The end of August brings a sea-change, not only in the weather, but also in the garden - one variety taking over from another even as the first labours on. The tomatoes are beginning to wane, and this afternoon I plan to take out the earlies I planted what seems like a lifetime ago. The beef tomatoes are still going strong, and we'll be bottling tomato sauce for pasta ere long. We're still reeling under the annual glut of white zucchine and cucumbers - AJ's cucumbers have been particularly good. The chilli pepper plants are still laden with ripening fruit, and I have been drying heaps on the window sills for the last three weeks or so. They'll go into chilli oil to help make our winter evenings warmer. 
Find out as much as you can about the black grouse before you start.
Salient points : a.) the males are black; and b.) they are about the size of a grouse.
Other notes : a.) they live on moorland near trees; b.) they don't taste good; c.) they have distinctive forked tail plumage, hence the Italian common name gallo forcello; d.) they perform elaborate courtship rituals in spring; e.) they are endangered to the point of being on the Red List, despite not tasting good; and f.) it is still legal to hunt them, despite being on the Red List and despite not tasting good. Go figure.
Next, climb in your Panda, taking wife, children and associated clobber with you. Head towards Cannobio, and hang a left, then keep driving up. Drop in at Crodo for a crodino, the region's very own fizzy drink (a bit like Lucozade), and keep driving up.
Keep driving up. Second gear. All the way.
When you pass through a tunnel very similar to the one at Milford Sound, NZ, (similar in that it has no interior cladding and no road to speak of - something off the set of Doctor Who, without, we hope, the wobbles) -- when you pass through this tunnel, you know you're nearly there.
Reaching, finally, a point about 5km below Alpe Devero, abandon Panda by the side of the road because the car parks are full, take out walking boots, under-5s, patient wife and other clobber. Start walking.
Reaching, even more finally, the alpe, marvel at the beauty of the fertile basin ringed by austere, bare peaks, and feel at home due to the frequent occurrence of stone houses with tetti in piode :
Have a picnic. Walk around a bit. Count fish in the river (just to get your eye in). Wonder at the lack of ice-cream, and the lack of cows (it's an alp in summer, isn't it?).
Go to bed late (on account of the good company). Wake up early. Fortify yourself with a cappuccino and a slice or two of the refugio's delicious torta, made with pears, chestnut flour and honey. Forget to ask for the recipe.
Leaving wife and kids behind to clear up, trot across in your strong walking boots and green fatigues to the far side of the alp, where a bunch of guys wearing strong walking boots and green fatigues are standing in a manly circle, being eyed by a group of English setters.
Join a squadra, and after a second cappuccino, head upwards along the river bank and through the larches :
Reaching fairly open moorland (very up - more than 2000m up, in fact), walk around a bit, and then a bit more, and wonder at the lack of black grouse. But when the setters gather into a canine circle being eyed by a group of green-fatigued hunters, you know you've found one.
Don't miss the highlight : a mother with a brood of no less than seven juveniles. According to the world expert, A Good Sign.
In the meantime, make sure your wife (patient), walks around a bit, puts the kids on ponies and walks around a bit, takes some photos and walks around a bit, marvels at the overnight reappearance of large quantities of ice-cream (and its equally sudden disappearance into the mouths of two under-5s), 'discovers' the fact that the woodlands are full of wild blueberries and sets the kids onto picking some for lunch. She must also arrange a picnic lunch including a delicious local goat cheese and equally delicious rye bread impregnated with raisins and walnuts. Make sure she forgets to ask for the recipe.
As time goes on, wife should resort to playing Eye-Spy with the following on her list :
A church :
A mule with an interesting saddle :
Down, down, down, second gear all the way.
Back home.
On arrival, the designated driver is fatigued, the boots smell strong, the under-5s are green from the curves, the cats are eyeing the lame chicken-in-the-pantry, and after taking more than two hours to get the rambunctious under-5s (no ironic reversal there, I fear) up, up, up to bed, the wife is a world expert on patience.
Masts, Oil on linen canvas, 40 x 28
I know I'm late with the news. 
After last night's two-hour thunderstorm (can I have a job as a weather-girl, please?), we are greeted this morning with raging torrents and blessed, cool air.
A crowd of people stand in adoration of St Ambrogio (Ambrosius).
Chiesa di San Gottardo, external wall, south side.
The father of an old schoolfriend of mine recently completed an illustrious career in the Church by modelling for a new stained glass window at the cathedral where he was latterly Dean. The old window lasted hundreds of years, and it's exciting to imagine his much-loved image could still be impressed on the fabric of the cathedral well into the 22nd century, as his work has doubtless left an impression on all who met him (including HM).
I sometimes wonder who the models were for the fresco above. Carmenites rich enough to pay for a spot of immortality, perhaps? The minor nobles of Cannobio? Those who paid for the frescoes? Maybe petty bureaucrats from St Ambrogio's entourage in need of a little stroking on the part of the Holy See.
I'm particularly taken by the woman at the top, nearest the angel. Could her proximity to the heavenly host be a comment on her status in the community? Or her outstanding piety? But why is she not modestly wearing a wimple? Floozie! Could her long, blonde braided hair have had some special significance for the artist...?
As ever, in the absence of fact, a multitude of possibilities come tumbling in...
The end of August brings a sea-change, not only in the weather, but also in the garden - one variety taking over from another even as the first labours on. The tomatoes are beginning to wane, and this afternoon I plan to take out the earlies I planted what seems like a lifetime ago. The beef tomatoes are still going strong, and we'll be bottling tomato sauce for pasta ere long. We're still reeling under the annual glut of white zucchine and cucumbers - AJ's cucumbers have been particularly good. The chilli pepper plants are still laden with ripening fruit, and I have been drying heaps on the window sills for the last three weeks or so. They'll go into chilli oil to help make our winter evenings warmer. Find out as much as you can about the black grouse before you start.
Salient points : a.) the males are black; and b.) they are about the size of a grouse.
Other notes : a.) they live on moorland near trees; b.) they don't taste good; c.) they have distinctive forked tail plumage, hence the Italian common name gallo forcello; d.) they perform elaborate courtship rituals in spring; e.) they are endangered to the point of being on the Red List, despite not tasting good; and f.) it is still legal to hunt them, despite being on the Red List and despite not tasting good. Go figure.
Next, climb in your Panda, taking wife, children and associated clobber with you. Head towards Cannobio, and hang a left, then keep driving up. Drop in at Crodo for a crodino, the region's very own fizzy drink (a bit like Lucozade), and keep driving up.
Keep driving up. Second gear. All the way.
When you pass through a tunnel very similar to the one at Milford Sound, NZ, (similar in that it has no interior cladding and no road to speak of - something off the set of Doctor Who, without, we hope, the wobbles) -- when you pass through this tunnel, you know you're nearly there.
Reaching, finally, a point about 5km below Alpe Devero, abandon Panda by the side of the road because the car parks are full, take out walking boots, under-5s, patient wife and other clobber. Start walking.
Reaching, even more finally, the alpe, marvel at the beauty of the fertile basin ringed by austere, bare peaks, and feel at home due to the frequent occurrence of stone houses with tetti in piode :
Have a picnic. Walk around a bit. Count fish in the river (just to get your eye in). Wonder at the lack of ice-cream, and the lack of cows (it's an alp in summer, isn't it?).
Go to bed late (on account of the good company). Wake up early. Fortify yourself with a cappuccino and a slice or two of the refugio's delicious torta, made with pears, chestnut flour and honey. Forget to ask for the recipe.
Leaving wife and kids behind to clear up, trot across in your strong walking boots and green fatigues to the far side of the alp, where a bunch of guys wearing strong walking boots and green fatigues are standing in a manly circle, being eyed by a group of English setters.
Join a squadra, and after a second cappuccino, head upwards along the river bank and through the larches :
Reaching fairly open moorland (very up - more than 2000m up, in fact), walk around a bit, and then a bit more, and wonder at the lack of black grouse. But when the setters gather into a canine circle being eyed by a group of green-fatigued hunters, you know you've found one.
Don't miss the highlight : a mother with a brood of no less than seven juveniles. According to the world expert, A Good Sign.
In the meantime, make sure your wife (patient), walks around a bit, puts the kids on ponies and walks around a bit, takes some photos and walks around a bit, marvels at the overnight reappearance of large quantities of ice-cream (and its equally sudden disappearance into the mouths of two under-5s), 'discovers' the fact that the woodlands are full of wild blueberries and sets the kids onto picking some for lunch. She must also arrange a picnic lunch including a delicious local goat cheese and equally delicious rye bread impregnated with raisins and walnuts. Make sure she forgets to ask for the recipe.
As time goes on, wife should resort to playing Eye-Spy with the following on her list :
A church :
A mule with an interesting saddle :
Down, down, down, second gear all the way.
Back home.
On arrival, the designated driver is fatigued, the boots smell strong, the under-5s are green from the curves, the cats are eyeing the lame chicken-in-the-pantry, and after taking more than two hours to get the rambunctious under-5s (no ironic reversal there, I fear) up, up, up to bed, the wife is a world expert on patience.
Masts, Oil on linen canvas, 40 x 28
I know I'm late with the news. After last night's two-hour thunderstorm (can I have a job as a weather-girl, please?), we are greeted this morning with raging torrents and blessed, cool air.
A crowd of people stand in adoration of St Ambrogio (Ambrosius).
Chiesa di San Gottardo, external wall, south side.
The father of an old schoolfriend of mine recently completed an illustrious career in the Church by modelling for a new stained glass window at the cathedral where he was latterly Dean. The old window lasted hundreds of years, and it's exciting to imagine his much-loved image could still be impressed on the fabric of the cathedral well into the 22nd century, as his work has doubtless left an impression on all who met him (including HM).
I sometimes wonder who the models were for the fresco above. Carmenites rich enough to pay for a spot of immortality, perhaps? The minor nobles of Cannobio? Those who paid for the frescoes? Maybe petty bureaucrats from St Ambrogio's entourage in need of a little stroking on the part of the Holy See.
I'm particularly taken by the woman at the top, nearest the angel. Could her proximity to the heavenly host be a comment on her status in the community? Or her outstanding piety? But why is she not modestly wearing a wimple? Floozie! Could her long, blonde braided hair have had some special significance for the artist...?
As ever, in the absence of fact, a multitude of possibilities come tumbling in...
