera) It stands, complete with Stetson hat, bullet belt, holster and gun, in what looks like Steptoes compound, a graveyard of rusting washing machines and fridges. Anyone got a use for Calamity Cow? I can recommend this place, because among the tat and the grey decay there are some genuinely strange novelties and the odd thing of beauty. Gorgeous old armoires, dusty Persian rugs, doors, windows, hinges and locks and a hundred gaudy statues of the revered Padre Pio.

 

Finished the weekend by popping into the Uffizi in Florence to see the ironically titled I Mai Visti – The Never Seen. Surprised to learn that the Uffizi has another museums worth of stuff in the vaults and this particular exhibition hadn't seen the light of day since the eighteenth century. It was mostly a collection of Roman busts and paintings and sketches that were either records or incidental depictions of the busts.

The tour was conducted in English with an entertaining American guide who brought it to life with a good mix of fact and irreverence. Good crowd too – we guffawed our way around the exhibits drawing the attention of the more staid museum goers. By the time we were ready to go a group of museum staff were gathered at the entrance drawing lots to determine which poor soul should ask us to leave.

The Full Monti



From this frozen mountain

The ancient wood burner, vats of hot lentil broth and radio 4 pod casts down-loaded in clusters at Punto Com the local internet hub (home connection at yokel speeds) provide sustenance during the long winter evenings. Europop Italian radio doesn't cut it and my unsophisticated Italian can't cope with serious discussions so for a bit of depth and analysis it's radio 4 all the way.
I recently caught a pod cast entitled The Young Italians about what motivated hundreds of Italians under 30 to leave home and move to London each year. Graduates of all disciplines told the same stories of being 'locked out' of jobs, careers and even self-employment by arcane closed-shop rules, exorbitant licence fees or just by simply not having the right connections. Access to higher degrees, research and thus into teaching were guarded by a sort of academic Godfather. The figure of the 'Barone' exists in all Italian universities. He's (it's nearly always a man) usually a late middle-aged professor long since bored by his subject, and he's the guy you've got to suck up to if you want to get on. Talented? Who cares? It's not what you know, but who you know that counts.

We're used to seeing such shenanigans in the upper echelons of government and business in the UK and Italy. The bizarre antics of Signor. Berlusconi and cronies have been plastered all over the news for the best part of a decade. In the UK revelations of the revolving door for ex-government ministers and senior civil servants between the ministries and private business, are found first in the pages of Private Eye, filtering down to the broadsheets only when they've been scrutinised to make sure that none of the dirt is going to rub off. But these are examples from the stratosphere. At least some semblance of equal opportunities culture exists in the UK. Italy you are pissing away your talent – sveglia e sente il caffè!

Berlusconi has gone off to hawk his new CD - oh the hubris! - and the unelected Mario Monti has taken over. The British press have characterised him as an administrator, an EU stooge to do Frau Merkel's bidding. The sharp contrast with Berlusconi's inebriated style is partly to blame. Like mild Major to malevolent Margaret he's sober, greyer and altogether blander. But like Major, who drew Britain back from Thatcherite excesses like the Poll Tax, it looks like Monti wants to remove the excesses that stifle creativity - the culture of patronage, clientelism, nepotism and the dense strata of esoteric rules that create inertia and have no place in a modern economy. He seems to know what some of the problems are at least! I only hope that he wants the focus of government to be ordinary Italians and not just something that oils the wheels of the corporate juggernauts, which is the way it's been in the UK for the past three decades. It will be a monumental struggle against vested interests and a culture which says, 'What sort of person is it who wouldn't help their son/daughter/niece/nephew?' Tell that to those whose daughters and sons are in London.

November blog

The Landscape in winter

The November post on Bob Dylan in Firenze produced the highest number of hits on the blog ever – almost a thousand on the first day alone and another five thousand unique visitors have followed since then. Thanks everyone for your emails and comments; I'm very grateful anyone's reading it at all! I don't know if the fault was in my transmitter, or your receivers but I want to reassure the fifty percent who thought that anything less than fulsome praise was dissing the diety I really enjoyed that gig. I couldn't find any clips from the Firenze concert to demonstrate what I mean, but a clip from Rome the following night demonstrates what I liked about it.
Forgetful Heart, Roma; 12.11.11

Things Have Changed ~ Bob Dylan in Florence

Bob Dylan Nelson Mandela Forum, Firenze 11th November 2011.

Anticipation heightened after my sister pronounced the Nottingham, England gig "bloody brilliant". A Dylan afficianado from an early age, she's not an uncritical fan. I remember her take on an early 90s gig, "chronic" - the Black Country equivalent of pretty awful. Dylan on a bad night can be like watching a car crash in slo-mo, but on a good night he can make the hair stand up on the back of your neck. So which Dylan did we get?

Leopard Skin Pill-Box Hat opened the proceedings. Stripped of sardonic humour, reduced to a bar-room boogie warm up and not even bothering to bark the title line - clearly, he was phoning it in. Muted applause followed and the twenty-something Italians around me, here to witness a legend, scratched their heads. Next up Girl From The North Country was executed (in both senses!) at a brisk pace ill-suited to the sentiments. Seemingly unable to carry the melody, Dylan spoke the lyric and still managed to sound like a seal with laryngitis. Mark Knopfler's incongruously crunchy Les Paul meanderings were like taking a machete to marshmallow. Oh dear.

Then, just as things were about to tip into the realm of 'chronic' something happened. Things Have Changed - and from this point they literally did. Sans guitar, centre stage and displaying a vocal range nowhere in evidence on the first two songs, Dylan rose like Lazarus from the dead and I kid you not - began to dance. He crouched, almost knelt and, sent assertive, sustained, piercing harmonica assaults reverberating around the cavernous venue. I've never seen Dylan so manically animated, so wild-eyed in his delivery. The peanut crunching crowd were brought to attention.

From this point Dylan took control and rolled out a whole repertoire of tricks that define 'dylanesque'. Tricks of phrasing and timing and improvised lyric variations like the “doctors and lawyers wives” that tonight replace the “carpenters wives” in Tangled Up In Blue and somehow ring truer as “all the people I used to know”. Sorry, they bring out the Dylan anorak in me! Again the harmonica breaks were a delight, audacious, melodious and spine tingling.

Best of the evening was Forgetful Heart which began with a solo plaintive harmonica from Dylan with his back to the audience conducting his ensemble as each instrumentalist joined until a melody slowly gathered itself together. Against a mournful double bass, bowed skilfully by Tony Garnier, Dylan sang – really sang – his heart out and played the best harmonica solos I've ever heard him play. In a sort of musical deliquescence each instrumentalist faded out leaving Dylan alone with the harmonica which gradually retreated until the song disappeared like smoke. A magical goose bump moment.

Occasionally there were some pedestrian moments. I could've done without the twelve bar stodge of Highway 61 Revisited, Thunder On The Mountain and the egregiously long Levees Gonna Break. On the latter Dylan compounded the error with unremittingly dull instrumental breaks – endless repetition of the same musical figure on the carnival organ. Like the worst jazz jamming, it might be interesting for the musicians, but it signals refreshment time for the listener. I don't object to the carnival organ per se as some do. It was entirely appropriate to Desolation Row with its cast of freak circus characters. It was almost a complete version too. Only Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, the fishermen with flowers and the calypso dancers were given the night off. Vocally it was terrific with Bob vacillating with ease between the high nasal whine at the start of lines going down to a sonorous bass at the end.

Towards the end Ballad of A Thin Man was a tour de force a demonstration of dylanesque phrasing and timing sui generis. The “tax deeeeductable cha-ri-teeee ooorganisaaation” of the middle eight stretched phonemes out like bubblegum across several bars of music. Dylan grinning with delight strutted around the stage with one hand waving free and the mic in the other. In his black suit and black hat I half expected Ginger Rodgers to come out. Even that old curmudgeon Larry Adler would've loved Dylan's harmonica on this one.

All Along The Watchtower and Like A Rolling Stone wrapped up the show – crowd-pleasers for the casual attendee.

“The poet laureate of rock'n'roll, the man who forced folk into bed with rock, the voice of the sixties counter-culture who disappeared into a haze of substance abuse and emerged to find Jesus, who was written off as a has been in the eighties and shifted gears in the nineties....” This was the announcement heralding his arrival on stage. Sardonically delivered cliches from newspaper cuttings - but they do show how many different things Dylan means to people. He called himself a song and dance man whose songs were “exercises in tonal breath control”. Tonights exercises were pretty good.

Wild Mood Swings



Grapes at Falciano Vineyard

It's quarter to seven. The sun is sinking and an amber halo silhouettes the forested hills around Tenuta Savorgnano. An oily blue jay hectors from the stand of elms between the house and the pool. It's cool; very cool. The mercury struggles to reach fifteen degrees and cold blasts of tramontana – literally, 'among mountains' – wind, have the hanging geraniums on the first floor window ledges tugging at their roots.

Lately, the Savora – the river that cuts around the promontory on which the houses are perched – is beginning to sing again. Somewhere, deeper into this wilderness they call the Casentino it must be bucketing down. Clouds cluster and cling to the tips of pines atop the looming Alpe di Catenaia way above the tenuta. The winter is tuning up.

It seems indecently early, but the garden lights flicker on all along the boundary fence, past the pool -now dressed for winter - and curl around the edge of the car park to a huge pile of branches and twigs. We've cut a swathe through the foliage that obscures the long valley views to the north east towards Anghiari. Now we can see the serried ranks of mountains recede, one behind the other in ever paler shades of grey, beyond Umbria and into the milky twilight. By the light of the iron lanterns at each corner of the main house bats perform their crepuscular acrobatics.

Old Rugged Cross at La Verna

A couple of weeks ago it seemed like summer wouldn't end. Vendemmia – the grape harvest - was in full swing and we even witnessed grapes being pressed just across the road from a local vineyard. Not quite as one might imagine - underfoot in a wooden barrel - but in gleaming aseptic stainless steel machines. Now, crops are safely gathered in, fields are fallow, garden furniture has been snatched indoors, foreign registered cars have vanished, cafés have retreated from the pavements and half the population have battened down the hatches and the other half have returned to their real lives. Forty quintale – 4,000 kilos – of winter wood was delivered yesterday which is definitely a signifier of impending cold weather.  In a few days time the clocks change. Melancholy - my default position - is unmasked as the distractions of the summer fade. The internal weather is as turbulent as the sky today.


Recession, unemployment, repossession, social unrest. News of England comes courtesy of Radio 4 podcasts. Millionaire George Osborne is tightening everyone's belt and letting out his own. This fixation with Euro-turmoil neatly elides the crisis of Sterling. How ironic that the great hope of the Europhobes (not Eurosceptics – that would be a rational position!) find themselves thrashing about to make sure the Euro currency holds, while ardent Europhiles, the Lib Dems, are toning down the federalist rhetoric! I can hear great chunks of masonry crashing off the edifice of the coalition from here. Meanwhile, the huddled masses amass on the doorstep of the square mile and clerics resign in solidarity. The Friday Night Comedy, Front Row, Saturday Live and Thinking Allowed lift the spirits – thank you BBC! A tenner a month for the licence fee is excellent value – a Sky or a Virgin subscription costs about five times as much.

Unfathomably, my last post received more feedback than any other. Even snail mail from England! It seems most were hoping for a more personal and less statistical annual report. Some were congratulatory, but I think it's a little premature for a pat on the back. We simply can't tell how it it will pan out yet. We've got by this year, but there's no room in the budget for improvement and that's a disappointment.


That's probably offended those who wrote to caution giving out commercially sensitive information. I can live with the schadenfreude of those who've done a bit better and wish them even greater success. It's not like I published the profit and loss account! Actually, there's a courageous bloke at Organic Heaven in Chesterfield who publishes his results – warts 'n' all – on his website. It's a different view of business I suppose – about co-operation and stake-holding. Here in Italy Slow Food convivia refer to “co-producers” rather than consumers and has a similar impetus. Tell the truth and shame the Devil about the difficulties facing small business. The customer doesn't really always know best. Informed choice – a mantra we hear so much these days.


What's your strangest request? That's an easy one to answer. “Where is the nearest water park?” “I think you may be on the wrong holiday”, I replied. What do I miss most from England? Punctuality and reliability – of people and services! Oh the foot stomping frustration of dealing with Telecom Italia!! Most difficult guest? I couldn't possibly be so indiscreet! However, we did have an enquiry in person (after several email exchanges) quite early in the season from someone who had been in Italy for a couple of months on a “spiritual journey” and who needed somewhere to stay for her final three weeks here. No space was big enough for Yoga; the pool isn't heated?; we'd never cope with her food intolerances. However, it turned out in the end that her biggest spiritual need was an hyper-fast broadband connection. Not possible when you're 22 kilometres from the telephone exchange and reliant on dodgy copper cables. The rest she could've put up with. It was a narrow escape.
It's a public holiday here at the moment for Ogni Santi or All Saints. The B&B and the apartments are full for the weekend. We've just had a week without guests and had fallen into maintenance mode, when we forget what it is we do. We managed to wing breakfast this morning for the largest number we've ever catered for – eighteen! Now pulling that off deserves a pat on the back. Most of the Italians eschewed the stereotype (archetype?) and exchanged cappuccino for tea. That was a turn up for the books. Yorkshire Tea to boot! One of our American guests has inexplicably been to Selby on holiday. “Selby, East Yorkshire?” I clarified.


Basilica allo Santuario - La Verna

The pictures on this blog are from the Sanctuary at La Verna, close to here. St Francis knew a good spot for a monastery. It's a great place for quiet contemplation and wistful meanderings - perfectly suited to golden autumn afternoons.

Melancholy is sadness that has taken  on lightness - Italo Calvino

Summer Of Love

When some guests leave, it feels like to holiday is over for me as well as for them. This best describes the odd sense of loss that's repeated over and over as we've said goodbye to some remarkable people over the summer. Tidying and cleaning empty rooms almost becomes a ritual to exorcise the emotions, and as I scrub and polish I think of pleasantly memorable times - a convivial meal sharing stories, or the sound of satisfied guests chatting and laughing together as we wash up. And the memories linger, triggered by little reminders: a note in a guest book, a silver bangle left behind, donated novels or particular brands of soap and cologne, gifts of paintings and plants and even a florescent pink inflatable Pegasus which has hung for most of the summer under the pergola.

Trailers to this post mentioned an annual report to mark the anniversary of our arrival here. I gathered together some statistics for it, but they only tell part of the story. Here goes.

From March 18th until now a total of 453 nights (64 weeks) have been booked. This represents 73 individual bookings (29 for apartments/44 for B&B) with 154 people staying. Most people came as couples, but a handful travelled as family groups. Seventeen nationalities have passed through these doors so far: American, Brazilian, Danish, Dutch, English, German, Irish, Italian, Polish, Quebecois, Scottish, Slovakian, Spanish, Swiss, Belgian, Welsh, Luxembourgish (this is really what people from Luxembourg call themselves in English!) Over all the average stay was 6.2 days, but this is skewed by the fact that apartment bookings are usually for longer periods than B&B bookings and I didn't feel like trawling through the diary again to work them out individually! A slight digression, but it is worth noting that the shortest stays were for one night and the longest for sixteen.

Assuming a (conservatively estimated) 22 week season, this gives us a 48% occupancy rate. Is that okay for the first year? I'm afraid I don't really have a clue. I vaguely remember Ruth Wilson of Hotel Inspector fame (I know it's Channel Five and not Business Weekly!) saying that confidence in sustainability comes at about 70% occupancy. It would be nice to be able to make some of the changes we want to make a bit faster, but at the moment we'll settle for paying the bills.

The problem with figures is that they say nothing about the really memorable moments that cause us to refer to this season as our Summer of Love. Just for the pleasure of remembering, here are a few.

• The couple from Kent who got engaged here during a glorious week weather wise, at the beginning of April.
• Melvyn & Jana who dropped in unexpectedly at breakfast one May morning while returning to England from Slovakia (are we really on the way?) and who re-scheduled ferry crossings in order to stay longer. Lots of laughs over vegan dinners and a special thanks to Mel who enthusiastically rodded blocked drains! Future guests please note, he wanted to do it, we didn't make him.
• The Muslim couple from Wales who wasted no time in making aubergine & potato curry with dahl and roti cooked in the wood oven when we made doe eyes and said we missed Indian & Pakistani food. We couldn't get all the spices, so we had to improvise a bit, but the result was fantastic.
• Polish couple Igor & Radek who supplied the limoncello for some lovely evenings putting the world rights under the pergola and who climbed through the windows after locking themselves out. I'm glad we weren't there to witness that!
• Pete & Marie of Bristol who along with Anne & Graham of Ripon helped to bail out our flooded living quarters having just returned from an evening out in their best bib and tucker. The sight of Marie with her lovely evening dress knotted at the front to keep it clear of the water made me wish I'd had a camera. Marie left us a gift of three original paintings (See Marie's art here) and Anne & Graham left us the florescent pink inflatable Pegasus that adorns the pergola, even as I write.
• Critter crazy Django, 9 years old who really appreciated the unappreciated things about Tuscany like scorpions, venomous snakes, wolves and wild boar. Django, if you're reading, I am still sceptical about your sightings of Big Foot.
• Our Italian guests who patiently corrected our Italian and helped it along enormously. We are sorry we descended into Eurobabble at times when we reached the limits of expression. Chanteuse Elisa & Sporty Roberto from Padua you will forever be Betty and Bob to us. Poalo & Maria-Luisa from Verona, the ornamental pepper plants you gave us are still going strong. Nicole & Federico from Genova swapped recipes over vegan dinners. Take a look at Nicole's recipes at Ricette Vegan. Giusy from Milan - we feel like we got to know you very well in only a couple of days. Such a big heart.

• 

  Betty, Bob, Colin & Jen

  Honeymooners Sarah & Steve added some true Northern English grit to the proceedings and we wish you a wonderful life together. Hamid & Paula from Amsterdam were our quickest repeat guests. They left at 10am to go south but rang at 2pm to book another week and were back by 5. Thank you both and thank you Paula for the marvellous job you did of dead-heading the geraniums. Colin & Jen from Belfast: so cheeky! Some of Jen's stories were mildly disturbing to say the least! You began a trend of drawing in the guest book! Given the Belfast accent, perhaps it was the best way to communicate?
• Robi and Corrine from Luxembourg your company for dinner every night was such a pleasure. You increased our knowledge of Luxembourg by thousands of percentage points and you allowed me to get away with playing Bob Dylan at dinner. Click to see Robi's art.
• Thanks to Kati & Al our new friends in Seattle for all the entertaining internet links. And to everyone else along the way who has shared food, wine and conversation
• Finally, Pete & Jo who chose this little corner of the universe to celebrate 50 years of marriage. Thanks to you and to everyone who made this summer so special.

Colin & Jen's Guestbook page

Confessions from a B&B



Pienza entrance - apropos of nothing.

When did people become so attached to their i-thingy electronic notebooks? Broadband isn't an option so far from the exchange I explain; and explain again. We even tried very hi-tech but the surrounding hills block the satellite signal. Thanks to our dodgy dongle 3G connection we'll get by at mere kilobytes per second when the wind is blowing in the right direction. Meanwhile fibre optic cables are inching towards us and as I write they are about 6.5km down the long and winding road. Perhaps before they arrive we might have launched our own satellite. There's bound to be an internet guide to DIY space hardware. If only we had a better connection!

Perhaps we should make a virtue of our unplugged status. (We recently astounded a nine year old who simply couldn't believe we don't have a telly. Clearly, he's never seen Italian TV!). Ditch the hand held devices folks and really get away from it all.

We've been receiving guests since mid-March and, at varying levels, there are guests from now until the end of September. We've worked out that only about 10% of enquiries result in a booking. This is probably down to the internet with folks firing off half a dozen speculative emails at a time. You couldn't do that in the days of snail mail or usuriously expensive international calls. We've also noticed that the likelihood of booking decreases as the number of questions increases. You can get quite pally corresponding with some people - and then suddenly, nothing. Nobody has yet asked about WiFi access by email. However, it's a popular first question when people first arrive. Is it just taken for granted now?

Based on queries I have to confess that if you're looking for sandy lagoons, nightclubs or theme parks then you're probably barking up the wrong tree. If you want clean air, the sound of birds, deer and wild boar, the sight of a big pink moon, and crystal clear night skies, then it might fit the bill. That with a bit of art, culture, Italian food and conviviality thrown in. In actual fact – believe it or not – there are those who come to Italy for the first time who think the 50 miles to Florence is a bit much. Others want to do it all – Rome, Venice, Verona, Milan, Guarda, Como, Maggiore and Pompeii! Good luck with that unless you can teleport. To those who want a private terrace and pool & a cookery course I have to say gently; you need to up your budget quite a bit. And sorry, but you can't stay B&B but self-cater using the outdoor wood oven.
It's been a long dry season with the mercury reaching 40ºC (104ºF old money) yesterday. The lawn has gone beige and a bit crispy. We must be due a good storm I would have thought which should see us right... but please not until we've repaired the lawnmower after it's encounter with a big stone. With a lot of watering our tomatoes, chill-peppers, aubergines, courgettes, rhubarb, beetroot, sunflowers and corn are bearing up. The scent of the sage, thyme and basil seems only intensified by the heat.

Our third apartment – La Luna – is finished I'm happy to relate. It's painted the lovely clotted cream colour that complements the chestnut beams. We've built a patio off the bedroom . We've rehabilitated an old wardrobe and an old bed (new mattress, don't fret!) and installed some new hand-made bedside tables which are attached to the wall so there's nothing to dust underneath or behind. Wish all the rooms had these. One day! The bathroom is cleverly tucked in under the stone staircase that leads up to the loggia of Il Sole. Intrepid motorbiking Brits arrive today – it's first occupants.



La Luna bedroom

Four finches have finally flown the nest which was on the loggia of the B&B house. It was lovely to see, but the mess made the loggia unusable. As soon as they'd gone other birds began to bring nesting materials. In an effort to prevent it I've hung little mirror ball Christmas decorations and placed a soft toy near where they nest. It seems to have done the trick. Another bird repeatedly attacks its own reflection in the windows leaving little marks of wagtail spit that require daily cleaning. Mirror balls have done the business there too. Now, shards of light dance all around the dining room. I wonder if our night fever 70s disco breakfasts might compensate in the promotional stakes for the lack of WiFi.