Us and them No. 1

Sunny at breakfast time, overcast by aperitivo time, chucking it down by supper.

In the last four years or so of being a mother (read under-glorified cleaner, cook, personal hygeine supervisor, language and motor skills tutor, and chauffeuse), I've come to believe that the difference between adults and children is not just a matter of quantity - number of years, shoe size, number of brain cells irrevocably damaged by caffeine, alcohol, Celebrity Big Brother... (strike through as appropriate) - but also of quality. If Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus, children are from the Planet Zarquon, or somewhere thereabouts.

And yes, they come from Planet Zarquon trailing clouds of glory, as Wordsworth so beautifully put it. The glory is in the way they see things differently from we adults. The way they see the magic in everything, the magic and the potential. Us and Them is a series of quotes from the little Zarquonites in our midst that help us as adults see another side to the story.

So here is Us and Them No. 1 :

On a walk along Cannobio's lakeside marina in the Sunday afternoon sunshine, Mama spots a couple of plastic bottles bobbing about in the water, and she says in a pedagogical kind of way, "Ugh, trash!".

AJ replies, "But, Mama, maybe there's a message in one of them"...

Pentecoste

A bright and sunny start to the Pentecost weekend.

Weekend of celebration, vacation, relaxation. Weekend of watersports, beachsports, sport shopping. Weekend of stuffed restaurants, jammed coffee-bars and jammed traffic.

If you need us, we'll be up the hill in our tranquil lakeside stronghold ...

...hiding!

Duvet day

Another bright morning, boding well for speedy laundry drying.

I've declared a duvet day on account of a pothole in Guardian Angel Square, which leapt out and grabbed me by the ankle the other day, making it painful to walk. Ironic that it didn't happen on the mulattiera.

Wimping out? Yes!

Proprietà ... privata

A bright and brilliant morning. A good morning to squeeze in breakfast with our backs against St Gottardo's ancient walls, with the sunshine glittering on the lake and the woodlands shivering in the breeze.

Under the arches in Cannobio

Motherhood means ... No. 13

Between 8:30 and 9:30am, the temperature rose from 20° to 25°. Sunny, but, after yesterday evening's hail storm, a bit blowy.

Motherhood means...

...knowing that summer means lollipops, and you better remember where you put the lolly-making kit last autumn before the kids cost you a fortune buying them.

Flora on form

Twenty-five degrees at 8:30am but by 11am clouding over, with a possibility of storms in the air.

The oleander, Carmine's summertime crowning glory, are starting to flower white, peach, pink and yellow. Despite my daughter's locust-like interest, there are still strawberries, wild and cultivated, along the path and in the garden. The cherry trees are fruiting, and today I saw the first of the raspberries.

Quote of the week No. 20 : some little words of calm

Twenty-five degrees at 8:30am. Clear skies and promising a Scorcher. Thirty-three by 3:30pm. Definitely a Scorcher.

St Julian of Norwich (c.1342-c.1416), English anchorite and mystic, whose Sixteen Revelations of Divine Love is believed to be the first book written by a woman in the English language.

"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."

Surprisingly optimistic words for a person living through the ravages of the Black Death...but in the 21st century still resonant with divine reassurance.

Image from http://conservation.catholic.org

May morning across the lake

Hot and sunny. A good day for the first picnic of the year.

The view of Lombardy from Carmine's churchyard early on a May morning.

Thank-you kind neighbours

Twenty-six degrees in Cannobio at 9:30am this morning as the campaigning for the forthcoming mayoral elections heats up. Bright sunshine. The warm air brings with it the welcome scents of jasmine and honeysuckle. Summer has begun!

Big thanks go to Franco, Giuliano and Livio, who spent their Ascension-day holiday in the service of our community, erecting a new handrail and repairing the path on a particularly dangerous part of the mulattiera, which almost everybody uses to reach Carmine. Also to Signor di Marco, the metalworker who made the handrails, and to Fausto, who I believe helped to organise everything.

As probably the single person who uses this path the most, I'd like to express my gratitude. Where would Carmine be without guys like you?!

Late spring chicken update : foxes, bullies and claw foot

Twenty-one degrees at 8:30am. Overcast and once again I've opted not to water the garden in anticipation that the local weather gods will see to it for me.


Little boy blue,
Deliver the goods,
There's hens in the prato
And a fox in the woods
And where's the boy
That looks after the chicks?
Lying in a puddle of sunshine having a gentle post-lunch snooze...

Yup, the fox has cubs to feed and where better to go looking for lunch than our place? The chick-herd awoke from his Sunday slumber when one of our eight Bionda piemontese hens broke the sound barrier in her efforts to escape old Vulpes vulpes, who, a nanosecond later leapt across his legs in hot pursuit. The hen lost plenty of feathers and ended up with a nasty bite in her side, but the chick-herd's world-famous windmill imitation sent the fox back into the depths of the woods. Following our tradition, the hen now has a pension and will not end up in the soup at the end of her laying life like her coop-mates ...

Talking of which, at the weekend we defrosted the bully, who turned out to be really enormous. He produced roast breast and wings to serve four, 6 litres of stock (that's 6 vegetable soups for two), chicken curry for four plus leftovers. That's 20 person meals, several purring cats and a very pleased dog.

And finally, the 21 youngsters have been moved from the bathroom to the coop and are growing like Topsy. They now have real feathers instead of just down, and are gaily bouncing around the place making tons of rose feed. They are here called Big gray, the males being white speckled grey and the girls being a warm patterned brown. Both males and females are noticeably less skittish than the Bionda piemontese, and B. has embarked on a campaign to make friends with as many of them as possible.

This year's lesson in chicken rearing : claw foot doesn't have to be fatal.


We feel bad that we jumped the gun somewhat when three of our four self-hatched chicks developed claw foot in their second week, and we disposed of them in the belief that this must be a genetic defect brought about by inbreeding. Read about it here.


When we bought a batch of 20 chicks, one developed the condition, and I begged for a couple of days in which to try a cure. The magic potion turned out to be one teaspoon a day of an infant formulation of vitamin B complex bought over the counter at the local pharmacist (she's by now used to my strange requests, in atrocious but apologetic Italian). The condition turned out to be a form of cramp caused by B2 deficiency. The suffering chick was miraculously back on its feet within 36 hours, and preventative application of the syrup to the water supply has meant the rest of the crew didn't develop the condition at all.


So, as the sun moves round to shine into our kitchen window and, finally, onto our small terrace, the chicks are growing fast and the hens are laying faster. The children are full of homemade pasta and chicken curry, and on our neighbours' doorsteps there are occasional gifts of surplus eggs.


And ... best of all ... the chickens still make me laugh.

To Let in London

E17 - Pretty Victorian terraced house with garden. Two bedrooms, large kitchen-diner, sitting room. All amenities. Semi-furnished. Suit couple with child, or 2/3 sharers. Fast connections by train and tube to London West End (Victoria Line) and City (Liverpool Street). Contact Louise[at]carminesuperiore[dot]it.

At No. 61

Blazing sunshine, bright blue skies and blowy.

At via Giovanola 61, Cannobio, monounsaturated, saturated and trans fat are all available. Take your pick.

Eighteen degrees at 8:30am and sunny.

Reported conversations No. 14 : conversational gambits for hill-walkers

Nineteen degrees at 8:30am. A strange kind of day weather-wise. Thundery, hot and sunny, overcast. All, seemingly, at once.

My four-year-old son AJ is pretty good in the mornings. After a quick whine followed by a slow Mama-cuddle, he's up and about, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and so sharp I fear he might cut himself. It's an hour dead from the moment I step into his bedroom to tickle him awake to the instant we open the great double front door and start our descent to lake-level along the mulattiera, Carmine's semi-paved mule-track. And in that hour his mind has touched on many things about life, the universe and everything he would like to have explained. The 10 or 15 minutes it takes us to get to the car (going down is easy - coming up a different story), provide him with a perfect opportunity to ask away.

Now, for Mama, mornings are slightly different. While the thinking classes are doing just that, Mama is dashing around getting it altogether, washing faces, cleaning tiny teeth, checking potties, finding stray knickers - socks, hats, gormiti (don't ask), mobile phones, brains... Every mother knows the deal. By the time she takes her first steps on the mulattiera in the morning, a major organisational operation has been completed, and she could really be doing with a third cup of tea and some breakfast.

Instead, the intellectual grilling begins :

Day 1 (sunny, Mama carrying B., the backpack and the trash)

AJ (pointing to a buoy bobbing about on the lake below) : "Mama, what's that white thing for?"
Mama burbles on about things nautical combined with things mechanical.

Day 2 (raining, Mama carrying B., the backpack and some eggs for a neighbour)

AJ : "Mama, what's a clue?"
Mama (making mental note to ease off on the Scooby-doo) burbles on about mysteries, Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes and goes on to make up a few Carmine mysteries of her own as exemplars.

Day 3 (still raining with the church swathed in cloud-mist, Mama carrying B., the backpack, and a bag of plastic and metal recycling)

AJ : "Mama, what's a curse?"
Mama (thinks, the rain) out loud starts with wishing people ill, and moves on to ancient Egyptian priests, pyramids, magic and the sudden demise of Howard Carter.

Day 4 (no rain, but the long grass bent low over the path harbours raindrops, ticks and the odd snake; Mama is today carrying B., the backpack, glass recycling, swimming kit)

AJ : "Mama, why do we make the sign of the Croce?"
Mama drags up her early Church history, Christian symbology and theology (such as it is), plus a touch of Anglican polemic. After all of which :
AJ : "Mama, how do you nail a person onto the Croce?"
Mama (thinks, between suspicious snivels, Oh - My - God) : deep breath - goes swiftly through the mechanics, moving on firmly to the art history and iconography of the Crucifixion.

Day 5 (sunny and warm, Mama is carrying B., the backpack, paper and cardboard recycling, a bin liner of old clothes for donation to charity)

AJ : "What's a singing telegram?"
Mama (with a slight throaty tickle) : history of communications in the 19th and 20th centuries. Makes research note to self : is it possible to make a living as a singing telegram in the 21st century?

Day 6 (sunny and hot, Mama drooping like a donkey under B., the backpack, the trash, eggs for the English teacher, dry cleaning, AJ's cup-apron-bib-towel kindergarten kit, letters for the post, and ... a cold)

AJ: "What's a wreck?"
Mama : "AJ, darling, shipwreck, car wreck, or Mama wreck?"

Day of rest

Overcast and cool. A family day. A rest day.

Not raining today, but still changeable. Hot in the sun, wet underfoot.

A short rest

Cool, grey, gloomy and raining.

Alone this morning for the first time in a back-breakingly long time. Ironing city shirts - greeting each cat as they arrive, soggy, looking for breakfast - listening to Woman's Hour. Resting my aching bones.

Azaleas and thyme

Nineteen degrees at nine o'clock. Overcast and humid. Threatening rain, but the threats never seem to come to much. Certainly not enough to help me out with the garden.

Carmine's azaleas are still going strong...

And the wild thyme is flowering, sending out drifts of heady scent to remind me of the first time I came to Italy, a month spent the guest of a potter in a Cinqueterre vineyard. Languid beach days, chattering caffe' days. Byron, Hemingway, Shelley and Pound. Hot nights among the fireflies, sciacchetra' and village-square dances. And wild thyme.

And now, 25 years on, I am finally able to make sense of what that smiling ragazzo wrote in my notebook that day in Manarola... perhaps if I'd spoken Italian better all those years ago my life might have taken a different course...

Anyway...what was I saying about the azaleas? Oh, yes - lovely aren't they?

Ernst Sr

Today they're saying goodbye to my grandfather-in-law. He was still a young man when his heart broke without warning at the age of 91.

It was a long life, and yet it must have seemed a very short life. A varied life - his childhood begun on the winegrowing banks of the Moselle, 12 years of his youth surviving in a Russian prison camp, his maturity working hard in the family business as restaurateur and wine merchant, and his retirement quiet and long, saddened only by the untimely death of his only son. Ernst was married to Gretel for what has today become an unthinkable 70 years.

I didn't know him well - my German came too late for our relationship to blossom - but I understood his uncomplicated affection for me and what seemed his continual joyful amazement over his great-grandchildren. We would have been good friends, I'm sure, in other circumstances.

Ernst Sr kept a fairly untidy but always fruitful garden, so as they toast him over there, I'm looking at all the things that are growing in the woods and in the realm of chaos I call my own garden. I'm remembering him in the promise of beauty and fruitfulness of this late-spring day. And these words seem apt :

"You find a flower half-buried in leaves,
And in your eye its very fate resides.
Loving beauty, you caress the bloom;
Soon enough, you'll sweep petals from the floor.

Terrible to love the lovely so,
To count your own years, to say "I'm old,"
To see a flower half-buried in leaves
And come face to face with what you are."

Han Shan, circa 630 CE, trans. Peter Stambler, Cold Mountain Buddhas, with thanks to Michael P. Garofalo www.gardendigest.com.

Nineteen degrees at 8:30am. Patchy sunshine, but mostly overcast with the occasional drop of rain. To water or not to water. That is the question...

A gentle reminder of winter

Today's forecast is 0% probability of rain with a maximum of 25°C (in the high 70sF).

This morning's sunrise looked absolutely nothing like this.

This picture is there to remind me what winter was like when I start complaining that in May it's already too hot for hill walking.

Festa della Mamma

The most famous mother of them all...In the garden of the Scuola Materna A. Zaccheo, Cannobio.

I bet She never had problems with potty training, eating fads and bad language. I bet He never got a fertiliser pellet stuck up His nose or stamped His name in indelible ink all over the sitting-room wall. And I bet His Father never contradicted His Mother in front of Him either...

Happy Mamma's Day all ye who labour.

Motherhood means No. 12 : hair care

Motherhood means ...

...wearing your 3-year-old daughter's hair clips to town because you are a.) too exhausted and/or b.) don't have the time to search for your own...and believing nobody will notice.

PS Same weather pattern as yesterday - warm and sunny in the morning, becoming overcast, with thunder and rain showers towards evening. God likes to do the watering, it seems.

Luna crescente--luna calante

Overcast and sultry. Rain on the way.

Working hard in the garden to get everything planted before this month's luna crescente (waxing moon) changes (tomorrow) to luna calante (waning moon). The lunar planting system is a tough taskmaster. It brooks no excuses for inclement weather, children's snivels, kindergarten schedules or (God help us) social lives.

The other side

Hot and sunny, but with a palm-rattling breeze at 300m asl. The temperature at 8:30am was something around twenty.

Carmine from the south, before the trees drew a veil of leaves across its face.

Two months later, the woods are one hundred percent green, the acacia are flowering, St Swithun, the climbing rose, is in bud, and the 'garden' is reverting to campo before my eyes.

Quote of the week No. 20 : On being in Carmine

Early this promisingly beautiful Wednesday morning, as I took a quiet, child-free moment to stand on the churchyard looking out across Lago Maggiore, with the sun rising golden behind the mountains, the cockerel crowing, and the surfer's sail snapping in the wind, Douglas Adams' words came to mind :

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be."

The city, from whence I came seven years ago, can trundle along without me.

I'm here to stay.

Scuppered!

Fifteen degrees at 8:30am as I shot past the digital thermometer this morning. Hazy becoming sunshiney.

Yesterday's mission to test Cannobio's new lakeside play area was scuppered by last week's rain...

Beautiful morning

Eighteen degrees at 8:30am. Hazy blue skies, occasional drops of spring rain. Finishing cooler and very much windier.

Lago Maggiore seen from the mulattiera.

The Turinese windsurfers were happy that day...

Lest we forget

Lakeside naval memorial, Cannobio new harbour