The Lago Maggiore tourist season is in full swing. On every Cannobio street corner, German or Dutch is being spoken. The bouncy castle wobbles with exuberant children. The lake is dotted with the flotsam and jetsam of pedaloes, canoes and novice water-skiers. Families take an evening stroll along the lungolago, and (only) when it's dark, board the Disneyland-style trenino for a quick ride around town, bells ringing, headlights flashing.
Having guests to entertain, we spill out of our mostly silent hilltop citadel to the Albergo-Ristorante-Pizzeria Giardino. The large restaurant is at this time of year crammed with families baying for pizza. Here, you will get one of the best pizzas in town, but without the lungolago view - it's situated on the main drag, and with all the windows open it can get a bit noisy. But the place is great for kids - and for parents. There's a clean baby-changing unit, high-chairs are available and the pizzaiolo is happy to serve half pizzas if you ask nicely.
I like this place for all these reasons. Also, because the Albergo-Ristorante-Pizzeria Giardino is the only place in Cannobio I've found with a baby-changing unit. For the last four years I've grappled with this problem. What do I do when AJ drops a bomb half-way through my shopping trip, or when B makes me a fragrant present while waiting for my hairdressing appointment? I've changed nappies on unisex-toilet floors (yuk), on park benches, on the back seat of the car, and in all seasons. I've done it on scanty bits of grass in car parks, and down on the lawn at the lido. Even the doctor's very smart surgery doesn't have a dedicated baby-changing area, and the overworked receptionist has on occasions been prevailed upon to do something makeshift with a consulting-room couch.
And yet, particularly at this time of year, there are babies everywhere you look.
Do they not do what my babies do? Do other mothers have some secret Super-Mama system for changing nappies hygienically and invisibly without need for facilities? Do they sprout wings and transport themselves and their babies back to their tents, apartments, hotel rooms for a speed-of-light wash and brush-up?
Strikes me there is a marketing opportunity here, Signor Assessore responsible for tourism.
How about a scheme to increase the family-friendly credentials of the various bars and restaurants around town? Those with the features families need (baby-changing unit, children's portions and high chairs) get a nice big colourful 'Family-Friendly' sticker for the window.
Some may even be encouraged to upgrade their facilities. And at the very least, the not-so-super Mamas will know at a glance where to go for pizza and a quick nappy-change...
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Mrs Orange
Today, I'm sad to say, we have one less chicken. And this isn't because one more February cockerel is being despatched to the freezer with B tripping along behind, eyeing the bloody neck of the carcass and twittering, "What happ'nd? What happ'nd?" (her latest conversational gambit). No.
Mrs Orange was the oldest of our chickens. In fact, she was only a couple of months younger than AJ, which is pretty old in chicken years. She always gave us double-size eggs, but only every other day (and by the sound she made while producing, I'm not surprised it wasn't an everyday occurrence). In the last year or so, she's given us no eggs at all. Normally this is the cue to sharpen the falcetto. But Mrs Orange was different.
Mrs Orange escaped the fox...
One fine day, M and his late father were on chicken-sentry duty - all the chicks had been let out to roam around a bit, and the men were there to make sure nothing untoward took place.
Think chicken-hawks. Think weasels. Think foxes.
But to M and his late father, sentry duty meant having a nice little snooze in the grass, and while they snored gently, a big old fox was surveying the assembled menu. He lit upon the chubby Mrs Orange and in a flash had her by the neck and was making off with her into the woods. The rest of the chicks squawked summat terr'ble and the sentries came awake to see the last of Mrs Orange.
Much later ...
I was coming along the pretty woodland path that connects Carmine to Cannobio via the sentiero. And who should I come across, pecking happily among the leaf litter and seeming somewhat smug?
Mrs Orange.
How she managed to escape the jaws that had clamped around her scrawny neck will forever remain a mystery, but Mrs Orange became an instant wonder, a miracle, a chick who escaped certain death, a heroine in her own coop.
So, she was declared a Carmine Pensioner. Although she spurned the red uniform, she did enjoy the other benefits. Hand-feeding with the choicest crumbs from the human table. A seat on the highest perch alongside our rather fat cockerel. And a stay of execution when the chick-opause came around.
But yesterday it was clear that Mrs Orange was sickening. In fact, she had been for some days. So she went to meet her maker in a blaze of glory, and instead of a place in the freezer, she was given a Christian burial with all honours and a chorus of mourners keening in the background.
God bless 'er.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Saturday, 26 July 2008
With the rain
Early morning in Carmine. Not one of the glamorous, sunglasses-bright breakfast-overlooking-Lago Maggiore mornings we've been having of late, but overcast and delicately raining.
I'm addicted to the smells of Carmine when it rains gently after a period of drought.
Soft earth.
Fig leaves.
Honeysuckle.
Wet cat.
Grass and woodland.
And the scent of the ancient stones themselves. The musk of ages.
I'm addicted to the smells of Carmine when it rains gently after a period of drought.
Soft earth.
Fig leaves.
Honeysuckle.
Wet cat.
Grass and woodland.
And the scent of the ancient stones themselves. The musk of ages.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Thirty degrees was the high today, with blue skies and again a life-saving breeze. A bumper harvest in the tomato patch. And while I'm not picking tomatoes, I'm shearing the lavender.
And when I'm not shearing the lavender, I'm giving the chiesa a once-over in preparation for Sunday's mass in honour of the Madonna del Carmelo.
Thank God for the aspirotutto.
And when I'm not shearing the lavender, I'm giving the chiesa a once-over in preparation for Sunday's mass in honour of the Madonna del Carmelo.
Thank God for the aspirotutto.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Elche
Another perfectly beautiful day, characteristics as yesterday.
But today was, in fact, a red letter day. Why? Because we received a mystery parcel. Well, actually, not so much a mystery parcel but a forgotten parcel. I love parcels. And most especially mystery parcels. I enjoy the anticipation, the excitement, child that I am.
This particular parcel contained 'Elche', a work in mixed media by London artist and printmaker Colin Moore. Colin's work, which can be seen on his website, is fresh, strong and contemporary. And entirely without pretension. And if many of his subjects are from the British Isles, you might detect what I feel is a somehow Hispanic flavour, perhaps because Colin has such strong ties with the Spanish-speaking countries.
If you have a spare bit of wallspace and a spare bit of cash, buy something. Colin's work is increasingly being shown at fairs and galleries in the UK and is sure to appreciate.
Colin, 'Elche' is beautiful. And as you yourself said, I'm certain it will be very happy in our house.
Thank-you.
But today was, in fact, a red letter day. Why? Because we received a mystery parcel. Well, actually, not so much a mystery parcel but a forgotten parcel. I love parcels. And most especially mystery parcels. I enjoy the anticipation, the excitement, child that I am.
This particular parcel contained 'Elche', a work in mixed media by London artist and printmaker Colin Moore. Colin's work, which can be seen on his website, is fresh, strong and contemporary. And entirely without pretension. And if many of his subjects are from the British Isles, you might detect what I feel is a somehow Hispanic flavour, perhaps because Colin has such strong ties with the Spanish-speaking countries.
If you have a spare bit of wallspace and a spare bit of cash, buy something. Colin's work is increasingly being shown at fairs and galleries in the UK and is sure to appreciate.
Colin, 'Elche' is beautiful. And as you yourself said, I'm certain it will be very happy in our house.
Thank-you.
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Monday, 21 July 2008
Sunday, 20 July 2008
Busy bees in Carmine
Warm. Not so much sun.
Today, Carmine is buzzing with activity : someone is burning garden rubbish, another is cutting the grass and pruning the trees, another is watching his labourers carry building materials up the hill, and yet another is shaking out the rugs in between bouts of running around the village calling after errant children.
Oh, and we are drowning in visitors with hiking boots, working them walking sticks and getting into everything. God luv'em!
Today, Carmine is buzzing with activity : someone is burning garden rubbish, another is cutting the grass and pruning the trees, another is watching his labourers carry building materials up the hill, and yet another is shaking out the rugs in between bouts of running around the village calling after errant children.
Oh, and we are drowning in visitors with hiking boots, working them walking sticks and getting into everything. God luv'em!
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Thursday, 17 July 2008
The past and the present in Carmine
The following is part of an article I was asked to write a couple of years ago for a local bi-annual cultural publication put out by the comune. The brief was to try to give a view of what it was like to be a woman living in Carmine Superiore in the 21st century.
Carmine Superiore is a unique mix of old and new : from its ancient cobbled streets to the tv aerials perched on its roofs. Electricity and telephone lines have reached the village, but the same cannot be said for the gas supply or a modern sewerage system, to say nothing of the absence of vehicle access that makes Carmine such a special place.
In the last 100 years, this tiny village has undergone immense change. It no longer has a fixed population who rely on the labour of their own hands in its meadows, on its terraces, and among its woodlands. The population waxes and wanes with the seasons. Some houses are inhabited perhaps only once in the course of a year, others see their owners only during the summer, and there are only two or three that can be said to be occupied on a permanent basis all year round.
Heating the oldest of the stone houses by electrical means would be prohibitively expensive, and for this reason we decided to follow the route taken by most of the other proprietors in Carmine and use wood for heating and cooking, cutting what we needed from the woodland that now encroaches on the village. My husband and I quickly found that collecting enough wood to keep us warm, heat our water and fire our cooking stove was a year-round activity, that it took all our energy when not working at our day-jobs, and that it was an activity that forced a certain division of labour according to sex. For the first two years I was determined to do my bit, to put into practice my ideas of the equality of the sexes even when it came to physical labour. But when I became a mother, it became abundantly clear to me that I would have to settle for picking up sticks rather than knocking wedges into tree trunks, and that I would have to look after my toddler rather than chop firewood.
For me as a full-time mother, living in Carmine Superiore has negative and positive aspects. I am able to raise my family in a car-less environment, without the stress of constant traffic noise and breathing the fresh air of the woodlands. On the other hand, Carmine now lacks any of the 'services' taken for granted by mothers in other places : healthcare, grocery shops, even the proximity of the extended family to help with childcare. This makes life with children a complicated proposition as mothers everywhere will be able to imagine.
The physical resources required to climb the hill have diminished with my second pregnancy and at the same time my first child, who is still not quite able to walk up under his own steam, has grown heavier every day. And it recently occurred to me that instead of being a paradise, as so many visitors have called this place, it could become a prison. The pregnancy will shortly come to an end, but it has made me realise that if I want to continue living in Carmine Superiore I will have to stay in good physical condition into old age. Paradoxically, the solution to this is living in Carmine : to live here one must stay in peak condition, and living here keeps one in peak condition. I for one don't need a gymn subscription.
In previous centuries there was nothing more natural than having a family in Carmine. But in the modern era nothing has become more fraught with complication than giving birth to a child here. In a few days after writing these words I expect to be starting the long walk to the labour ward. I'll be making the descent in my walking boots and carrying my walking stick, probably in the dark - I hope not in a summer downpour - pausing every now and then to breathe through a contraction. It will be important to choose the right moment to go down. I must leave home soon enough to get down the hill (and then around the lake another 30 minutes) without actually giving birth, but if I arrive at the hospital too early in the labour I run the risk of being sent back home, that is, to make the ascent and then descend once more a short time later. God-willing I will return home to Carmine three days after the birth, ready to face the climb, probably in the heat of the day and carrying in my arms the most precious of bundles.
And as I anticipate meeting the newest Carmenitt, I find myself remembering the women of Carmine who have lived here before me, having their children up here without the security of modern health care. Facing the real threat of death in childbirth. And the inconveniences I myself face pale into insignificance.
All told, one thing is certain. Life in Carmine Superiore requires an almost daily re-evaluation of my principles and beliefs. It was I who chose to leave behind the many advantages of city life in favour of the many advantages offered by this unique place. It was a choice that I made not only for myself, but also on behalf of my children, and I hope that one day when they remember the years they spent growing up here they also will think it was a good choice.
A couple of days after submitting this piece for translation, I did indeed take that long walk to the labour ward. I paused for contractions some twenty times on the walk down, and arrived at the hospital only a very short time before giving birth to B. Three days later we came home on foot in the heat of the day. The weather was very kind to us.
And now B is two, life on The Rock is still fairly complicated, but I'm still sure I made the right choice.
******************
Carmine Superiore is a unique mix of old and new : from its ancient cobbled streets to the tv aerials perched on its roofs. Electricity and telephone lines have reached the village, but the same cannot be said for the gas supply or a modern sewerage system, to say nothing of the absence of vehicle access that makes Carmine such a special place.
In the last 100 years, this tiny village has undergone immense change. It no longer has a fixed population who rely on the labour of their own hands in its meadows, on its terraces, and among its woodlands. The population waxes and wanes with the seasons. Some houses are inhabited perhaps only once in the course of a year, others see their owners only during the summer, and there are only two or three that can be said to be occupied on a permanent basis all year round.
Heating the oldest of the stone houses by electrical means would be prohibitively expensive, and for this reason we decided to follow the route taken by most of the other proprietors in Carmine and use wood for heating and cooking, cutting what we needed from the woodland that now encroaches on the village. My husband and I quickly found that collecting enough wood to keep us warm, heat our water and fire our cooking stove was a year-round activity, that it took all our energy when not working at our day-jobs, and that it was an activity that forced a certain division of labour according to sex. For the first two years I was determined to do my bit, to put into practice my ideas of the equality of the sexes even when it came to physical labour. But when I became a mother, it became abundantly clear to me that I would have to settle for picking up sticks rather than knocking wedges into tree trunks, and that I would have to look after my toddler rather than chop firewood.
For me as a full-time mother, living in Carmine Superiore has negative and positive aspects. I am able to raise my family in a car-less environment, without the stress of constant traffic noise and breathing the fresh air of the woodlands. On the other hand, Carmine now lacks any of the 'services' taken for granted by mothers in other places : healthcare, grocery shops, even the proximity of the extended family to help with childcare. This makes life with children a complicated proposition as mothers everywhere will be able to imagine.
The physical resources required to climb the hill have diminished with my second pregnancy and at the same time my first child, who is still not quite able to walk up under his own steam, has grown heavier every day. And it recently occurred to me that instead of being a paradise, as so many visitors have called this place, it could become a prison. The pregnancy will shortly come to an end, but it has made me realise that if I want to continue living in Carmine Superiore I will have to stay in good physical condition into old age. Paradoxically, the solution to this is living in Carmine : to live here one must stay in peak condition, and living here keeps one in peak condition. I for one don't need a gymn subscription.
In previous centuries there was nothing more natural than having a family in Carmine. But in the modern era nothing has become more fraught with complication than giving birth to a child here. In a few days after writing these words I expect to be starting the long walk to the labour ward. I'll be making the descent in my walking boots and carrying my walking stick, probably in the dark - I hope not in a summer downpour - pausing every now and then to breathe through a contraction. It will be important to choose the right moment to go down. I must leave home soon enough to get down the hill (and then around the lake another 30 minutes) without actually giving birth, but if I arrive at the hospital too early in the labour I run the risk of being sent back home, that is, to make the ascent and then descend once more a short time later. God-willing I will return home to Carmine three days after the birth, ready to face the climb, probably in the heat of the day and carrying in my arms the most precious of bundles.
And as I anticipate meeting the newest Carmenitt, I find myself remembering the women of Carmine who have lived here before me, having their children up here without the security of modern health care. Facing the real threat of death in childbirth. And the inconveniences I myself face pale into insignificance.
All told, one thing is certain. Life in Carmine Superiore requires an almost daily re-evaluation of my principles and beliefs. It was I who chose to leave behind the many advantages of city life in favour of the many advantages offered by this unique place. It was a choice that I made not only for myself, but also on behalf of my children, and I hope that one day when they remember the years they spent growing up here they also will think it was a good choice.
******************
A couple of days after submitting this piece for translation, I did indeed take that long walk to the labour ward. I paused for contractions some twenty times on the walk down, and arrived at the hospital only a very short time before giving birth to B. Three days later we came home on foot in the heat of the day. The weather was very kind to us.
And now B is two, life on The Rock is still fairly complicated, but I'm still sure I made the right choice.
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
St Swithun's Day
Oh!
The sunshine has taken us by surprise. We fall out of the front door in a heap, blinking like moles.
A good thing too, because today is St Swithun's Day...And we all know what St Swithun's Day means ::
St Swithun's connection with the weather comes from the story of his burial. Apparently, as Bishop of Winchester he was entitled to be interred indoors, but he preferred to have the rain on his face and insisted on being interred in a virtual pauper's grave outside the cathedral. Later, when some people-who-thought-they-knew-better (always a few of them around) dug him up to move him to a 'proper' place in the cathedral, St Swithun sent 40 days of rain as a sign of his displeasure.
The sunshine has taken us by surprise. We fall out of the front door in a heap, blinking like moles.
A good thing too, because today is St Swithun's Day...And we all know what St Swithun's Day means ::
St Swithun's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St Swithun's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain na mair
St Swithun's connection with the weather comes from the story of his burial. Apparently, as Bishop of Winchester he was entitled to be interred indoors, but he preferred to have the rain on his face and insisted on being interred in a virtual pauper's grave outside the cathedral. Later, when some people-who-thought-they-knew-better (always a few of them around) dug him up to move him to a 'proper' place in the cathedral, St Swithun sent 40 days of rain as a sign of his displeasure.
Also ::
Happy Birthday B.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Of things scientific
Rain, rain, rain, rain.
The warmest place in Carmine this morning is the centre of my composter.
Has anyone noticed a lack of scientific rigor in my weather reporting recently? Yes, the thermometer has gone walkabout.
The warmest place in Carmine this morning is the centre of my composter.
Has anyone noticed a lack of scientific rigor in my weather reporting recently? Yes, the thermometer has gone walkabout.
Sunday, 13 July 2008
Gladioli and roses
Cold, rainy and windy, following a cracking storm last night. The gladioli are trying to flower, despite being made prostrate by the damn weather.
It was Ezio's mother, Signora Rosa (my predecessor in this house), who planted the ancestors of these particular, fuschia-coloured gladioli. In an effort to save them from the guys who turned our old roof into garden terraces, I moved a few plants, and then in successive years spread the bulbs around and passed some on to other gardeners in the two Carmines. Now, Rosa's gladioli are everywhere.
They are a fitting reminder of the tiny woman who famously one Christmas Eve, walked up to Carmine Superiore carrying on her back her Christmas shop and in her belly the twins to whom she was to give birth the following day.
She had no problems with the mulattiera.
PS the hibiscus are also flowering.
It was Ezio's mother, Signora Rosa (my predecessor in this house), who planted the ancestors of these particular, fuschia-coloured gladioli. In an effort to save them from the guys who turned our old roof into garden terraces, I moved a few plants, and then in successive years spread the bulbs around and passed some on to other gardeners in the two Carmines. Now, Rosa's gladioli are everywhere.
They are a fitting reminder of the tiny woman who famously one Christmas Eve, walked up to Carmine Superiore carrying on her back her Christmas shop and in her belly the twins to whom she was to give birth the following day.
She had no problems with the mulattiera.
PS the hibiscus are also flowering.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Prediction : TheTravelEditor.com
Sultry, thundery, with occasional storms. The children are fractious, the adults argumentative and the cats jumpy. Even the washing machine is on the blink.
As a sometime travel journo, it's great to see a new site appear on the net with a unique emphasis on author personalities.
The Travel Editor has in its short life managed to attract an eclectic mix of travel writers and photographers, covering not just the usual hotels, restaurants and places of interest, but also offering the offbeat, the historical, the gastronomically unusual. I like the vote-for-your-favourite-author feature. After all, what is travel journalism about but the experiences and personality of the writer?
Access the information by destination or through Top Ten listings. Book your tickets online, then use the site to download your own personal travel guide.
Great stuff, and perhaps set to become one of the best of the best of travel websites. Watch this space.
PS There's a space on your Top Ten Italian Lakes Resorts listing - perhaps you might want to fill that gap with our own beautiful Cannobio - the 'best-preserved medieval town this side of Lago Maggiore'...
As a sometime travel journo, it's great to see a new site appear on the net with a unique emphasis on author personalities.
The Travel Editor has in its short life managed to attract an eclectic mix of travel writers and photographers, covering not just the usual hotels, restaurants and places of interest, but also offering the offbeat, the historical, the gastronomically unusual. I like the vote-for-your-favourite-author feature. After all, what is travel journalism about but the experiences and personality of the writer?
Access the information by destination or through Top Ten listings. Book your tickets online, then use the site to download your own personal travel guide.
Great stuff, and perhaps set to become one of the best of the best of travel websites. Watch this space.
PS There's a space on your Top Ten Italian Lakes Resorts listing - perhaps you might want to fill that gap with our own beautiful Cannobio - the 'best-preserved medieval town this side of Lago Maggiore'...
Thursday, 10 July 2008
News from afar
Weather as yesterday. Perfectly warm, perfectly breezy. More perfectly happy windsurfers.
News from darkest northern California, where friend and artist Danielle Eubank has made the cover of the LA Daily News. Here are some of the pics they published.
The reason for the flurry of publicity is Danielle's inclusion as expedition artist on the Phoenicia Expedition, an attempt to sail a reconstruction of a 6th-century BC Phoenician sailing ship in a loop from Syria through the Suez Canal, sailing around Africa and then along the Mediterranean coast on the return leg to Syria. The voyage begins in August 2008.
It's been a while now since I sat with Danielle in a pub just off the Tottenham Court Road in London and she excitedly told me about her inclusion in her first London exhibition. Since then, her work has brought her exhibitions with several highly respected galleries and commissions from a number of distinguished patrons. She has studios in northern California and in London.
Here's her website and, most especially, the blog she is putting together to showcase her work on the expedition.
And for more information on the extraordinary voyage itself, here's the Expedition Website.
Bon voyage, Dani. Have a fantastic time!
News from darkest northern California, where friend and artist Danielle Eubank has made the cover of the LA Daily News. Here are some of the pics they published.
The reason for the flurry of publicity is Danielle's inclusion as expedition artist on the Phoenicia Expedition, an attempt to sail a reconstruction of a 6th-century BC Phoenician sailing ship in a loop from Syria through the Suez Canal, sailing around Africa and then along the Mediterranean coast on the return leg to Syria. The voyage begins in August 2008.
It's been a while now since I sat with Danielle in a pub just off the Tottenham Court Road in London and she excitedly told me about her inclusion in her first London exhibition. Since then, her work has brought her exhibitions with several highly respected galleries and commissions from a number of distinguished patrons. She has studios in northern California and in London.
Here's her website and, most especially, the blog she is putting together to showcase her work on the expedition.
And for more information on the extraordinary voyage itself, here's the Expedition Website.
Bon voyage, Dani. Have a fantastic time!
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Carmine giant?
This picture, taking early this morning, reminds me of the Cerne Abbas Giant...although without the uplifted club and the - erm - other characteristics, I can't imagine why.
Bright and sunny. Windsurfers happy with the breeze.
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Monday, 7 July 2008
Welcome arrivals
Thunder, heavy rain, clouds down to about 350m and water running ankle-deep in the streets of Carmine.
It had been a sadness to us that so far this year the shutters of one particular house have remained closed. Normally, this house is occupied from June onwards. Has been, indeed, for more than 40 years. And if Carmine had a garden fete, the associated garden would be busy producing the 1st-prize winners Biggest zucchini, Tastiest lettuces, Reddest tomatoes, Most luscious bean plants and Longest cucumbers.
It had been a sadness to us that so far this year the shutters of one particular house have remained closed. Normally, this house is occupied from June onwards. Has been, indeed, for more than 40 years. And if Carmine had a garden fete, the associated garden would be busy producing the 1st-prize winners Biggest zucchini, Tastiest lettuces, Reddest tomatoes, Most luscious bean plants and Longest cucumbers.
But now our closest neighbours have finally arrived. And it's great to see their smiling faces, hear the clatter of their washing up, the chatter of their tv.
Bentornati!
Note the appearance of the deer in the village this evening, perhaps here to say welcome back as well.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Storm story
More storms today have brought the temperature down to seventeen degrees at 5pm. The recent new additions to the garden (three miniature geraniums, a pineapple sage (smells like not looks like) another rose and a lantana) are very happy.
As a mere slip of a twenty-something Mama (before she was Mama) took a life-changing journey to Southeast Asia. During a prolonged visit to an island off the coast of southern Thailand, teaching a bit of English, learning some Thai, she found out many things about herself and about life. Accommodation was a palm-thatch cottage on stilts on the beach, and food was arranged by the proprietor in a large 'restaurant' area - a large palm-wood skeleton with a cement floor and no walls. Gap-year kids who are reading this will probably recognise the scenario, although at the time, the 'gap-year' was a thing of the future.
One day, our host, an attractive, tallish Thai was to be seen frowning at the horizon. The fishing boats that usually twinkled their lights at night from the far-distance had suddenly turned-tail for home. There was the start of a swell along our normally tranquil stretch of the Gulf of Thailand, and the normally azure skies were starting to look murky. Within a couple of hours a storm blew up which lasted two days and two nights. The sea bubbled below my bed and the wind bent the palms to horizontal. The inland lake burst out and water came crashing down to meet the sea sending, one beach hut sprawling. The noise of wind, rain, moaning palms and thundering ocean was deafening. The restaurant owner unfurled long swathes of heavy canvas and secured them to the ground so that damp customers could eat with only a faint mist of rain surrounding them.
On the third day the wind abated and the rain came to a reluctant halt. Houses were turned inside out as possessions were taken out into the sun to dry - mattresses, clothes...
It was only very much later that I discovered we had been sitting ducks for Typhoon Gay, which devastated Thailand's Chumpon province in late 1989. Hundreds of people died, and hundreds of fishermen went missing. We were lucky.
This afternoon, I and about 50 parents and children found ourselves huddled under a canvas awning in a corner of Cannobio's parco giochi, frowning in much the same way as my Thai friend of so many years ago. A sudden cloud burst had brought 4-year-old Emanuele's birthday celebrations to an awed halt, and there was rather a lot of water swirling around our feet. As we hauled our kids up onto the table and put Emanuele's mountain of birthday gifts out of harm's way, I thought of how much work my guardian angel has had to put in over the years (thank-you). I hoped that after shielding me from 190km/h winds and a roiling sea, he would be ready for the relatively minor task of helping us back along the lake road and up the hill, safe and sound, and perhaps not too wet.
He was.
As a mere slip of a twenty-something Mama (before she was Mama) took a life-changing journey to Southeast Asia. During a prolonged visit to an island off the coast of southern Thailand, teaching a bit of English, learning some Thai, she found out many things about herself and about life. Accommodation was a palm-thatch cottage on stilts on the beach, and food was arranged by the proprietor in a large 'restaurant' area - a large palm-wood skeleton with a cement floor and no walls. Gap-year kids who are reading this will probably recognise the scenario, although at the time, the 'gap-year' was a thing of the future.
One day, our host, an attractive, tallish Thai was to be seen frowning at the horizon. The fishing boats that usually twinkled their lights at night from the far-distance had suddenly turned-tail for home. There was the start of a swell along our normally tranquil stretch of the Gulf of Thailand, and the normally azure skies were starting to look murky. Within a couple of hours a storm blew up which lasted two days and two nights. The sea bubbled below my bed and the wind bent the palms to horizontal. The inland lake burst out and water came crashing down to meet the sea sending, one beach hut sprawling. The noise of wind, rain, moaning palms and thundering ocean was deafening. The restaurant owner unfurled long swathes of heavy canvas and secured them to the ground so that damp customers could eat with only a faint mist of rain surrounding them.
On the third day the wind abated and the rain came to a reluctant halt. Houses were turned inside out as possessions were taken out into the sun to dry - mattresses, clothes...
It was only very much later that I discovered we had been sitting ducks for Typhoon Gay, which devastated Thailand's Chumpon province in late 1989. Hundreds of people died, and hundreds of fishermen went missing. We were lucky.
This afternoon, I and about 50 parents and children found ourselves huddled under a canvas awning in a corner of Cannobio's parco giochi, frowning in much the same way as my Thai friend of so many years ago. A sudden cloud burst had brought 4-year-old Emanuele's birthday celebrations to an awed halt, and there was rather a lot of water swirling around our feet. As we hauled our kids up onto the table and put Emanuele's mountain of birthday gifts out of harm's way, I thought of how much work my guardian angel has had to put in over the years (thank-you). I hoped that after shielding me from 190km/h winds and a roiling sea, he would be ready for the relatively minor task of helping us back along the lake road and up the hill, safe and sound, and perhaps not too wet.
He was.
Friday, 4 July 2008
Thursday, 3 July 2008
The summer (ought) to-do list
Last night's storm has left us with a refreshing 23 degrees and overcast skies. Thundery showers.
The to-do list is getting out of hand :
The to-do list is getting out of hand :
- tackle the ironing pile which has reached, if not Everest proportions, then at least K2
- lavender : cut back, make sure all the thousands of stems are facing the same direction, tie into artful bunches, festoon the house; alternatively cut off the heads and stuff into any available pouch-like object - handmade lacy lavender bags sent from England, pillow cases, M's socks...; alternatively allow to go to seed, swamp everything else in the garden and obscure the steps as part of an artistic 'wilderness' planting scheme
- roses : dead-head, weed around, tie up and fertilise with very expensive liquid feed then watch the hail knock them down
- tie up everything in sight : the tomatoes, the cucumbers, the three jasmines, the ten oleander, the children...
- locate and air the summer duvets; air the winter duvets and shove them into the space where the (less bulky) summer duvets lived; fail, then change mind and opt to use sheets and blankets (if I can find them)
- put away all the children's clothes that aren't suitable for summer, filing for age and gender; when the 20ft room in which this operation is to take place gets too full, move house
- pantry : take everything off the 20 shelves; wash the tea towels that cover the shelves, iron and put back; get rid of the slug trails on floor, walls and ceiling; ditto cobwebs; clean containers and put everything back in a different place just to give il cuoco a taste of his own medicine
- omigod -- sweep the chimneys...
- build an elaborate and imaginative train set, watch AJ (or B, or the cat) wreck it, build another elaborate and imaginative train set, return ten minutes later to view another Island-of-Sodor catastrophe, build yet another somewhat less elaborate and definitely less imaginative train set, return twenty minutes later, put train set away
- do photograph albums for 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008
- arrange a birthday party, potty-train a toddler, teach AJ his ABCs and his 123s, proofread husband's latest blockbuster...
Did someone say something about summer holidays?
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Book Notes No. 8 : A Partisan's Daughter, Louis de Bernières
Cracking thunder storm last night, doing nothing for Mama's unaccustomed insomnia. Hot, sunny, cloudy and breezy today. Yes, all at the same time.
Once upon a time, Mama (before she was a Mama) travelled with her tent in the South Pacific. On one of the Fijian islands, she visited a village built inside the crater of an extinct volcano and heard about village life from one of the residents, who had studied and qualified as the local tour guide. Whenever he began a new episode in his history of his people, he would begin his sentence with, "It says...", as if he carried with him a huge invisible (and, I imagined, dusty) book in which his forefathers had written down the stories and facts he was now 'reading' to us. This verbal tic endowed everything he had to impart to us with a certain gravity, with the full weight of his cultural history, and I could see that the other westerners with me were listening with unaccustomed respect to this man's version of reality.
In Louis de Bernière's new novel, A Partisan's Daughter, Roza, the storyteller (for like Salman Rushdie's latest, this is another book about storytelling), has a similar tic, but with the opposite effect. She often says, "I told him...", or "That's what I told him...". "I told him that after he was a partisan, my father was a secret policeman..." And as these expressions appear and reappear, the reader, who at first is carried along with Roza's colourful story, starts to get the feeling that perhaps what she's telling him isn't quite the truth.
A Partisan's Daughter is a love story, set, to my great nostalgic pleasure, in the 1970s, the age of the brown Austin Allegro, Sebastian Coe at his fastest, and The Police singing 'Roxanne'.
In a derelict building in Highgate.
Unlike Birds Without Wings, the terrifying brutality of which I couldn't bear, here de Bernieres proves his ability to write the subtle sadness of opportunities missed, relationships gone cold and lumpy, realities misunderstood. And as the reader grasps for threads of truth, and as it slithers and slips around, there's a little voice somewhere that says love means resisting the temptation to tell the ultimate lie.
Read it.
Once upon a time, Mama (before she was a Mama) travelled with her tent in the South Pacific. On one of the Fijian islands, she visited a village built inside the crater of an extinct volcano and heard about village life from one of the residents, who had studied and qualified as the local tour guide. Whenever he began a new episode in his history of his people, he would begin his sentence with, "It says...", as if he carried with him a huge invisible (and, I imagined, dusty) book in which his forefathers had written down the stories and facts he was now 'reading' to us. This verbal tic endowed everything he had to impart to us with a certain gravity, with the full weight of his cultural history, and I could see that the other westerners with me were listening with unaccustomed respect to this man's version of reality.
In Louis de Bernière's new novel, A Partisan's Daughter
A Partisan's Daughter is a love story, set, to my great nostalgic pleasure, in the 1970s, the age of the brown Austin Allegro, Sebastian Coe at his fastest, and The Police singing 'Roxanne'.
In a derelict building in Highgate.
Unlike Birds Without Wings, the terrifying brutality of which I couldn't bear, here de Bernieres proves his ability to write the subtle sadness of opportunities missed, relationships gone cold and lumpy, realities misunderstood. And as the reader grasps for threads of truth, and as it slithers and slips around, there's a little voice somewhere that says love means resisting the temptation to tell the ultimate lie.
Read it.
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Wednesday, 30 July 2008
The great nappy-change mystery
The Lago Maggiore tourist season is in full swing. On every Cannobio street corner, German or Dutch is being spoken. The bouncy castle wobbles with exuberant children. The lake is dotted with the flotsam and jetsam of pedaloes, canoes and novice water-skiers. Families take an evening stroll along the lungolago, and (only) when it's dark, board the Disneyland-style trenino for a quick ride around town, bells ringing, headlights flashing.
Having guests to entertain, we spill out of our mostly silent hilltop citadel to the Albergo-Ristorante-Pizzeria Giardino. The large restaurant is at this time of year crammed with families baying for pizza. Here, you will get one of the best pizzas in town, but without the lungolago view - it's situated on the main drag, and with all the windows open it can get a bit noisy. But the place is great for kids - and for parents. There's a clean baby-changing unit, high-chairs are available and the pizzaiolo is happy to serve half pizzas if you ask nicely.
I like this place for all these reasons. Also, because the Albergo-Ristorante-Pizzeria Giardino is the only place in Cannobio I've found with a baby-changing unit. For the last four years I've grappled with this problem. What do I do when AJ drops a bomb half-way through my shopping trip, or when B makes me a fragrant present while waiting for my hairdressing appointment? I've changed nappies on unisex-toilet floors (yuk), on park benches, on the back seat of the car, and in all seasons. I've done it on scanty bits of grass in car parks, and down on the lawn at the lido. Even the doctor's very smart surgery doesn't have a dedicated baby-changing area, and the overworked receptionist has on occasions been prevailed upon to do something makeshift with a consulting-room couch.
And yet, particularly at this time of year, there are babies everywhere you look.
Do they not do what my babies do? Do other mothers have some secret Super-Mama system for changing nappies hygienically and invisibly without need for facilities? Do they sprout wings and transport themselves and their babies back to their tents, apartments, hotel rooms for a speed-of-light wash and brush-up?
Strikes me there is a marketing opportunity here, Signor Assessore responsible for tourism.
How about a scheme to increase the family-friendly credentials of the various bars and restaurants around town? Those with the features families need (baby-changing unit, children's portions and high chairs) get a nice big colourful 'Family-Friendly' sticker for the window.
Some may even be encouraged to upgrade their facilities. And at the very least, the not-so-super Mamas will know at a glance where to go for pizza and a quick nappy-change...
Having guests to entertain, we spill out of our mostly silent hilltop citadel to the Albergo-Ristorante-Pizzeria Giardino. The large restaurant is at this time of year crammed with families baying for pizza. Here, you will get one of the best pizzas in town, but without the lungolago view - it's situated on the main drag, and with all the windows open it can get a bit noisy. But the place is great for kids - and for parents. There's a clean baby-changing unit, high-chairs are available and the pizzaiolo is happy to serve half pizzas if you ask nicely.
I like this place for all these reasons. Also, because the Albergo-Ristorante-Pizzeria Giardino is the only place in Cannobio I've found with a baby-changing unit. For the last four years I've grappled with this problem. What do I do when AJ drops a bomb half-way through my shopping trip, or when B makes me a fragrant present while waiting for my hairdressing appointment? I've changed nappies on unisex-toilet floors (yuk), on park benches, on the back seat of the car, and in all seasons. I've done it on scanty bits of grass in car parks, and down on the lawn at the lido. Even the doctor's very smart surgery doesn't have a dedicated baby-changing area, and the overworked receptionist has on occasions been prevailed upon to do something makeshift with a consulting-room couch.
And yet, particularly at this time of year, there are babies everywhere you look.
Do they not do what my babies do? Do other mothers have some secret Super-Mama system for changing nappies hygienically and invisibly without need for facilities? Do they sprout wings and transport themselves and their babies back to their tents, apartments, hotel rooms for a speed-of-light wash and brush-up?
Strikes me there is a marketing opportunity here, Signor Assessore responsible for tourism.
How about a scheme to increase the family-friendly credentials of the various bars and restaurants around town? Those with the features families need (baby-changing unit, children's portions and high chairs) get a nice big colourful 'Family-Friendly' sticker for the window.
Some may even be encouraged to upgrade their facilities. And at the very least, the not-so-super Mamas will know at a glance where to go for pizza and a quick nappy-change...
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Mrs Orange
Today, I'm sad to say, we have one less chicken. And this isn't because one more February cockerel is being despatched to the freezer with B tripping along behind, eyeing the bloody neck of the carcass and twittering, "What happ'nd? What happ'nd?" (her latest conversational gambit). No.
Mrs Orange was the oldest of our chickens. In fact, she was only a couple of months younger than AJ, which is pretty old in chicken years. She always gave us double-size eggs, but only every other day (and by the sound she made while producing, I'm not surprised it wasn't an everyday occurrence). In the last year or so, she's given us no eggs at all. Normally this is the cue to sharpen the falcetto. But Mrs Orange was different.
Mrs Orange escaped the fox...
One fine day, M and his late father were on chicken-sentry duty - all the chicks had been let out to roam around a bit, and the men were there to make sure nothing untoward took place.
Think chicken-hawks. Think weasels. Think foxes.
But to M and his late father, sentry duty meant having a nice little snooze in the grass, and while they snored gently, a big old fox was surveying the assembled menu. He lit upon the chubby Mrs Orange and in a flash had her by the neck and was making off with her into the woods. The rest of the chicks squawked summat terr'ble and the sentries came awake to see the last of Mrs Orange.
Much later ...
I was coming along the pretty woodland path that connects Carmine to Cannobio via the sentiero. And who should I come across, pecking happily among the leaf litter and seeming somewhat smug?
Mrs Orange.
How she managed to escape the jaws that had clamped around her scrawny neck will forever remain a mystery, but Mrs Orange became an instant wonder, a miracle, a chick who escaped certain death, a heroine in her own coop.
So, she was declared a Carmine Pensioner. Although she spurned the red uniform, she did enjoy the other benefits. Hand-feeding with the choicest crumbs from the human table. A seat on the highest perch alongside our rather fat cockerel. And a stay of execution when the chick-opause came around.
But yesterday it was clear that Mrs Orange was sickening. In fact, she had been for some days. So she went to meet her maker in a blaze of glory, and instead of a place in the freezer, she was given a Christian burial with all honours and a chorus of mourners keening in the background.
God bless 'er.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Saturday, 26 July 2008
With the rain
Early morning in Carmine. Not one of the glamorous, sunglasses-bright breakfast-overlooking-Lago Maggiore mornings we've been having of late, but overcast and delicately raining.
I'm addicted to the smells of Carmine when it rains gently after a period of drought.
Soft earth.
Fig leaves.
Honeysuckle.
Wet cat.
Grass and woodland.
And the scent of the ancient stones themselves. The musk of ages.
I'm addicted to the smells of Carmine when it rains gently after a period of drought.
Soft earth.
Fig leaves.
Honeysuckle.
Wet cat.
Grass and woodland.
And the scent of the ancient stones themselves. The musk of ages.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Thirty degrees was the high today, with blue skies and again a life-saving breeze. A bumper harvest in the tomato patch. And while I'm not picking tomatoes, I'm shearing the lavender.
And when I'm not shearing the lavender, I'm giving the chiesa a once-over in preparation for Sunday's mass in honour of the Madonna del Carmelo.
Thank God for the aspirotutto.
And when I'm not shearing the lavender, I'm giving the chiesa a once-over in preparation for Sunday's mass in honour of the Madonna del Carmelo.
Thank God for the aspirotutto.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Elche
Another perfectly beautiful day, characteristics as yesterday.
But today was, in fact, a red letter day. Why? Because we received a mystery parcel. Well, actually, not so much a mystery parcel but a forgotten parcel. I love parcels. And most especially mystery parcels. I enjoy the anticipation, the excitement, child that I am.
This particular parcel contained 'Elche', a work in mixed media by London artist and printmaker Colin Moore. Colin's work, which can be seen on his website, is fresh, strong and contemporary. And entirely without pretension. And if many of his subjects are from the British Isles, you might detect what I feel is a somehow Hispanic flavour, perhaps because Colin has such strong ties with the Spanish-speaking countries.
If you have a spare bit of wallspace and a spare bit of cash, buy something. Colin's work is increasingly being shown at fairs and galleries in the UK and is sure to appreciate.
Colin, 'Elche' is beautiful. And as you yourself said, I'm certain it will be very happy in our house.
Thank-you.
But today was, in fact, a red letter day. Why? Because we received a mystery parcel. Well, actually, not so much a mystery parcel but a forgotten parcel. I love parcels. And most especially mystery parcels. I enjoy the anticipation, the excitement, child that I am.
This particular parcel contained 'Elche', a work in mixed media by London artist and printmaker Colin Moore. Colin's work, which can be seen on his website, is fresh, strong and contemporary. And entirely without pretension. And if many of his subjects are from the British Isles, you might detect what I feel is a somehow Hispanic flavour, perhaps because Colin has such strong ties with the Spanish-speaking countries.
If you have a spare bit of wallspace and a spare bit of cash, buy something. Colin's work is increasingly being shown at fairs and galleries in the UK and is sure to appreciate.
Colin, 'Elche' is beautiful. And as you yourself said, I'm certain it will be very happy in our house.
Thank-you.
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Monday, 21 July 2008
Sunday, 20 July 2008
Busy bees in Carmine
Warm. Not so much sun.
Today, Carmine is buzzing with activity : someone is burning garden rubbish, another is cutting the grass and pruning the trees, another is watching his labourers carry building materials up the hill, and yet another is shaking out the rugs in between bouts of running around the village calling after errant children.
Oh, and we are drowning in visitors with hiking boots, working them walking sticks and getting into everything. God luv'em!
Today, Carmine is buzzing with activity : someone is burning garden rubbish, another is cutting the grass and pruning the trees, another is watching his labourers carry building materials up the hill, and yet another is shaking out the rugs in between bouts of running around the village calling after errant children.
Oh, and we are drowning in visitors with hiking boots, working them walking sticks and getting into everything. God luv'em!
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Thursday, 17 July 2008
The past and the present in Carmine
The following is part of an article I was asked to write a couple of years ago for a local bi-annual cultural publication put out by the comune. The brief was to try to give a view of what it was like to be a woman living in Carmine Superiore in the 21st century.
Carmine Superiore is a unique mix of old and new : from its ancient cobbled streets to the tv aerials perched on its roofs. Electricity and telephone lines have reached the village, but the same cannot be said for the gas supply or a modern sewerage system, to say nothing of the absence of vehicle access that makes Carmine such a special place.
In the last 100 years, this tiny village has undergone immense change. It no longer has a fixed population who rely on the labour of their own hands in its meadows, on its terraces, and among its woodlands. The population waxes and wanes with the seasons. Some houses are inhabited perhaps only once in the course of a year, others see their owners only during the summer, and there are only two or three that can be said to be occupied on a permanent basis all year round.
Heating the oldest of the stone houses by electrical means would be prohibitively expensive, and for this reason we decided to follow the route taken by most of the other proprietors in Carmine and use wood for heating and cooking, cutting what we needed from the woodland that now encroaches on the village. My husband and I quickly found that collecting enough wood to keep us warm, heat our water and fire our cooking stove was a year-round activity, that it took all our energy when not working at our day-jobs, and that it was an activity that forced a certain division of labour according to sex. For the first two years I was determined to do my bit, to put into practice my ideas of the equality of the sexes even when it came to physical labour. But when I became a mother, it became abundantly clear to me that I would have to settle for picking up sticks rather than knocking wedges into tree trunks, and that I would have to look after my toddler rather than chop firewood.
For me as a full-time mother, living in Carmine Superiore has negative and positive aspects. I am able to raise my family in a car-less environment, without the stress of constant traffic noise and breathing the fresh air of the woodlands. On the other hand, Carmine now lacks any of the 'services' taken for granted by mothers in other places : healthcare, grocery shops, even the proximity of the extended family to help with childcare. This makes life with children a complicated proposition as mothers everywhere will be able to imagine.
The physical resources required to climb the hill have diminished with my second pregnancy and at the same time my first child, who is still not quite able to walk up under his own steam, has grown heavier every day. And it recently occurred to me that instead of being a paradise, as so many visitors have called this place, it could become a prison. The pregnancy will shortly come to an end, but it has made me realise that if I want to continue living in Carmine Superiore I will have to stay in good physical condition into old age. Paradoxically, the solution to this is living in Carmine : to live here one must stay in peak condition, and living here keeps one in peak condition. I for one don't need a gymn subscription.
In previous centuries there was nothing more natural than having a family in Carmine. But in the modern era nothing has become more fraught with complication than giving birth to a child here. In a few days after writing these words I expect to be starting the long walk to the labour ward. I'll be making the descent in my walking boots and carrying my walking stick, probably in the dark - I hope not in a summer downpour - pausing every now and then to breathe through a contraction. It will be important to choose the right moment to go down. I must leave home soon enough to get down the hill (and then around the lake another 30 minutes) without actually giving birth, but if I arrive at the hospital too early in the labour I run the risk of being sent back home, that is, to make the ascent and then descend once more a short time later. God-willing I will return home to Carmine three days after the birth, ready to face the climb, probably in the heat of the day and carrying in my arms the most precious of bundles.
And as I anticipate meeting the newest Carmenitt, I find myself remembering the women of Carmine who have lived here before me, having their children up here without the security of modern health care. Facing the real threat of death in childbirth. And the inconveniences I myself face pale into insignificance.
All told, one thing is certain. Life in Carmine Superiore requires an almost daily re-evaluation of my principles and beliefs. It was I who chose to leave behind the many advantages of city life in favour of the many advantages offered by this unique place. It was a choice that I made not only for myself, but also on behalf of my children, and I hope that one day when they remember the years they spent growing up here they also will think it was a good choice.
A couple of days after submitting this piece for translation, I did indeed take that long walk to the labour ward. I paused for contractions some twenty times on the walk down, and arrived at the hospital only a very short time before giving birth to B. Three days later we came home on foot in the heat of the day. The weather was very kind to us.
And now B is two, life on The Rock is still fairly complicated, but I'm still sure I made the right choice.
******************
Carmine Superiore is a unique mix of old and new : from its ancient cobbled streets to the tv aerials perched on its roofs. Electricity and telephone lines have reached the village, but the same cannot be said for the gas supply or a modern sewerage system, to say nothing of the absence of vehicle access that makes Carmine such a special place.
In the last 100 years, this tiny village has undergone immense change. It no longer has a fixed population who rely on the labour of their own hands in its meadows, on its terraces, and among its woodlands. The population waxes and wanes with the seasons. Some houses are inhabited perhaps only once in the course of a year, others see their owners only during the summer, and there are only two or three that can be said to be occupied on a permanent basis all year round.
Heating the oldest of the stone houses by electrical means would be prohibitively expensive, and for this reason we decided to follow the route taken by most of the other proprietors in Carmine and use wood for heating and cooking, cutting what we needed from the woodland that now encroaches on the village. My husband and I quickly found that collecting enough wood to keep us warm, heat our water and fire our cooking stove was a year-round activity, that it took all our energy when not working at our day-jobs, and that it was an activity that forced a certain division of labour according to sex. For the first two years I was determined to do my bit, to put into practice my ideas of the equality of the sexes even when it came to physical labour. But when I became a mother, it became abundantly clear to me that I would have to settle for picking up sticks rather than knocking wedges into tree trunks, and that I would have to look after my toddler rather than chop firewood.
For me as a full-time mother, living in Carmine Superiore has negative and positive aspects. I am able to raise my family in a car-less environment, without the stress of constant traffic noise and breathing the fresh air of the woodlands. On the other hand, Carmine now lacks any of the 'services' taken for granted by mothers in other places : healthcare, grocery shops, even the proximity of the extended family to help with childcare. This makes life with children a complicated proposition as mothers everywhere will be able to imagine.
The physical resources required to climb the hill have diminished with my second pregnancy and at the same time my first child, who is still not quite able to walk up under his own steam, has grown heavier every day. And it recently occurred to me that instead of being a paradise, as so many visitors have called this place, it could become a prison. The pregnancy will shortly come to an end, but it has made me realise that if I want to continue living in Carmine Superiore I will have to stay in good physical condition into old age. Paradoxically, the solution to this is living in Carmine : to live here one must stay in peak condition, and living here keeps one in peak condition. I for one don't need a gymn subscription.
In previous centuries there was nothing more natural than having a family in Carmine. But in the modern era nothing has become more fraught with complication than giving birth to a child here. In a few days after writing these words I expect to be starting the long walk to the labour ward. I'll be making the descent in my walking boots and carrying my walking stick, probably in the dark - I hope not in a summer downpour - pausing every now and then to breathe through a contraction. It will be important to choose the right moment to go down. I must leave home soon enough to get down the hill (and then around the lake another 30 minutes) without actually giving birth, but if I arrive at the hospital too early in the labour I run the risk of being sent back home, that is, to make the ascent and then descend once more a short time later. God-willing I will return home to Carmine three days after the birth, ready to face the climb, probably in the heat of the day and carrying in my arms the most precious of bundles.
And as I anticipate meeting the newest Carmenitt, I find myself remembering the women of Carmine who have lived here before me, having their children up here without the security of modern health care. Facing the real threat of death in childbirth. And the inconveniences I myself face pale into insignificance.
All told, one thing is certain. Life in Carmine Superiore requires an almost daily re-evaluation of my principles and beliefs. It was I who chose to leave behind the many advantages of city life in favour of the many advantages offered by this unique place. It was a choice that I made not only for myself, but also on behalf of my children, and I hope that one day when they remember the years they spent growing up here they also will think it was a good choice.
******************
A couple of days after submitting this piece for translation, I did indeed take that long walk to the labour ward. I paused for contractions some twenty times on the walk down, and arrived at the hospital only a very short time before giving birth to B. Three days later we came home on foot in the heat of the day. The weather was very kind to us.
And now B is two, life on The Rock is still fairly complicated, but I'm still sure I made the right choice.
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
St Swithun's Day
Oh!
The sunshine has taken us by surprise. We fall out of the front door in a heap, blinking like moles.
A good thing too, because today is St Swithun's Day...And we all know what St Swithun's Day means ::
St Swithun's connection with the weather comes from the story of his burial. Apparently, as Bishop of Winchester he was entitled to be interred indoors, but he preferred to have the rain on his face and insisted on being interred in a virtual pauper's grave outside the cathedral. Later, when some people-who-thought-they-knew-better (always a few of them around) dug him up to move him to a 'proper' place in the cathedral, St Swithun sent 40 days of rain as a sign of his displeasure.
The sunshine has taken us by surprise. We fall out of the front door in a heap, blinking like moles.
A good thing too, because today is St Swithun's Day...And we all know what St Swithun's Day means ::
St Swithun's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St Swithun's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain na mair
St Swithun's connection with the weather comes from the story of his burial. Apparently, as Bishop of Winchester he was entitled to be interred indoors, but he preferred to have the rain on his face and insisted on being interred in a virtual pauper's grave outside the cathedral. Later, when some people-who-thought-they-knew-better (always a few of them around) dug him up to move him to a 'proper' place in the cathedral, St Swithun sent 40 days of rain as a sign of his displeasure.
Also ::
Happy Birthday B.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Of things scientific
Rain, rain, rain, rain.
The warmest place in Carmine this morning is the centre of my composter.
Has anyone noticed a lack of scientific rigor in my weather reporting recently? Yes, the thermometer has gone walkabout.
The warmest place in Carmine this morning is the centre of my composter.
Has anyone noticed a lack of scientific rigor in my weather reporting recently? Yes, the thermometer has gone walkabout.
Sunday, 13 July 2008
Gladioli and roses
Cold, rainy and windy, following a cracking storm last night. The gladioli are trying to flower, despite being made prostrate by the damn weather.
It was Ezio's mother, Signora Rosa (my predecessor in this house), who planted the ancestors of these particular, fuschia-coloured gladioli. In an effort to save them from the guys who turned our old roof into garden terraces, I moved a few plants, and then in successive years spread the bulbs around and passed some on to other gardeners in the two Carmines. Now, Rosa's gladioli are everywhere.
They are a fitting reminder of the tiny woman who famously one Christmas Eve, walked up to Carmine Superiore carrying on her back her Christmas shop and in her belly the twins to whom she was to give birth the following day.
She had no problems with the mulattiera.
PS the hibiscus are also flowering.
It was Ezio's mother, Signora Rosa (my predecessor in this house), who planted the ancestors of these particular, fuschia-coloured gladioli. In an effort to save them from the guys who turned our old roof into garden terraces, I moved a few plants, and then in successive years spread the bulbs around and passed some on to other gardeners in the two Carmines. Now, Rosa's gladioli are everywhere.
They are a fitting reminder of the tiny woman who famously one Christmas Eve, walked up to Carmine Superiore carrying on her back her Christmas shop and in her belly the twins to whom she was to give birth the following day.
She had no problems with the mulattiera.
PS the hibiscus are also flowering.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Prediction : TheTravelEditor.com
Sultry, thundery, with occasional storms. The children are fractious, the adults argumentative and the cats jumpy. Even the washing machine is on the blink.
As a sometime travel journo, it's great to see a new site appear on the net with a unique emphasis on author personalities.
The Travel Editor has in its short life managed to attract an eclectic mix of travel writers and photographers, covering not just the usual hotels, restaurants and places of interest, but also offering the offbeat, the historical, the gastronomically unusual. I like the vote-for-your-favourite-author feature. After all, what is travel journalism about but the experiences and personality of the writer?
Access the information by destination or through Top Ten listings. Book your tickets online, then use the site to download your own personal travel guide.
Great stuff, and perhaps set to become one of the best of the best of travel websites. Watch this space.
PS There's a space on your Top Ten Italian Lakes Resorts listing - perhaps you might want to fill that gap with our own beautiful Cannobio - the 'best-preserved medieval town this side of Lago Maggiore'...
As a sometime travel journo, it's great to see a new site appear on the net with a unique emphasis on author personalities.
The Travel Editor has in its short life managed to attract an eclectic mix of travel writers and photographers, covering not just the usual hotels, restaurants and places of interest, but also offering the offbeat, the historical, the gastronomically unusual. I like the vote-for-your-favourite-author feature. After all, what is travel journalism about but the experiences and personality of the writer?
Access the information by destination or through Top Ten listings. Book your tickets online, then use the site to download your own personal travel guide.
Great stuff, and perhaps set to become one of the best of the best of travel websites. Watch this space.
PS There's a space on your Top Ten Italian Lakes Resorts listing - perhaps you might want to fill that gap with our own beautiful Cannobio - the 'best-preserved medieval town this side of Lago Maggiore'...
Thursday, 10 July 2008
News from afar
Weather as yesterday. Perfectly warm, perfectly breezy. More perfectly happy windsurfers.
News from darkest northern California, where friend and artist Danielle Eubank has made the cover of the LA Daily News. Here are some of the pics they published.
The reason for the flurry of publicity is Danielle's inclusion as expedition artist on the Phoenicia Expedition, an attempt to sail a reconstruction of a 6th-century BC Phoenician sailing ship in a loop from Syria through the Suez Canal, sailing around Africa and then along the Mediterranean coast on the return leg to Syria. The voyage begins in August 2008.
It's been a while now since I sat with Danielle in a pub just off the Tottenham Court Road in London and she excitedly told me about her inclusion in her first London exhibition. Since then, her work has brought her exhibitions with several highly respected galleries and commissions from a number of distinguished patrons. She has studios in northern California and in London.
Here's her website and, most especially, the blog she is putting together to showcase her work on the expedition.
And for more information on the extraordinary voyage itself, here's the Expedition Website.
Bon voyage, Dani. Have a fantastic time!
News from darkest northern California, where friend and artist Danielle Eubank has made the cover of the LA Daily News. Here are some of the pics they published.
The reason for the flurry of publicity is Danielle's inclusion as expedition artist on the Phoenicia Expedition, an attempt to sail a reconstruction of a 6th-century BC Phoenician sailing ship in a loop from Syria through the Suez Canal, sailing around Africa and then along the Mediterranean coast on the return leg to Syria. The voyage begins in August 2008.
It's been a while now since I sat with Danielle in a pub just off the Tottenham Court Road in London and she excitedly told me about her inclusion in her first London exhibition. Since then, her work has brought her exhibitions with several highly respected galleries and commissions from a number of distinguished patrons. She has studios in northern California and in London.
Here's her website and, most especially, the blog she is putting together to showcase her work on the expedition.
And for more information on the extraordinary voyage itself, here's the Expedition Website.
Bon voyage, Dani. Have a fantastic time!
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Carmine giant?
This picture, taking early this morning, reminds me of the Cerne Abbas Giant...although without the uplifted club and the - erm - other characteristics, I can't imagine why.
Bright and sunny. Windsurfers happy with the breeze.
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Monday, 7 July 2008
Welcome arrivals
Thunder, heavy rain, clouds down to about 350m and water running ankle-deep in the streets of Carmine.
It had been a sadness to us that so far this year the shutters of one particular house have remained closed. Normally, this house is occupied from June onwards. Has been, indeed, for more than 40 years. And if Carmine had a garden fete, the associated garden would be busy producing the 1st-prize winners Biggest zucchini, Tastiest lettuces, Reddest tomatoes, Most luscious bean plants and Longest cucumbers.
It had been a sadness to us that so far this year the shutters of one particular house have remained closed. Normally, this house is occupied from June onwards. Has been, indeed, for more than 40 years. And if Carmine had a garden fete, the associated garden would be busy producing the 1st-prize winners Biggest zucchini, Tastiest lettuces, Reddest tomatoes, Most luscious bean plants and Longest cucumbers.
But now our closest neighbours have finally arrived. And it's great to see their smiling faces, hear the clatter of their washing up, the chatter of their tv.
Bentornati!
Note the appearance of the deer in the village this evening, perhaps here to say welcome back as well.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Storm story
More storms today have brought the temperature down to seventeen degrees at 5pm. The recent new additions to the garden (three miniature geraniums, a pineapple sage (smells like not looks like) another rose and a lantana) are very happy.
As a mere slip of a twenty-something Mama (before she was Mama) took a life-changing journey to Southeast Asia. During a prolonged visit to an island off the coast of southern Thailand, teaching a bit of English, learning some Thai, she found out many things about herself and about life. Accommodation was a palm-thatch cottage on stilts on the beach, and food was arranged by the proprietor in a large 'restaurant' area - a large palm-wood skeleton with a cement floor and no walls. Gap-year kids who are reading this will probably recognise the scenario, although at the time, the 'gap-year' was a thing of the future.
One day, our host, an attractive, tallish Thai was to be seen frowning at the horizon. The fishing boats that usually twinkled their lights at night from the far-distance had suddenly turned-tail for home. There was the start of a swell along our normally tranquil stretch of the Gulf of Thailand, and the normally azure skies were starting to look murky. Within a couple of hours a storm blew up which lasted two days and two nights. The sea bubbled below my bed and the wind bent the palms to horizontal. The inland lake burst out and water came crashing down to meet the sea sending, one beach hut sprawling. The noise of wind, rain, moaning palms and thundering ocean was deafening. The restaurant owner unfurled long swathes of heavy canvas and secured them to the ground so that damp customers could eat with only a faint mist of rain surrounding them.
On the third day the wind abated and the rain came to a reluctant halt. Houses were turned inside out as possessions were taken out into the sun to dry - mattresses, clothes...
It was only very much later that I discovered we had been sitting ducks for Typhoon Gay, which devastated Thailand's Chumpon province in late 1989. Hundreds of people died, and hundreds of fishermen went missing. We were lucky.
This afternoon, I and about 50 parents and children found ourselves huddled under a canvas awning in a corner of Cannobio's parco giochi, frowning in much the same way as my Thai friend of so many years ago. A sudden cloud burst had brought 4-year-old Emanuele's birthday celebrations to an awed halt, and there was rather a lot of water swirling around our feet. As we hauled our kids up onto the table and put Emanuele's mountain of birthday gifts out of harm's way, I thought of how much work my guardian angel has had to put in over the years (thank-you). I hoped that after shielding me from 190km/h winds and a roiling sea, he would be ready for the relatively minor task of helping us back along the lake road and up the hill, safe and sound, and perhaps not too wet.
He was.
As a mere slip of a twenty-something Mama (before she was Mama) took a life-changing journey to Southeast Asia. During a prolonged visit to an island off the coast of southern Thailand, teaching a bit of English, learning some Thai, she found out many things about herself and about life. Accommodation was a palm-thatch cottage on stilts on the beach, and food was arranged by the proprietor in a large 'restaurant' area - a large palm-wood skeleton with a cement floor and no walls. Gap-year kids who are reading this will probably recognise the scenario, although at the time, the 'gap-year' was a thing of the future.
One day, our host, an attractive, tallish Thai was to be seen frowning at the horizon. The fishing boats that usually twinkled their lights at night from the far-distance had suddenly turned-tail for home. There was the start of a swell along our normally tranquil stretch of the Gulf of Thailand, and the normally azure skies were starting to look murky. Within a couple of hours a storm blew up which lasted two days and two nights. The sea bubbled below my bed and the wind bent the palms to horizontal. The inland lake burst out and water came crashing down to meet the sea sending, one beach hut sprawling. The noise of wind, rain, moaning palms and thundering ocean was deafening. The restaurant owner unfurled long swathes of heavy canvas and secured them to the ground so that damp customers could eat with only a faint mist of rain surrounding them.
On the third day the wind abated and the rain came to a reluctant halt. Houses were turned inside out as possessions were taken out into the sun to dry - mattresses, clothes...
It was only very much later that I discovered we had been sitting ducks for Typhoon Gay, which devastated Thailand's Chumpon province in late 1989. Hundreds of people died, and hundreds of fishermen went missing. We were lucky.
This afternoon, I and about 50 parents and children found ourselves huddled under a canvas awning in a corner of Cannobio's parco giochi, frowning in much the same way as my Thai friend of so many years ago. A sudden cloud burst had brought 4-year-old Emanuele's birthday celebrations to an awed halt, and there was rather a lot of water swirling around our feet. As we hauled our kids up onto the table and put Emanuele's mountain of birthday gifts out of harm's way, I thought of how much work my guardian angel has had to put in over the years (thank-you). I hoped that after shielding me from 190km/h winds and a roiling sea, he would be ready for the relatively minor task of helping us back along the lake road and up the hill, safe and sound, and perhaps not too wet.
He was.
Friday, 4 July 2008
Thursday, 3 July 2008
The summer (ought) to-do list
Last night's storm has left us with a refreshing 23 degrees and overcast skies. Thundery showers.
The to-do list is getting out of hand :
The to-do list is getting out of hand :
- tackle the ironing pile which has reached, if not Everest proportions, then at least K2
- lavender : cut back, make sure all the thousands of stems are facing the same direction, tie into artful bunches, festoon the house; alternatively cut off the heads and stuff into any available pouch-like object - handmade lacy lavender bags sent from England, pillow cases, M's socks...; alternatively allow to go to seed, swamp everything else in the garden and obscure the steps as part of an artistic 'wilderness' planting scheme
- roses : dead-head, weed around, tie up and fertilise with very expensive liquid feed then watch the hail knock them down
- tie up everything in sight : the tomatoes, the cucumbers, the three jasmines, the ten oleander, the children...
- locate and air the summer duvets; air the winter duvets and shove them into the space where the (less bulky) summer duvets lived; fail, then change mind and opt to use sheets and blankets (if I can find them)
- put away all the children's clothes that aren't suitable for summer, filing for age and gender; when the 20ft room in which this operation is to take place gets too full, move house
- pantry : take everything off the 20 shelves; wash the tea towels that cover the shelves, iron and put back; get rid of the slug trails on floor, walls and ceiling; ditto cobwebs; clean containers and put everything back in a different place just to give il cuoco a taste of his own medicine
- omigod -- sweep the chimneys...
- build an elaborate and imaginative train set, watch AJ (or B, or the cat) wreck it, build another elaborate and imaginative train set, return ten minutes later to view another Island-of-Sodor catastrophe, build yet another somewhat less elaborate and definitely less imaginative train set, return twenty minutes later, put train set away
- do photograph albums for 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008
- arrange a birthday party, potty-train a toddler, teach AJ his ABCs and his 123s, proofread husband's latest blockbuster...
Did someone say something about summer holidays?
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Book Notes No. 8 : A Partisan's Daughter, Louis de Bernières
Cracking thunder storm last night, doing nothing for Mama's unaccustomed insomnia. Hot, sunny, cloudy and breezy today. Yes, all at the same time.
Once upon a time, Mama (before she was a Mama) travelled with her tent in the South Pacific. On one of the Fijian islands, she visited a village built inside the crater of an extinct volcano and heard about village life from one of the residents, who had studied and qualified as the local tour guide. Whenever he began a new episode in his history of his people, he would begin his sentence with, "It says...", as if he carried with him a huge invisible (and, I imagined, dusty) book in which his forefathers had written down the stories and facts he was now 'reading' to us. This verbal tic endowed everything he had to impart to us with a certain gravity, with the full weight of his cultural history, and I could see that the other westerners with me were listening with unaccustomed respect to this man's version of reality.
In Louis de Bernière's new novel, A Partisan's Daughter, Roza, the storyteller (for like Salman Rushdie's latest, this is another book about storytelling), has a similar tic, but with the opposite effect. She often says, "I told him...", or "That's what I told him...". "I told him that after he was a partisan, my father was a secret policeman..." And as these expressions appear and reappear, the reader, who at first is carried along with Roza's colourful story, starts to get the feeling that perhaps what she's telling him isn't quite the truth.
A Partisan's Daughter is a love story, set, to my great nostalgic pleasure, in the 1970s, the age of the brown Austin Allegro, Sebastian Coe at his fastest, and The Police singing 'Roxanne'.
In a derelict building in Highgate.
Unlike Birds Without Wings, the terrifying brutality of which I couldn't bear, here de Bernieres proves his ability to write the subtle sadness of opportunities missed, relationships gone cold and lumpy, realities misunderstood. And as the reader grasps for threads of truth, and as it slithers and slips around, there's a little voice somewhere that says love means resisting the temptation to tell the ultimate lie.
Read it.
Once upon a time, Mama (before she was a Mama) travelled with her tent in the South Pacific. On one of the Fijian islands, she visited a village built inside the crater of an extinct volcano and heard about village life from one of the residents, who had studied and qualified as the local tour guide. Whenever he began a new episode in his history of his people, he would begin his sentence with, "It says...", as if he carried with him a huge invisible (and, I imagined, dusty) book in which his forefathers had written down the stories and facts he was now 'reading' to us. This verbal tic endowed everything he had to impart to us with a certain gravity, with the full weight of his cultural history, and I could see that the other westerners with me were listening with unaccustomed respect to this man's version of reality.
In Louis de Bernière's new novel, A Partisan's Daughter
A Partisan's Daughter is a love story, set, to my great nostalgic pleasure, in the 1970s, the age of the brown Austin Allegro, Sebastian Coe at his fastest, and The Police singing 'Roxanne'.
In a derelict building in Highgate.
Unlike Birds Without Wings, the terrifying brutality of which I couldn't bear, here de Bernieres proves his ability to write the subtle sadness of opportunities missed, relationships gone cold and lumpy, realities misunderstood. And as the reader grasps for threads of truth, and as it slithers and slips around, there's a little voice somewhere that says love means resisting the temptation to tell the ultimate lie.
Read it.
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