Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007-2013. Please give credit where credit is due.
Showing posts with label Talking about the weather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Talking about the weather. Show all posts

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

A fraction below 5°C in the bathroom this morning. Cold, bright and dry. The laghetto is frozen and there are icicles forming in the streams. 

Friday, 7 December 2012

First snow 2012

One solitary degree at 8:03am. Frost in the frost pockets where the cold air tumbles down the sides of Carmine's ramparts. Ice cubes in the chickens' drinking water. And now there is a dusting of snow on the palms, and a pile of cats on Mathilda.

Thursday, 4 October 2012

Plus ça change...

Misty, drizzly and rainforest steamy. 

As I feed my sheep the fat chestnuts I've just gathered in the woods, the monsoon weather brings a memory of our little house in Zaria, northern Nigeria, during a gap between rainstorms. The guard is leaning on the gate, lazily disputing with another man in Niger French. Dauda is out back, singing to himself a faintly familiar gospel tune as he prepares lunch. And a herd of skinny white cattle is passing under the avenue of mango trees beyond the fence. 

My ram's head comes up for another handful of the pocket-warm shiny nuts and I see in my mind's eye the head of a white cow come up to steal a golden, juicy mango from a tree. 

As I make my way back to the house, there are fire salamanders on the path, and in Zaria that day I found a chameleon in the garden, shedding his skin. 

It's easy to remember my life in Zaria as a great adventure - and easy to forget that my life in Carmine, while different, is really just the same. 

Monday, 24 September 2012

From dreams to reality

I dreamed last night of a boat crossing from a small rocky island to the mainland in high seas, grey and menacing. I woke this morning to a Carmine swamped and isolated from the world in a sea of fog, and rain cascading from the gutterless stone roofs above. The children in their colourful wellies and carrying gay umbrellas plunge down into the mist, their chattering voices fading into the abyss. 

Autumn has arrived, and as I walk the Hound of the Baskervilles along the woodland trail, I remember another rainy autumn, when I found myself thankful that I am not made of sugar...



Casa Chiera, Carmine Superiore.
In the Rain.

Sunday, 26 August 2012

Ancient lights

The night after the long-awaited storm, and the sky is extra-azzurro and there's a wild wind whipping around the Rock. 

As so often in a storm, yesterday evening was punctuated by the on-off-off-on of the electricity supply. Eventually we opted for candles to accompany the cheese and the aligoté. 



Recommended in a power cut: Domaine Michel Lafarge Bourgogne Aligoté Raisins Dorés 2009.

Tuesday, 12 June 2012

Of sogginess and saints

Fifteen degrees at 11am and raining, again. Raining hard. The moggies are soggy, the dog is soggy, the children are soggy, the sheep are soggy, the chickens are soggy and I am soggy.
So after all this rain, and with more on the way to disrupt the best laid plans of mice and Mamas to get the kids out of the house and taking part in outdoor activities for weeks at a time, I'm making an executive decision.
After 800 years, I'm firing San Gottardo as the patron of the church here in Carmine. I'm replacing him with St Agricola of Avignon, who, when you want to talk to someone about the weather is a kind of celestial one-stop-shop. You can pray to him for good weather or you can pray to him for rain. Take your pick. He's the dude. 

Oh, yes, and he does a pretty good sideline in sorting out plagues of storks, too. If that's any help.




Pic: http://www.diocese-avignon.fr

Monday, 7 November 2011

Monday morning

Twelve degrees at 8am as we slithered and slid down a wet-leaf-slick sentiero. Still raining, but very lightly.


I'm off and out with me fan-rake for a spot of community service.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

Spring thoughts in autumn

Raining and autumny. The rain that has brought floods to Genova has here created thundering torrents where before, after so long a dry spell, there were only tiny dribbles of streams. The sentiero is again flooded in places, and yesterday, the chicks were up to their feathery knickers in water.




Visitors. 
Fiera Degli Allevatori. Cannobio 2011.
Next year in Carmine?


Friday, 4 November 2011

Rain

Twelve degrees at 10am as I dawdled my way towards a capucchino and a brioche. Raining. Steadily but not spitefully. And the fire salamanders are in love, and are copulating among the fallen leaves.

I love the autumn rain in Carmine. I love to walk out under the woodland canopy, to hear the rain on the leaves above me, to smell the rain in the soil under me. And not be wet. And not be cold. 

I love the mist that drifts in with the rain. I love the way it caresses the treetops and sometimes shrouds Carmine completely, arranging itself over the stone rooftops like the soul of a woman in love reaching out and enveloping the form of her beloved.

I love my wood fire, a single light, a wine-dark glass winking at me, a sofa, a book and the sound of the rain dripping from the ancient eaves. 

And silence. 

Sunday, 4 September 2011

Casa Chiera

Warm and raining. And raining. And raining. And raining...



Casa Chiera, Carmine Superiore. 
In the rain.

Thursday, 16 June 2011

Rainbow over Lago Maggiore

Nineteen degrees at 8am, but promising hot, steamy and showery later.


Photo by AJ, aged 6
From Carmine Superiore, June 2011.

Monday, 6 June 2011

Rainy day

Warm, but raining hard with the occasional clap of gratuitous thunder. And thems as know say it'll be doing the same all week. 

Wave ta-ta to hay-making, bid adieu to raspberry-picking and send a permanent good-bye to the basil as it falls prey to an army of damp-loving slugs. Say hello to permanently wet laundry, buongiorno to muddy wellies, and ciao to those pretty little fungal blooms in the corner of the sitting room where the village well used to be. 

I love the sound of it, though, on the great stone roof. I love to sit at our highest window up under the eaves and watch the woods deepen in colour. I love to see the sheets of rain range across the silver lake. And I love it when Carmine is enveloped in cloud, and there's nothing in the world beyond me and the ancient stone. 

Sunday, 5 June 2011

Brooding

Still raining, but with the occasional pause accompanied by a shaft of sunlight, just to lull the unwary into a false sense of meteorological security.



Red sky in the morning,
Shepherd's warning...

Morning view from Carmine Superiore.

Friday, 14 January 2011

Elephant rock

The bright sunshine and warmth that allowed us yesterday to eat lunch outdoors have disappeared. Today is mild, damp and very misty. Lago Maggiore has disappeared from view and from my study window I see no further than the nearest stone roof, with the mist drifting in between. Open the front door, and it coils in with the cats.


Elephant rock and the laghetto on this morning's misty walk.

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Four degrees at 8am, and the rainy greyness has been replaced with sparkling sunshine. But as we all know, if you open a door the warm air inside rushes outside, and perhaps Jack Frost is just finishing up his espresso in the caffè around the corner, readying himself for work. We're ready.

Thursday, 18 November 2010

Mathilda to the rescue

Six degrees at 8am and raining again. 

Mathilda is alight, and there's a very large pile of firewood, just split by yours truly, waiting to keep us all toasty, but more to the point, to dry our wet boots, socks, jackets, rucksacks, hats, cats, and dog. 

Useful girl, Mathilda.

Monday, 15 November 2010

Morning walk

Warmish. Rainy. Gloomy.

Jakob!'s back legs are once again working, and this morning we put them to good use as usual in the woods. Autumn is under foot, yellow, brown, red, obscuring the craggy path. The dampness has damped-down the woodland sounds, and I hear only the rustling hood of my oilskin, the trudge of my boots, already sodden, against loose rocks and the white noise of water rushing downhill. 

Oh and the occasional panting of Jakob! as he streaks up to me, nuzzles me with his wet nose to makes sure I'm still there and then hares off up another boar-run.

Where the woods open out onto the old Roman road, the mist closes in. Ten metres. Five metres. Two metres. A twilight Appian Way. Here old standing stones and broken tree trunks loom up to meet me in the fog. And the mist turns everything to legend. These shapes are now partisans, rock-steady snipers waiting their chance. Now felons hung on the gibbet by the path for all to take the warning. Now the ghost of the Viggiona miss, who once lay crumpled at the foot of the crags, pregnant, jilted, desperate and oh so alone.

At the great Elephant Rock - overlooked by a ruined chapel, built over a ruined temple -  the little reed-fringed meadow is plashy. Soon it will be splashy. And then it will be icy. And as the world turns it will once again come dry next summer. A long way off.

At the Belvedere there is no sign of the lake. Nothing of the majestic, ever-changing view that is our usual reward. Just a sudden gust of wind rising from the vast hidden space before me. Just cold mist drifting across my face and in my eyelashes and over my cheeks. 

We both pause here, Jakob! and I, breathing in the start of the day. I take a moment to work over its possible shape in my mind like a blind woman searching out the contours of a face. I raise my arms and take in a deep, steady breathful of mist. Then we turn home as the rain strengthens and the last remaining leaves fall onto the path in ones and twos.

Now the Faithful Little Woodburner is alight, with a pair of steaming boots standing on top. There's a mug of strong, sweet tea at my side, a cat on the sofa and a tired dog snoozing in his den. And Hildegaarde.


Time to begin.

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

The weather in my wallet

Today has started bright and sunny, in contrast to the last few days of torrential rain. 

Rainy weather does have its compensations, however. Yesterday, as the family convoy chugged northwards to Graubunden for Mama's half-term one-day brocki tour, the temperature at 8am was not four degrees but fourteen. Mind you, beyond San Bernardino 'twas all freezing rain, piles of old snow and mean little winds, and in the end I didn't have the heart to shell out CHF4,600 for the restored 18th-century bookcase I really wanted...You need sunshine for dream purchases of that order.

Monday, 25 October 2010

First snow

Cold and rainy, with the very first snow of the year hanging around on the peaks nearest the lake. A blustery wind is shaking the last of the chestnuts out of the trees, sending them thudding onto the roof of the chicken coop, and annoying the hell out of the chickens who've to a man gone indoors to sulk until the moulting season is over. Time to dust off the AL-KO 5200 and get ahead with splitting the 12 kilos a day it takes to keep Mathilda happy...

Saturday, 24 July 2010

A bright, brilliant, crystal-clear day. The African warm front with its lie-down-and-surrender heat has receded, leaving a cooling wind, damp earth and a more sympathetic, less vindictive kind of sunshine. Better.
Showing posts with label Talking about the weather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Talking about the weather. Show all posts

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

A fraction below 5°C in the bathroom this morning. Cold, bright and dry. The laghetto is frozen and there are icicles forming in the streams. 

Friday, 7 December 2012

First snow 2012

One solitary degree at 8:03am. Frost in the frost pockets where the cold air tumbles down the sides of Carmine's ramparts. Ice cubes in the chickens' drinking water. And now there is a dusting of snow on the palms, and a pile of cats on Mathilda.

Thursday, 4 October 2012

Plus ça change...

Misty, drizzly and rainforest steamy. 

As I feed my sheep the fat chestnuts I've just gathered in the woods, the monsoon weather brings a memory of our little house in Zaria, northern Nigeria, during a gap between rainstorms. The guard is leaning on the gate, lazily disputing with another man in Niger French. Dauda is out back, singing to himself a faintly familiar gospel tune as he prepares lunch. And a herd of skinny white cattle is passing under the avenue of mango trees beyond the fence. 

My ram's head comes up for another handful of the pocket-warm shiny nuts and I see in my mind's eye the head of a white cow come up to steal a golden, juicy mango from a tree. 

As I make my way back to the house, there are fire salamanders on the path, and in Zaria that day I found a chameleon in the garden, shedding his skin. 

It's easy to remember my life in Zaria as a great adventure - and easy to forget that my life in Carmine, while different, is really just the same. 

Monday, 24 September 2012

From dreams to reality

I dreamed last night of a boat crossing from a small rocky island to the mainland in high seas, grey and menacing. I woke this morning to a Carmine swamped and isolated from the world in a sea of fog, and rain cascading from the gutterless stone roofs above. The children in their colourful wellies and carrying gay umbrellas plunge down into the mist, their chattering voices fading into the abyss. 

Autumn has arrived, and as I walk the Hound of the Baskervilles along the woodland trail, I remember another rainy autumn, when I found myself thankful that I am not made of sugar...



Casa Chiera, Carmine Superiore.
In the Rain.

Sunday, 26 August 2012

Ancient lights

The night after the long-awaited storm, and the sky is extra-azzurro and there's a wild wind whipping around the Rock. 

As so often in a storm, yesterday evening was punctuated by the on-off-off-on of the electricity supply. Eventually we opted for candles to accompany the cheese and the aligoté. 



Recommended in a power cut: Domaine Michel Lafarge Bourgogne Aligoté Raisins Dorés 2009.

Tuesday, 12 June 2012

Of sogginess and saints

Fifteen degrees at 11am and raining, again. Raining hard. The moggies are soggy, the dog is soggy, the children are soggy, the sheep are soggy, the chickens are soggy and I am soggy.
So after all this rain, and with more on the way to disrupt the best laid plans of mice and Mamas to get the kids out of the house and taking part in outdoor activities for weeks at a time, I'm making an executive decision.
After 800 years, I'm firing San Gottardo as the patron of the church here in Carmine. I'm replacing him with St Agricola of Avignon, who, when you want to talk to someone about the weather is a kind of celestial one-stop-shop. You can pray to him for good weather or you can pray to him for rain. Take your pick. He's the dude. 

Oh, yes, and he does a pretty good sideline in sorting out plagues of storks, too. If that's any help.




Pic: http://www.diocese-avignon.fr

Monday, 7 November 2011

Monday morning

Twelve degrees at 8am as we slithered and slid down a wet-leaf-slick sentiero. Still raining, but very lightly.


I'm off and out with me fan-rake for a spot of community service.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

Spring thoughts in autumn

Raining and autumny. The rain that has brought floods to Genova has here created thundering torrents where before, after so long a dry spell, there were only tiny dribbles of streams. The sentiero is again flooded in places, and yesterday, the chicks were up to their feathery knickers in water.




Visitors. 
Fiera Degli Allevatori. Cannobio 2011.
Next year in Carmine?


Friday, 4 November 2011

Rain

Twelve degrees at 10am as I dawdled my way towards a capucchino and a brioche. Raining. Steadily but not spitefully. And the fire salamanders are in love, and are copulating among the fallen leaves.

I love the autumn rain in Carmine. I love to walk out under the woodland canopy, to hear the rain on the leaves above me, to smell the rain in the soil under me. And not be wet. And not be cold. 

I love the mist that drifts in with the rain. I love the way it caresses the treetops and sometimes shrouds Carmine completely, arranging itself over the stone rooftops like the soul of a woman in love reaching out and enveloping the form of her beloved.

I love my wood fire, a single light, a wine-dark glass winking at me, a sofa, a book and the sound of the rain dripping from the ancient eaves. 

And silence. 

Sunday, 4 September 2011

Casa Chiera

Warm and raining. And raining. And raining. And raining...



Casa Chiera, Carmine Superiore. 
In the rain.

Thursday, 16 June 2011

Rainbow over Lago Maggiore

Nineteen degrees at 8am, but promising hot, steamy and showery later.


Photo by AJ, aged 6
From Carmine Superiore, June 2011.

Monday, 6 June 2011

Rainy day

Warm, but raining hard with the occasional clap of gratuitous thunder. And thems as know say it'll be doing the same all week. 

Wave ta-ta to hay-making, bid adieu to raspberry-picking and send a permanent good-bye to the basil as it falls prey to an army of damp-loving slugs. Say hello to permanently wet laundry, buongiorno to muddy wellies, and ciao to those pretty little fungal blooms in the corner of the sitting room where the village well used to be. 

I love the sound of it, though, on the great stone roof. I love to sit at our highest window up under the eaves and watch the woods deepen in colour. I love to see the sheets of rain range across the silver lake. And I love it when Carmine is enveloped in cloud, and there's nothing in the world beyond me and the ancient stone. 

Sunday, 5 June 2011

Brooding

Still raining, but with the occasional pause accompanied by a shaft of sunlight, just to lull the unwary into a false sense of meteorological security.



Red sky in the morning,
Shepherd's warning...

Morning view from Carmine Superiore.

Friday, 14 January 2011

Elephant rock

The bright sunshine and warmth that allowed us yesterday to eat lunch outdoors have disappeared. Today is mild, damp and very misty. Lago Maggiore has disappeared from view and from my study window I see no further than the nearest stone roof, with the mist drifting in between. Open the front door, and it coils in with the cats.


Elephant rock and the laghetto on this morning's misty walk.

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Four degrees at 8am, and the rainy greyness has been replaced with sparkling sunshine. But as we all know, if you open a door the warm air inside rushes outside, and perhaps Jack Frost is just finishing up his espresso in the caffè around the corner, readying himself for work. We're ready.

Thursday, 18 November 2010

Mathilda to the rescue

Six degrees at 8am and raining again. 

Mathilda is alight, and there's a very large pile of firewood, just split by yours truly, waiting to keep us all toasty, but more to the point, to dry our wet boots, socks, jackets, rucksacks, hats, cats, and dog. 

Useful girl, Mathilda.

Monday, 15 November 2010

Morning walk

Warmish. Rainy. Gloomy.

Jakob!'s back legs are once again working, and this morning we put them to good use as usual in the woods. Autumn is under foot, yellow, brown, red, obscuring the craggy path. The dampness has damped-down the woodland sounds, and I hear only the rustling hood of my oilskin, the trudge of my boots, already sodden, against loose rocks and the white noise of water rushing downhill. 

Oh and the occasional panting of Jakob! as he streaks up to me, nuzzles me with his wet nose to makes sure I'm still there and then hares off up another boar-run.

Where the woods open out onto the old Roman road, the mist closes in. Ten metres. Five metres. Two metres. A twilight Appian Way. Here old standing stones and broken tree trunks loom up to meet me in the fog. And the mist turns everything to legend. These shapes are now partisans, rock-steady snipers waiting their chance. Now felons hung on the gibbet by the path for all to take the warning. Now the ghost of the Viggiona miss, who once lay crumpled at the foot of the crags, pregnant, jilted, desperate and oh so alone.

At the great Elephant Rock - overlooked by a ruined chapel, built over a ruined temple -  the little reed-fringed meadow is plashy. Soon it will be splashy. And then it will be icy. And as the world turns it will once again come dry next summer. A long way off.

At the Belvedere there is no sign of the lake. Nothing of the majestic, ever-changing view that is our usual reward. Just a sudden gust of wind rising from the vast hidden space before me. Just cold mist drifting across my face and in my eyelashes and over my cheeks. 

We both pause here, Jakob! and I, breathing in the start of the day. I take a moment to work over its possible shape in my mind like a blind woman searching out the contours of a face. I raise my arms and take in a deep, steady breathful of mist. Then we turn home as the rain strengthens and the last remaining leaves fall onto the path in ones and twos.

Now the Faithful Little Woodburner is alight, with a pair of steaming boots standing on top. There's a mug of strong, sweet tea at my side, a cat on the sofa and a tired dog snoozing in his den. And Hildegaarde.


Time to begin.

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

The weather in my wallet

Today has started bright and sunny, in contrast to the last few days of torrential rain. 

Rainy weather does have its compensations, however. Yesterday, as the family convoy chugged northwards to Graubunden for Mama's half-term one-day brocki tour, the temperature at 8am was not four degrees but fourteen. Mind you, beyond San Bernardino 'twas all freezing rain, piles of old snow and mean little winds, and in the end I didn't have the heart to shell out CHF4,600 for the restored 18th-century bookcase I really wanted...You need sunshine for dream purchases of that order.

Monday, 25 October 2010

First snow

Cold and rainy, with the very first snow of the year hanging around on the peaks nearest the lake. A blustery wind is shaking the last of the chestnuts out of the trees, sending them thudding onto the roof of the chicken coop, and annoying the hell out of the chickens who've to a man gone indoors to sulk until the moulting season is over. Time to dust off the AL-KO 5200 and get ahead with splitting the 12 kilos a day it takes to keep Mathilda happy...

Saturday, 24 July 2010

A bright, brilliant, crystal-clear day. The African warm front with its lie-down-and-surrender heat has receded, leaving a cooling wind, damp earth and a more sympathetic, less vindictive kind of sunshine. Better.