Scandal!

A hot day, but fresh all the same. The daily temperature range is about 10° starting in the upper teens.

We were surprised a couple of days ago to receive a visit from a representative of the local health authority carrying what translates as an 'exposé'. For me the word conjures up red headlines from The Sun with a half naked woman on the front page, and lots of monosyllables expressing indignation, horror, shock and ridicule - in bold and italics and sometimes even underlined so that you don't miss them. Lurid goings on in the back rooms of the Houses of Parliament, shocking treatment of bald lesbians, the naked romps of princes of the realm in the back rooms of casinos ... you know the kind of thing. 

So the exposé we were confronted with was rather dull in comparison. Not a single prince's buttock in sight. It was our activities that had been exposed! We were (wait for it, wait for it) keeping sheep. Or perhaps that should be "keeping sheep!" Scandal! Exposed at last! Shock! Horror! They were keeping sheep! 

Well, your honour, this is hardly the Piazza del Duomo, now is it?

Anyway, our friend from the veterinary service examined Max and Moritz, who were unusually helpful. They didn't stamp on his toes, try to butt him down the hill or snaffle large-denomination banknotes out of his pockets. While they stood to attention, he took a blood sample and pronounced them very healthy, well-fed, being kept in optimum conditions and with all the necessary identification, permissions and paperwork (in triplicate and signed by the Pope). He was perfectly happy about the sheep but pretty pissed off about the absence of naughty goings-on behind the baita. 

10/10 Phew!

And even Max is smiling (just):

Ave Maria

Warm and breezy. Following the heat of July, when the cats flatten themselves against the cool stone, the chickens rest immobile on their shady perches and the rush-about people wonder if they shouldn't be doing the same - following the heat of July, August in Piemonte is perfect.

Carmine's Chiesa di San Gottardo attracts many visitors. Some simply make the walk from Cannobio to Cannero through the woods and happen upon the village and its jewel of a church by chance. Some ignore the church but enjoy the view along with their picnics. Others call ahead to be sure that the church is open and there is someone there to tell them a little of what we know about the frescoes. Some are knowledgeable, some just interested, and many are very tired. Most leave nothing behind them when they leave. A few leave their trash (harrumph!). But a small number leave behind something invisible and altogether indefinable.

The other day I unlocked the church for a group of six French visitors. I left them inside, gazing in rapture up and around, soaking up the colours, getting a feeling for the forms and losing themselves in the patterns. Among them was a man, perhaps in his late sixties, wearing shorts and a singlet. He had white curly hair, a farmer's sunny face and a warm Gallic greeting. When I returned a few minutes later, it was to the sound of this ordinary man's extraordinary lyric tenor singing the Bach/Gounod Ave Maria. We were all of us transfixed, as he caressed these ancient walls with his voice, as he played the church's acoustics like a master cellist, and when the final soaring notes came, it seemed that the church itself shuddered with pleasure. 

Carmine's Chiesa di San Gottardo attracts many visitors. Some are moved by its beauty to add something unique and beautiful of their own. Thank-you to the unnamed Frenchman for those unexpected and exquisite five minutes. 

New Year 2002

Happy New Year! Our worryingly dry and warm winter continues into the new year. Dazzling sunshine, with a slight chilly breeze and whisps of mist among the snow-naked mountains. 

Ten years ago, New Year 2002. Taiwan joined the World Trade Organization. In Argentina, Eduardo Duhalde was chosen to be president, the fifth in less than two weeks. In New York, Michael Bloomberg succeeded Rudy Giuliani as mayor. Had they been alive, J.D. Salinger, J. Edgar Hoover, E.M. Forster, Joe Orton and Paul Revere would have celebrated their birthdays, and Kiri Te Kanawa and Nigel Mansell probably did. In twelve European countries, millions of people woke up to a new currency. 

In Carmine Superiore, in the bright winter sunshine, two young-ish people paced the tiny piazza, heads together in muttered debate. From time to time, their gaze fell speculatively on one another, then strayed out to the vast expanse of the lake with the mountains beyond. Finally, they smiled, shook hands and embraced. For ten years ago, on 1 January 2002, M. and I took the decision to buy the ruin that fate had dropped into our laps. Come what may.

That decision changed everything. As you might imagine it would. But Carmine Superiore is a mite unusual, and so this was not simply a change of place. It was a change of life, and a change that changed us. In 10 years, Carmine Superiore has knocked me - for I can speak only for myself - into a different shape. The list of things I can now do - don't think twice about doing - that I couldn't do on 1 January 2002 is for me ever-surprising. I can chop a tree down, split the wood and light a fire. I can raise chicks out of eggs generation on generation, and I know how to subdue a rambunctious cockerel. I'm also pretty hot with the coop-maintenance wire-cutters. I can drive a car. On the wrong side of the road. I can speak enough Italian to give birth to two Euro-sproglets, and get them into the school system. I can pilot a boat and manage a knuckle-headed gun-dog, even though sometimes it seems he is managing me. I can raise abandoned kittens and home flightless baby seagulls. I can build vegetable patches and grow produce for Africa. And I can circle them with dry-stone walls of my own creation. 

And please, let's not forget what it takes to conquer The Hill, through the pregnancy days, the toddling days, the tantrum days, the carry-me days and the asthma days. The thigh-deep snow days, the supermarket days, the wine-buying days and the helicopter days. And, of course, the happy day my book collection started to arrive. Forget the gymn. This was body-sculpting Carmine-style. The me of today, admittedly ten years older and very much greyer, is a far-cry from the me that sat day-in day-out at a screen with a view of the Thames. While these days my back may buckle under the weight of two cases of wine, in general I've never been so fit.

Any fear of creepy-crawlies and all things yuk that may unaccountably have survived six months in Africa in the 90s melted away entirely in those magical ten years. Bedroom-sharing scorpions, spiders, beetles and slugs. Cat-kill rats, disembowelled mice and downed birds. And snakes. And let's not forget the things that go bump in the dark. The many nights I've spent entirely alone in a broken-down ruined house in an ancient village with no road, with ghosts medieval and modern trailing their woes around the walls, with the howling wind battering at the shutters and the unimagineable calling from the shadows... That little scared-of-the-dark girl of 40 years ago would stare unbelieving at the middle-aged woman stalking unthinkingly through the woods on a moonless night. 

The decision to take on our Carmine ruin brought with it, of course, the commitment to live among the Italians. I guess being an expat in any country where one is required to live daily life in a different language brings with it its own challenges. In ten years, I have had my fair share of incomprehensible conversations - most notably in the labour room, in radiology, in paediatrics and in gynaecology, with the avvocato, with the maresciallo and with the notaio. Involuntarily, and rather surprisingly, though, I've found myself an expert in the short, sharp denuncia, if in no other skill. While I've suffered regular ritual humiliation on the part of more than one under-educated shop assistant, health worker or common-or-garden racist, I've benefited immeasurably from the patience and understanding of the vast majority of Italians I know. I've ditched my English reserve in favour of communication at all costs, and found that a rueful smile and a talent for pantomime go a long way.

In these ten years I've had occasion to discover the self-destructive power of envy, the ultimate futility of pride and the absolute necessity for patience in all things. I've become intimately acquainted with the wee small solitary hours in which the great Sasso Carmine squatted like a troll in the darkness while I nursed a sleepless baby. Nights when I've reached deep down inside for a reserve of energy I didn't know I had. I've passed many sleepless nights in dark imaginings and many glorious sunny days in simple contentment. 

Who would have thought that a great old house, window frames hanging off their hinges, nest-stuffed chimneys, doors held closed with piles of rocks, and a sieve-style roof...a colony of dung-beetles keeping the entrance-hall clean, a pride of felines making it dirty, and a tribe of dormice scrabbling in the eaves... who would have thought that this great old house would have the power to bring about so much change? 

"Not I", said the cat...

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?

Plus ça change...

Cold and raining. The latter is good for the garden. The former is good for... ? Fill in the blank if you can. I can't.

Seven years ago, give or take a few hours, I gave birth to my son, AJ. He arrived amid chaos. The House on the Rock was still only half-restored. There was no hot water in the kitchen, no water at all in the bathroom. The entire upper third of the house was still unplastered, and unelectrified - unexplored you might even say. Our very own heart of darkness. And the place had not much in the way of heating either. 

In the weeks and months that followed through the chill of the Carmine winter, AJ slept with us on a mattress on the floor. 

As much as tiny babies do, that is. 

Which isn't much.

Of that time I remember mostly the cold at night. I remember sitting up in bed in the wee small hours, propped against a freezing external wall, with his little body at the breast or in my lap, cocooned in a blanket. I remember marvelling at M's ability to snooze on through vigorous smacking of infantile lips and vigorous attempts at burping, which I now recall never, ever succeeded. Oh, and the cholic.

I remember feeling that I was the only person alive that was awake at that moment. In the darkness of 3am, not a light lit. Not a waking soul to share the responsibility of this little life with. I remember the only thing that kept me going through the sleep deprivation all ordinary parents share was the fact of this little boy. Just the fact of him.

In the wee small hours of last Sunday night in bed, I'm cold, disastrously tired and awake. I'm propped against a freezing external wall. I've got pins and needles but I'm riveted to the spot by the warm weight of a not-so-small body asleep upright on my lap. I'm riveted by the desire not to wake my asthmatic son into yet another fit of uncontrollable coughing. I'm marvelling through gritted teeth- so-to-speak - at M's ability to snooze on through lights off and on, the too-frequent application of spray medications, the making of cups of tea to keep me awake and drinking chocolate to make him sleep. The inevitable fits of uncontrollable coughing that make me feel I should be heading down The Hill towards Pronto Soccorso. 

I'm feeling that I'm the only person awake in the inky blackness of this night. Not a waking soul to share the responsibility of this not-so-little life with. And I know that the only thing that keeps me doing this is the fact of this growing child. Just the fact of him. 

Happy birthday, AJ. Truly, an indisputable fact of my life.

Wise words

Today, I am attending the 25th wedding anniversary celebrations of my oldest friend. 

Twenty-five years of marriage is a long time these days, and I admire her and her husband for seeing it through, together, in a world when so many couples just don't bother to fight when the going gets tough. There will be a service at the little Norman church in her village in England's West Country, at which she and her husband will renew their vows in preparation for the next 25 years. They have done me the honour of asking me to read the lesson. Given my marital record, I'm not entirely sure the request wasn't either ironic or didactic, or, knowing her, a little bit of both:

Colossians 3.12-17

“As God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly; teach and admonish one another in all wisdom; and with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God. And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”

"...clothe yourselves with love...and be thankful". Amen.

And my hearty congratulations to C & N : May we all have the pleasure of coming back to celebrate your Golden Wedding when the time comes. 

Open House, Tile Kiln Studios

Passing through north London today or tomorrow? Pop by at Tile Kiln Studios, Highgate, for the 11th annual Open House. Featuring the work of friends Jazmin Velasco, Colin Moore, Danielle Eubank, Tom Crew and Mychael Barratt. 

September 11, 2011

On September 11, 2001, nearly 3,000 people died. God bless all those souls, and keep their families.

Every day since then, some 16,000 children have died of hunger. 

Every day. 

Every day, 16,000 mothers weeping over a small, broken body.

Every day, a tragedy more than five times greater than 9/11 enacts itself over and over and over again.

9/11 - 10/11 - 11/11 - 12/11 - 13/11 - 14/11 - 15/11 - 16/11 - 17/11 - 18/11 - 19/11 - 20/11...

Every day, the crime of death by hunger perpetrated against the innocent, the most vulnerable, the tiniest. 

Do these 58 million slow and painful deaths get blanket news coverage? 

Are they commemorated in grand ceremonies year on year on year? 

Does anyone build vast and lavish memorials to these dear little souls? 

Shame on all of us.

www.bread.org

Wedding wishes

Bright skies at 8am, promising a beautiful wedding day.

Today the Chiesa di San Gottardo, Carmine Superiore, welcomes Nora and Michi, and all their guests.

"Serenità, felicità e complicità vi siano compagni per tutta la vita."

A little night music

Spagna e dintorni - Francesco Cuoghi, chitarra barocca e chitarra - Giovedì 18 Agosto, ore 21:00. A rare opportunity to experience the unique atmosphere of the Chiesa di San Gottardo and the view of Lago Maggiore by night. Oh yes, and hear some beautiful classical guitar.

Bandir gennaio!

What do tin cans, long lengths of string, large numbers of under-10s and spring have in common?

Bandir gennaio! On January 31, all the local kindergarten and schoolchildren banded together with their pushchair siblings to banish January and hasten on the coming spring. Their weapon of choice? The noisiest tin cans available strung onto long string 'tails' and dragged along the old town cobbles. 

With excitement. With delight. With giggling, screaming, eye-twinkling pleasure. 

For once, they were allowed to make a noise, and, boy, did they rise to the occasion!

PS If today's weather is anything to go by, they must have succeeded. More blue skies, warm sunshine with a little breath of cold air to keep us on our toes.

Of men and boys

Last night's starry (shooting-starry) skies have left us minus-one shivery at eight this morning. More clear skies, and soothing sunshine. 

Saturday morning. One hour before sunrise. The ancient stones of Carmine Superiore lie silent in the winter cold. All is still. 

All but two muffled figures - one tall, one tiny - each carrying a mysterious bundle, stealing away quietly down the old pathway to the lake, keeping to the shadows and followed closely by two feline shapes. 

The village broods over the pair as they slip across the road and into a battered car. They gently pull onto the deserted statale and are soon lost amid the twists and turns of the Valle Cannobina. Soon the figure in the passenger seat is snoozing, as the driver takes the two of them expertly over the rise and into the Valle Vigezzo and beyond. 

Overhead, unseen, a meteor shower lights the sky.

As the sun rises, the pair, father and son, meet their contact at a rural farmstead lying beyond the last town, beyond the last village, beyond the last hamlet, at the very end of the valley. 


Rapidly and without too many words, the men manhandle a bodybag into the back seat and the car is once again away, this time taking the highway towards Omegna. In town, at an intersection, the driver signals discreetly to another in a stationary car, which immediately pulls out in front, leading the way. Plunging into the Omegna suburbs, they stop first at one house, then at another until at last there are six men. All carrying similar bundles. 

With each new arrival, the mood lifts until they are disgorged into a large cellar amid a festive spirit. The bag is lifted gently out of the World's Most Battered Panda, and the men start unbundling aprons and knives, opening bottles of homemade wine and starting in on the massive half-pig before them. 

In Piemonte, December is porker season - the traditional month for slaughtering pigs and making salami, sausages and other products. This particular fellow was reared free-range on an alp, and fed on the whey by-product of artisan cheese-making from the milk of the cows he shared the good life with. His death was swift and fear-free. And almost every part of him will be used. 

The sausages were made with only salt and spices - principally cinnamon - as additives, and believe me, they taste like no other pork I've ever eaten. Let's face it, they are probably the freshest I've ever eaten. There are 40 kilos of sausages hanging in the cellar right now, and I think Jakob! agrees with me on how good they are - every time he passes the cellar door, he points.

Here's to the big fellow. Here's to the kind friend who reared him, to all the guys who joined the gang last Saturday and brought their deboning knives with them. And finally to AJ, the boy who spent the day among the men and did such a great job loading up the sausage-machine.

Good weather for...

Bright sunshine. No wind. 

Weather for raking (yet more) leaves.

Playing in the meadow.

And admiring Carmine's newly-erected 2010 Albero di Natale (thanks to Franco who donated the tree, and to Giuliano and Fausto who helped with the hard work of putting it up and finding the one, single, broken light bulb...)...

On a mission from God

After a stripey technicolour sunrise, the day is cloudy but bright, with a nippy little wind.


In an idle moment about 15 billion years after He made the universe, God made Sasso Carmine. And God looked down on His creation and saw that it was pretty good - it would be quite a tourist attraction once they had painted, lost, found and then repainted the frescoes, and hauled themselves out of grinding poverty long enough to appreciate the view...

1,035 years later, God looked again and saw that something had gone wrong. 

He was not pleased. 

He wondered what in Heaven's name was going on, and what the Hell He was going to do about it.   

One corner of the beautiful piazzetta he had designed on the back of a restaurant napkin sometime in 1200 AD was littered with oversize bags of trash. What started out as honest-to-God renovation refuse from His own priest's house had not been removed five months after it had been dumped there. Predictably, tourists and villagers alike had augmented the refuse heap. Dirty nappies, uneaten picnics, wine bottles ... and a surprisingly large pile of nasty notes from disgruntled tourists complaining about the mess. The Carmine cats had also gotten in on the act - dragging everything out, finding that it was not up to their usual standards of edibility and abandoning it for someone else to sweep up. 

No-one wanted to take responsibility.

God shuffled His feet and glanced around at them. 

The people cleared their throats and stared right back at Him. 

So the Almighty took a leaf out of His own Book, and came to a villager in a dream. He told the man he must make arrangements for the arrival of His mighty Red Angel. To a second villager, God whispered that he was in dire need of very large quantities of building materials, and like Joseph the Dreamer, he must stock up right away, and not to take seven years about it. Next morning the two men staggered from their houses amazed, and proceeded to do the Lord's bidding. 

And as it was foretold on the appointed day there came a great roaring out of the sky, and the Angel in Red appeared bearing a mighty cord and an even mightier hook. The people of the village looked out of their windows and were sore afraid, for the sacks were mighty close to the relatively-recently renovated eaves of God's house. But God guided the hand of the angel, and brought his wings close, but kept his beautiful church from destruction.

And as if by a miracle, the nasty white sacks, dirty nappies and all, swung into the sky and away, and the building materials appeared in their place. And all were most happy and rejoiced to see their little corner of paradise returned to neatness-and-tidiness.

For miraculously precise helicopter services in the Lago Maggiore region, contact 
The Angel in Red! .

The world's best jobs No. 1: The man in the woods

This post made Italy Tutto Top 10 Best Posts of the Week. Thank-you! I Thank You!

Morning temperature below 10° again. Cloudy with little blue patches, but never in the right place for sunshine.

Swooping down the hill yesterday afternoon, minus my usually-constant companion, Jakob! Lord of Misrule (sick and feeling very sorry for himself), I came upon a man.

This man was wearing a large fleece, jeans and muddy walking boots. He was sitting, still as a statue, on the damp bank by the side of the sentiero. I wondered what he could be doing. Perhaps he had turned an ankle, or was simply resting. But resting on a cold, damp, mud bank in the cold shadows within sight of a nicely painted wooden bench in the sun?

As I approached, I greeted him and he turned around to face me. He had a shock of white hair, bright blue eyes and sunshine in his face. Conscious (and perhaps over-proud) of my recent Croce Rossa training, I asked, "Sta bene?" - are you alright? He smiled and answered "Si." A moment passed as we smiled at each other, and with the smile my unspoken question fluttered between us. Plucking it out of the air, he said "Sto contando gli uccelli" - I'm counting birds. In his hands lay some gadget, and as he spoke, his eyes flew from my face back to the giant chestnut before us, its branches alive with wings. 

As I bade him a quiet "buon lavoro", and continued on my way on silent feet, his outdoors sunshine smile, his ruddy cheeks and his air of contentment accompanied me in place of Jakob!. And when later I wove the story of the bird-counter I had met in the woods for a group of kindergarten kids, we all agreed that this must be one of the best jobs in the world.

Desperately seeking ... nice neighbours

Only 7°C this morning at 8:30am. Grey and a little rainy. Last night's more sustained rain brought snow to Cannobio's own Monte Giove and all the surrounding peaks. I'm looking sideways at the romaine, rucola and zucchine that I planted amid 25°C and sunshine last Saturday. I'm also looking sideways at the grass that's sprung up in the rain, and thinking about oiling the weed-whacker.

A beautiful Carmine Superiore house has this morning gone on the market. It's a rare opportunity to buy a lovely cottage-style property with two bedrooms, large kitchen, separate sitting room, cellar and a lovely open terrace - of which I'm very envious - with magnificent views of Lago Maggiore and the surrounding countryside. The agent is Marlis Zanetti in Cannero, although the property is so new to the market it hasn't even made it to the website yet. Give them a call - English, French, Italian and German spoken fluently.


However.


Those without Nice-Neighbour Certificates need not apply. In order to qualify for a Nice-Neighbour Certificate you will need letters proving the following : 

• You have passed the International Plumbers' Association advanced septic-system maintenance course and sworn an oath in front of a judge that you will never stuff your toilet with sanitary towels or flush out the shared septic ecosystem that I have spent the last eight years balancing with bleach, lye or caustic potash. 
• Your face knows how to form itself into a smile whenever one of your neighbours passes by.
• You promise to good-naturedly tell hikers the way to Cannobio, Cannero or Viggiona, even if they're standing slap bang in front of the signpost. 
• You have enough money or brawn to transport building refuse down the hill instead of dumping it in the woods. 
• You promise to learn a courteous answer to the perennial tourist question, "How do you get your shopping up here if there's no road?" in at least four languages, including one non-European one, and to always smile while exercising that skill.
• You understand that a continuous supply of freshly-laid Carmine eggs delivered magically to your doorstep can be assured by the occasional bottle of crémant d'Alsace propped by the side of the chicken coop - those bionda piemontese do like a drop of the old fizzy stuff after they've just laid.

Nice-Neighbour Certificates can be obtained from Louise, Carmine Superiore, Italy. Administration fee, a case of crémant d'Alsace, a large carton of Swiss or Belgian chocolate or this year's Booker shortlist in hardback. Applicants with strapping teenage relatives capable of wielding a weed-whacker and willing to do so in return for English lessons will be given preferential treatment.


PS The outgoing owners have enough Nice-Neighbour Certificates to paper the walls of their wonderful little house three times over. We'll miss them!

"Vale" to the "carne"

Cloudy and cold, but at least it's not going to rain on our parade.

Parade? But all the parades finished before Ash Wednesday! I said parade and that's what I mean, for we are Ambrosiani, and that means we party on till Sunday.

Today is children's day at Carnevale, and for an idea of what might be coming our way, click here.

So if you see a silver spaceman and a Disney princess wandering along the old woodland path later today, you'll know it wasn't the barbera...

Jazmin in Mayfair

A full two degrees above zero this morning at 8:30am. Shame about the cotton-wool skies sagging above us. Now, my local sources are mouthing the word, neve...snow.

Anyone planning to be knocking around London's Mayfair in the next couple of weeks? If so, drop in to the Panter & Hall Gallery in Shepherd Market, where printmaker Jazmin Velasco is taking part in the new Impressions exhibition. And if you have a yen, why not buy something?

Jazmin is very versatile. Among many other things, Jazmin does...

...sitting room...

she does...

...bedroom...

...she does...

...kitchen (at least, my kitchen)...

...and she does...

...bathroom.

And, best of all, she does great cats...

And I promise, a small purchase won't break the bank...

Who'd be a kindergarten teacher!

Two degrees at 8:30am, the coldest morning of this winter so far. Overcast and threatening some sort of precipitation.

Love children? Try this.

Eighty under-6s, the majority under 4, and some still with dummies and comforters.

Eighty butts on the loo.

Eighty jackets on. Eighty scarfs and hats securely in place.

Eighty hopping, jumping, punching, chattering sprogs in line by twos...

And out the backdoor. Through the garden and into the street.

"Stay close to the wall, Arturo! Maria! Carlotta!"

Down the street past doting grandmothers. Past garden watchdogs. Past roadworks diggers.

"Hurry up, Giuliano! Anna! Marisa!"

Across the car park, down the backstreets.

"Look out! Here comes a car!"

Into the school theatre. Christmas tree, decorations, fake gifts in glittery boxes, magnets for little hands, soon footballs for little feet.

Deep breath.

Eighty jackets off. Scarves, hats ditto. Eighty excited little bodies onstage under the lights. Jumping, hopping, chattering, cuddling, arguing, shoving, tongues out, hair pulled. Two over-excited little bodies crying for Mama. A school for card sharps swaps Gormiti cards behind the flats. The curtains aren't working. The music's too loud. The school caretaker is growling incomprehensible dialect.

"Cantate! Forte! Sing! And sing loud!"

"We can't hear you, and if Babbo Natale can't hear you he won't know where to come..."

"Maestra...I need to go to the loo!" "Me too!" "Me too!"

Turkish toilets. How charming. Any one of these under-6s seen one of these before? Didn't think so...Okay, ragazzi think Brussels boy, ragazze just hover (as my mother used to say)...

"Again from the top, wake up! Wake up!"

Lunchtime. Deep breath.

Eighty under-6s looking for their coats, hats and scarves, only a quarter of which are labelled. Help me, maestra, help me! Help me first, maestra, help me first!" No, no Anna has Carlotta's hat and Arturo has Emilia's cardi. Elisabetta has no coat, and Oswaldo's is on upside down.

Eighty under-6s diverted from their task by theatre-style swing-seats - squeak...bump! squeak...bump! Eighty under-6s finally cajoled into lines and pointed in the direction of the kindergarten and food.

"Andiamo, tutti!"

Through the underground car park eighty under-6 voices take up a special tune:

"We wish you a merry Christmas,
We wish you a merry Christmas,
We wish you a merry Christmas,
And a happy new year..."

And the maestra d'inglese smiles a smile big enough for eighty under-6s. She thinks to herself that even if the English Christmas Song is a disaster at this afternoon's Festa di Natale in front of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, childminders and important school officials, even if she ends up wanting to shrivel up and disappear into a hole in the ground, this moment of 'spontaneous language production' has made it all worthwhile...

Fiera degli allevatori

A less chilly 9° this morning at 8.30am. Probably something to do with the overcast skies. The mist over the lake today alternately concealed and revealed great flocks of tiny birds skimming and swirling their way south.

As a child living in leafy Warwickshire, a highlight of the school summer term was always The Royal Show, a livestock show that attracted the most beautiful cattle and horses from all over the UK, a plethora of rural craftsmen, and displays of equine and other country skills.

Oh yes, and the Royal Family.

As a teenager, The Royal Show stopped being a fun day out of the classroom and became a source of income, as I was there summer after summer in black pencil skirt, white blouse and sensible shoes, eagerly supplementing my pocket money by doling out fizz to blue-bloods.

Sadly, after 160 shows, The Royal Show is no more. A sign of the times, I guess, that the English no longer find it profitable to celebrate rural life, and the Royals are too busy pretending not to be royal to have time to swan around in open carriages and watch their nearest and dearest win the show jumping (again). I'm sad especially that the children from the nearby cities have lost such a grand opportunity to learn about what goes on beyond the suburbs. And that local people have lost a valuable source of seasonal work.

Sunday : To Traffiume, and Cannobio's fourth annual livestock fair. We saw piebald horses and and fed the Thelwell ponies. We saw some lovely cows and fell in love with a herd of beautiful black-faced Suffolks. We made the acquaintance of the tallest and most regal mule ever, and the tiniest of goats, no bigger than a Carmine cat, but smelling just as strong as its full-size cousins.

We tasted local cheese, local wine, local salami and, from the ladies of the Valle Cannobina in their traditional heavy pleated skirts and shawls, some delicious slivers of traditional torta.

Blokes in big boots stood around in knots, growling impenetrable dialect at each other. The women ditto, some minus the big boots. The children threaded their way through the crowds from one fold to another with hands full of the greenery most likely to give their chosen recipient-animal colic. The mayor, various members of the comunal giunta, and local vets ditto. All minus the greenery.

And of course, no autumn celebration in Piemonte is complete without the volunteers of the Croce Rossa building a big fire and roasting large quantities of chestnuts, and the chaps from the local band oom-paahing away somewhere nearby.

It was a great day out for children and adults alike, and I for one hope that it grows and attracts more breeders and particularly more local producers and artisans year on year.

And who needs the blue-bloods anyway?