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.
Showing posts with label Jakob. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jakob. Show all posts
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...
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...
Friday, 17 August 2012
Junk food doggie
Hot. Blue skies. In short, August at Lago Maggiore.
My dog has a cast iron stomach. He can, and will, eat anything. Bones, rubber gloves, balloons, plastic bags, used tea bags, cat food, chicken innards, wild boar testicles, many-days dead sparrows and so forth.
Recently he lay at Carmine's small beach methodically turning the rubber ball we had been playing with into not-so small pieces and ingesting them, to the horror of the onlookers. The Carmine Telegraph flashed up the hill, and by the time I got home, I was greeted by a kind and deeply worried neighbour who gave me chapter and verse on the symptoms and dangers of blocked digestive tracts in dogs.
But regardless what he eats, Jakob, Lord of Misrule, Master of the Compost Bin, and Scourge of Children's Parties, has remained Seigneur of the Stiff Stool.
Until now.
The last two days (and nights), my hairy eating machine has had diarrhoea in great juddering spasms at about three-hourly intervals. Poor thing.
The culprit?
A stolen portion of MacDonald's fries.
Recently he lay at Carmine's small beach methodically turning the rubber ball we had been playing with into not-so small pieces and ingesting them, to the horror of the onlookers. The Carmine Telegraph flashed up the hill, and by the time I got home, I was greeted by a kind and deeply worried neighbour who gave me chapter and verse on the symptoms and dangers of blocked digestive tracts in dogs.
But regardless what he eats, Jakob, Lord of Misrule, Master of the Compost Bin, and Scourge of Children's Parties, has remained Seigneur of the Stiff Stool.
Until now.
The last two days (and nights), my hairy eating machine has had diarrhoea in great juddering spasms at about three-hourly intervals. Poor thing.
The culprit?
A stolen portion of MacDonald's fries.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Rough love
Sometimes love can make you feel just a little bit battered.
Especially if the one who loves you is Jakob! Lord of Misrule.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Quote of the week No. 46: On dogs and other animals
Since the arrival of Jakob! Lord of Misrule, I have probably read more dog-training handbooks than I read babycare books. The latest is by "dog whisperer" Cesar Millan, entitled Cesar's Way (recommended), and the following left me wondering:
What did it leave me wondering? It left me wondering whether it might work for husbands...
"...in order to have a balanced dog, you must provide three things: 50% exercise, 25% discipline and 25% affection..."
What did it leave me wondering? It left me wondering whether it might work for husbands...
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Wildlife sighting
Cold this morning. Nature is making ice art in the streams and waterfalls. The chickens' water is frozen solid, and under foot the soil is bleached white and friable. Bright sunshine.
Birthday boy, Jakob! Lord of Misrule stops dead. His whole body is rigid. Only his enormous, black tartuffo nose moves. Slowly, his head swings round in an arc. Then back again. He surveys the treescape carefully.
Something there?
Something there.
Suddenly there is a crash. About 20m away, two large roe deer startle out of cover, they glance our way and then bound off uphill through the woods.
A magnificent sight for a Happy Birthday morning.
Birthday boy, Jakob! Lord of Misrule stops dead. His whole body is rigid. Only his enormous, black tartuffo nose moves. Slowly, his head swings round in an arc. Then back again. He surveys the treescape carefully.
Something there?
Something there.
Suddenly there is a crash. About 20m away, two large roe deer startle out of cover, they glance our way and then bound off uphill through the woods.
A magnificent sight for a Happy Birthday morning.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Tell-tale
Damp and cold. Swags of heavy grey clouds sag over Lago Maggiore. Above 500m, the woods clothing the lakeside hills are sprinkled in fairy-dust, icing sugar snow.
In our own neck of the woods, only patches of snow remain. In one there is a boot-print and a paw-print, whispering of yesterday's woodland excursion. A woman and her dog. Always together.
In our own neck of the woods, only patches of snow remain. In one there is a boot-print and a paw-print, whispering of yesterday's woodland excursion. A woman and her dog. Always together.
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.
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.
Monday, 20 September 2010
One of those days
Monday. A wet-blanket day. A wrung-out-dish-rag day. A walk-in-the-woods drippy, damp, gloomy day.
In fact it's one of those days.
It's half past nine. There's a semi-bald, caked-in-blood juvenile cockerel cowering in the woodshed (I've mentioned before how nasty chickens can be). The wild boar have been at the garden again. Jakob! is lying panting in the doghouse, covered in wild-boar mud (read poo-poo) and licking off the yolks of nine (yes, NINE) stolen eggs. Mamma's also covered in mud, along with chicken poop, egg yolk and cockerel gore, and there's weasel poop on my walking boots.
Oh yes, and I have the first cold of the school year.
So.
Sod the washing up. I'm off to take a shower, throw everything in the laundry, and then retire to the sofa with a glass of hot Lemsip and the last two chapters of Wuthering Heights, which I hope will show me that it is possible to have worse days...
In fact it's one of those days.
It's half past nine. There's a semi-bald, caked-in-blood juvenile cockerel cowering in the woodshed (I've mentioned before how nasty chickens can be). The wild boar have been at the garden again. Jakob! is lying panting in the doghouse, covered in wild-boar mud (read poo-poo) and licking off the yolks of nine (yes, NINE) stolen eggs. Mamma's also covered in mud, along with chicken poop, egg yolk and cockerel gore, and there's weasel poop on my walking boots.
Oh yes, and I have the first cold of the school year.
So.
Sod the washing up. I'm off to take a shower, throw everything in the laundry, and then retire to the sofa with a glass of hot Lemsip and the last two chapters of Wuthering Heights, which I hope will show me that it is possible to have worse days...
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
The pleasures of summer in Carmine No. 1
Walking in the woods, amid the intense green vibration of thousands of plants turning sunlight to food, along the ancient Roman road, under the overhanging craggy mountainside populated by hawks and mountain sheep.
And accompanied by companion, playmate, and source of endless mischief: Jakob! Lord of Misrule ...
And accompanied by companion, playmate, and source of endless mischief: Jakob! Lord of Misrule ...
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Reported conversations No. 19 : Denial in the doghouse
Ten degrees at 8:30am, sunny intervals. Feeling damp.
Mama : [In a full-steam fury] "Jakob! Jakob! Come here! SITZ! Now tell me, what IS THIS?"
Jakob! : "Wasn't me, ma'am! No ma'am yer honour. Me 'twas not! I didn't scatter cacao in the corners, sugar all over the shelves. I didn't go nuts with the noci, oops over the uva, whacky with the walnusskerne. I didn't spray water all over the washer or put pawprints on the porcelain. And I wouldn't ever, ever, ever eat half a bag of dried plums with the pits still in them."
Mama : [In full English-schoolmarm-sarcasm mode] "So tell me, Mr Smartypants. Who was it then?"
"Oh. Oh dear. Oh dear me. I think I need the loo.........."
Mama smiles to herself in an affectionate serves-you-right sort of way, makes a quiet note of the whereabouts of the disinfectant and the pressure-washer, and gently closes the door.
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Tulipa turkestanica
This week of the Easter holidays has been beautiful, weather-wise. Warm - up to the mid-20s I guess - dry, and with warm, open-window nights. B, aged 3, has planted a round of lettuce. The baby chicks, aged now 3 weeks, have learned to fly enough to hop out of their box and explore the ins and outs of the bathroom. Jakob! Lord of Misrule, aged 3 months, has learned to chase sticks.
Best of all, the tulips, planted five months ago, have started to flower. Thanks again to our friends and neighbours, J & R for the exotic Asian Tulipa turkestanica, which the good weather has brought out of its buds.
For more beautiful flowers in and around Carmine Superiore, click here. To see some really astonishing flower images from all over the world, visit Macro Flower Shots.
Best of all, the tulips, planted five months ago, have started to flower. Thanks again to our friends and neighbours, J & R for the exotic Asian Tulipa turkestanica, which the good weather has brought out of its buds.
For more beautiful flowers in and around Carmine Superiore, click here. To see some really astonishing flower images from all over the world, visit Macro Flower Shots.
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Spring : a progress report
After two days of fairly torrential rain, with a whacking storm yesterday afternoon timed precisely to coincide with the kindergarten run, today we have a cloudy day with a noisy wind.
Spring is coming along quite nicely. This week's morning temperatures have been in double digits all the way. The gardens of the Alto Verbano are crowded with shrubs and trees in bloom - mimosa, camelia, magnolia, apricot - underpinned with daffodils, narcisi, primulas, periwinkle and tulips in-the-making. And the gardeners of the Alto Verbano are busy making pretty pictures out of flat beds of brown soil with stripes of variegated green lettuces and other salads.
In the House on the Rock, Jakob!, Lord of Misrule is growing like topsy. After three weeks in our midst, he has turned our (my) world upside down and inside out. There seem to be no limits to his mischievousness and ingenuity, but also to his canine intelligence, and so despite the havoc he has wreaked, we are very pleased with his progress in terms of "sit", "come", "lie down" and "fetch that cat". The cats are not so happy. Their ordered lives, centred on our little terrace, have been invaded by the monster with floppy ears and a large nose, and they have been driven out. Still, after 21 days of confusion now even the outcasts - those who are not allowed to set foot inside the house (order of the Big Tabby) - have discovered where the soup kitchen and sun deck has moved to.
In the bathroom, out of bounds to cats and dog alike, two hours-old chicks are nestling together under the warming lamp. From the incubator we hear chirping, the eggs are shivering occasionally and once in a while new cracks appear, so we hope for at least a couple more as Hatching Day wears on.
For myself? I'm horrified that Easter-with-houseguests is only a week away, the house is a disaster zone, and I've done almost no planting whatsoever. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those years...
Spring is coming along quite nicely. This week's morning temperatures have been in double digits all the way. The gardens of the Alto Verbano are crowded with shrubs and trees in bloom - mimosa, camelia, magnolia, apricot - underpinned with daffodils, narcisi, primulas, periwinkle and tulips in-the-making. And the gardeners of the Alto Verbano are busy making pretty pictures out of flat beds of brown soil with stripes of variegated green lettuces and other salads.
In the House on the Rock, Jakob!, Lord of Misrule is growing like topsy. After three weeks in our midst, he has turned our (my) world upside down and inside out. There seem to be no limits to his mischievousness and ingenuity, but also to his canine intelligence, and so despite the havoc he has wreaked, we are very pleased with his progress in terms of "sit", "come", "lie down" and "fetch that cat". The cats are not so happy. Their ordered lives, centred on our little terrace, have been invaded by the monster with floppy ears and a large nose, and they have been driven out. Still, after 21 days of confusion now even the outcasts - those who are not allowed to set foot inside the house (order of the Big Tabby) - have discovered where the soup kitchen and sun deck has moved to.
In the bathroom, out of bounds to cats and dog alike, two hours-old chicks are nestling together under the warming lamp. From the incubator we hear chirping, the eggs are shivering occasionally and once in a while new cracks appear, so we hope for at least a couple more as Hatching Day wears on.
For myself? I'm horrified that Easter-with-houseguests is only a week away, the house is a disaster zone, and I've done almost no planting whatsoever. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those years...
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Confirming intelligence reports
"I'd say that was a D-O-G alright. Better get back to Big Tabby at Cat HQ and let him know.
Boy, is that big hooter ugly!"
Boy, is that big hooter ugly!"
Friday, 19 March 2010
The cat telegraph
Warmish - sunnyish. In the last seven days, the children have been home, sick, for six. Mama, also with the 'flu, feels as if she's about to disintegrate in a Lem-Sip flavoured puddle of stress and sleep-deprivation.
"The big tabby up the road says you've got a D-O-G in there... Is that him there with the short tail and droopy ears? No contest!"
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Just when I thought...
Two degrees at 8:55am. Sleet. But as the day advances, the sun is battling through the clouds, and the snow line is receding up the hill.
Just when I thought the nappies and the bed-wetting, the vomitting and the table spills were over...
Just when I thought carrying children up and down the hill was a thing of the past...
Just when I thought I might relax the babyproofing and introduce a couple of adult objects into my home - an antique cushion, perhaps, or a rushwork chair...
Just when I thought I might sell the stair gate...
Just when I thought the various members of my household would get along without my having to operate a complex airlock system to separate the scratchers and the biters from those with delicate flesh...
Just when I thought embarrassing smells were a thing of the past...
Just when I thought I might be on top of the laundry, rather than buried beneath it...
Just when I thought it was safe to cancel my membership of Deranged SAHMs Anonymous...
This happened :
He is Loki. He is Indra. He is Nun. He is Enlil. And he is Arawn.
He is Jakob!, Lord of Misrule. His powers of destruction are infinite as the stars in the sky. His command of the forces of chaos is total. His appetite for pandemonium is profound.
You see my point?
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Showing posts with label Jakob. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jakob. Show all posts
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...
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.
Friday, 17 August 2012
Junk food doggie
Hot. Blue skies. In short, August at Lago Maggiore.
My dog has a cast iron stomach. He can, and will, eat anything. Bones, rubber gloves, balloons, plastic bags, used tea bags, cat food, chicken innards, wild boar testicles, many-days dead sparrows and so forth.
Recently he lay at Carmine's small beach methodically turning the rubber ball we had been playing with into not-so small pieces and ingesting them, to the horror of the onlookers. The Carmine Telegraph flashed up the hill, and by the time I got home, I was greeted by a kind and deeply worried neighbour who gave me chapter and verse on the symptoms and dangers of blocked digestive tracts in dogs.
But regardless what he eats, Jakob, Lord of Misrule, Master of the Compost Bin, and Scourge of Children's Parties, has remained Seigneur of the Stiff Stool.
Until now.
The last two days (and nights), my hairy eating machine has had diarrhoea in great juddering spasms at about three-hourly intervals. Poor thing.
The culprit?
A stolen portion of MacDonald's fries.
Recently he lay at Carmine's small beach methodically turning the rubber ball we had been playing with into not-so small pieces and ingesting them, to the horror of the onlookers. The Carmine Telegraph flashed up the hill, and by the time I got home, I was greeted by a kind and deeply worried neighbour who gave me chapter and verse on the symptoms and dangers of blocked digestive tracts in dogs.
But regardless what he eats, Jakob, Lord of Misrule, Master of the Compost Bin, and Scourge of Children's Parties, has remained Seigneur of the Stiff Stool.
Until now.
The last two days (and nights), my hairy eating machine has had diarrhoea in great juddering spasms at about three-hourly intervals. Poor thing.
The culprit?
A stolen portion of MacDonald's fries.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Rough love
Sometimes love can make you feel just a little bit battered.
Especially if the one who loves you is Jakob! Lord of Misrule.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Quote of the week No. 46: On dogs and other animals
Since the arrival of Jakob! Lord of Misrule, I have probably read more dog-training handbooks than I read babycare books. The latest is by "dog whisperer" Cesar Millan, entitled Cesar's Way (recommended), and the following left me wondering:
What did it leave me wondering? It left me wondering whether it might work for husbands...
"...in order to have a balanced dog, you must provide three things: 50% exercise, 25% discipline and 25% affection..."
What did it leave me wondering? It left me wondering whether it might work for husbands...
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Wildlife sighting
Cold this morning. Nature is making ice art in the streams and waterfalls. The chickens' water is frozen solid, and under foot the soil is bleached white and friable. Bright sunshine.
Birthday boy, Jakob! Lord of Misrule stops dead. His whole body is rigid. Only his enormous, black tartuffo nose moves. Slowly, his head swings round in an arc. Then back again. He surveys the treescape carefully.
Something there?
Something there.
Suddenly there is a crash. About 20m away, two large roe deer startle out of cover, they glance our way and then bound off uphill through the woods.
A magnificent sight for a Happy Birthday morning.
Birthday boy, Jakob! Lord of Misrule stops dead. His whole body is rigid. Only his enormous, black tartuffo nose moves. Slowly, his head swings round in an arc. Then back again. He surveys the treescape carefully.
Something there?
Something there.
Suddenly there is a crash. About 20m away, two large roe deer startle out of cover, they glance our way and then bound off uphill through the woods.
A magnificent sight for a Happy Birthday morning.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Tell-tale
Damp and cold. Swags of heavy grey clouds sag over Lago Maggiore. Above 500m, the woods clothing the lakeside hills are sprinkled in fairy-dust, icing sugar snow.
In our own neck of the woods, only patches of snow remain. In one there is a boot-print and a paw-print, whispering of yesterday's woodland excursion. A woman and her dog. Always together.
In our own neck of the woods, only patches of snow remain. In one there is a boot-print and a paw-print, whispering of yesterday's woodland excursion. A woman and her dog. Always together.
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.
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.
Monday, 20 September 2010
One of those days
Monday. A wet-blanket day. A wrung-out-dish-rag day. A walk-in-the-woods drippy, damp, gloomy day.
In fact it's one of those days.
It's half past nine. There's a semi-bald, caked-in-blood juvenile cockerel cowering in the woodshed (I've mentioned before how nasty chickens can be). The wild boar have been at the garden again. Jakob! is lying panting in the doghouse, covered in wild-boar mud (read poo-poo) and licking off the yolks of nine (yes, NINE) stolen eggs. Mamma's also covered in mud, along with chicken poop, egg yolk and cockerel gore, and there's weasel poop on my walking boots.
Oh yes, and I have the first cold of the school year.
So.
Sod the washing up. I'm off to take a shower, throw everything in the laundry, and then retire to the sofa with a glass of hot Lemsip and the last two chapters of Wuthering Heights, which I hope will show me that it is possible to have worse days...
In fact it's one of those days.
It's half past nine. There's a semi-bald, caked-in-blood juvenile cockerel cowering in the woodshed (I've mentioned before how nasty chickens can be). The wild boar have been at the garden again. Jakob! is lying panting in the doghouse, covered in wild-boar mud (read poo-poo) and licking off the yolks of nine (yes, NINE) stolen eggs. Mamma's also covered in mud, along with chicken poop, egg yolk and cockerel gore, and there's weasel poop on my walking boots.
Oh yes, and I have the first cold of the school year.
So.
Sod the washing up. I'm off to take a shower, throw everything in the laundry, and then retire to the sofa with a glass of hot Lemsip and the last two chapters of Wuthering Heights, which I hope will show me that it is possible to have worse days...
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
The pleasures of summer in Carmine No. 1
Walking in the woods, amid the intense green vibration of thousands of plants turning sunlight to food, along the ancient Roman road, under the overhanging craggy mountainside populated by hawks and mountain sheep.
And accompanied by companion, playmate, and source of endless mischief: Jakob! Lord of Misrule ...
And accompanied by companion, playmate, and source of endless mischief: Jakob! Lord of Misrule ...
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Reported conversations No. 19 : Denial in the doghouse
Ten degrees at 8:30am, sunny intervals. Feeling damp.
Mama : [In a full-steam fury] "Jakob! Jakob! Come here! SITZ! Now tell me, what IS THIS?"
Jakob! : "Wasn't me, ma'am! No ma'am yer honour. Me 'twas not! I didn't scatter cacao in the corners, sugar all over the shelves. I didn't go nuts with the noci, oops over the uva, whacky with the walnusskerne. I didn't spray water all over the washer or put pawprints on the porcelain. And I wouldn't ever, ever, ever eat half a bag of dried plums with the pits still in them."
Mama : [In full English-schoolmarm-sarcasm mode] "So tell me, Mr Smartypants. Who was it then?"
"Oh. Oh dear. Oh dear me. I think I need the loo.........."
Mama smiles to herself in an affectionate serves-you-right sort of way, makes a quiet note of the whereabouts of the disinfectant and the pressure-washer, and gently closes the door.
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Tulipa turkestanica
This week of the Easter holidays has been beautiful, weather-wise. Warm - up to the mid-20s I guess - dry, and with warm, open-window nights. B, aged 3, has planted a round of lettuce. The baby chicks, aged now 3 weeks, have learned to fly enough to hop out of their box and explore the ins and outs of the bathroom. Jakob! Lord of Misrule, aged 3 months, has learned to chase sticks.
Best of all, the tulips, planted five months ago, have started to flower. Thanks again to our friends and neighbours, J & R for the exotic Asian Tulipa turkestanica, which the good weather has brought out of its buds.
For more beautiful flowers in and around Carmine Superiore, click here. To see some really astonishing flower images from all over the world, visit Macro Flower Shots.
Best of all, the tulips, planted five months ago, have started to flower. Thanks again to our friends and neighbours, J & R for the exotic Asian Tulipa turkestanica, which the good weather has brought out of its buds.
For more beautiful flowers in and around Carmine Superiore, click here. To see some really astonishing flower images from all over the world, visit Macro Flower Shots.
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Spring : a progress report
After two days of fairly torrential rain, with a whacking storm yesterday afternoon timed precisely to coincide with the kindergarten run, today we have a cloudy day with a noisy wind.
Spring is coming along quite nicely. This week's morning temperatures have been in double digits all the way. The gardens of the Alto Verbano are crowded with shrubs and trees in bloom - mimosa, camelia, magnolia, apricot - underpinned with daffodils, narcisi, primulas, periwinkle and tulips in-the-making. And the gardeners of the Alto Verbano are busy making pretty pictures out of flat beds of brown soil with stripes of variegated green lettuces and other salads.
In the House on the Rock, Jakob!, Lord of Misrule is growing like topsy. After three weeks in our midst, he has turned our (my) world upside down and inside out. There seem to be no limits to his mischievousness and ingenuity, but also to his canine intelligence, and so despite the havoc he has wreaked, we are very pleased with his progress in terms of "sit", "come", "lie down" and "fetch that cat". The cats are not so happy. Their ordered lives, centred on our little terrace, have been invaded by the monster with floppy ears and a large nose, and they have been driven out. Still, after 21 days of confusion now even the outcasts - those who are not allowed to set foot inside the house (order of the Big Tabby) - have discovered where the soup kitchen and sun deck has moved to.
In the bathroom, out of bounds to cats and dog alike, two hours-old chicks are nestling together under the warming lamp. From the incubator we hear chirping, the eggs are shivering occasionally and once in a while new cracks appear, so we hope for at least a couple more as Hatching Day wears on.
For myself? I'm horrified that Easter-with-houseguests is only a week away, the house is a disaster zone, and I've done almost no planting whatsoever. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those years...
Spring is coming along quite nicely. This week's morning temperatures have been in double digits all the way. The gardens of the Alto Verbano are crowded with shrubs and trees in bloom - mimosa, camelia, magnolia, apricot - underpinned with daffodils, narcisi, primulas, periwinkle and tulips in-the-making. And the gardeners of the Alto Verbano are busy making pretty pictures out of flat beds of brown soil with stripes of variegated green lettuces and other salads.
In the House on the Rock, Jakob!, Lord of Misrule is growing like topsy. After three weeks in our midst, he has turned our (my) world upside down and inside out. There seem to be no limits to his mischievousness and ingenuity, but also to his canine intelligence, and so despite the havoc he has wreaked, we are very pleased with his progress in terms of "sit", "come", "lie down" and "fetch that cat". The cats are not so happy. Their ordered lives, centred on our little terrace, have been invaded by the monster with floppy ears and a large nose, and they have been driven out. Still, after 21 days of confusion now even the outcasts - those who are not allowed to set foot inside the house (order of the Big Tabby) - have discovered where the soup kitchen and sun deck has moved to.
In the bathroom, out of bounds to cats and dog alike, two hours-old chicks are nestling together under the warming lamp. From the incubator we hear chirping, the eggs are shivering occasionally and once in a while new cracks appear, so we hope for at least a couple more as Hatching Day wears on.
For myself? I'm horrified that Easter-with-houseguests is only a week away, the house is a disaster zone, and I've done almost no planting whatsoever. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those years...
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Confirming intelligence reports
"I'd say that was a D-O-G alright. Better get back to Big Tabby at Cat HQ and let him know.
Boy, is that big hooter ugly!"
Boy, is that big hooter ugly!"
Friday, 19 March 2010
The cat telegraph
Warmish - sunnyish. In the last seven days, the children have been home, sick, for six. Mama, also with the 'flu, feels as if she's about to disintegrate in a Lem-Sip flavoured puddle of stress and sleep-deprivation.
"The big tabby up the road says you've got a D-O-G in there... Is that him there with the short tail and droopy ears? No contest!"
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Just when I thought...
Two degrees at 8:55am. Sleet. But as the day advances, the sun is battling through the clouds, and the snow line is receding up the hill.
Just when I thought the nappies and the bed-wetting, the vomitting and the table spills were over...
Just when I thought carrying children up and down the hill was a thing of the past...
Just when I thought I might relax the babyproofing and introduce a couple of adult objects into my home - an antique cushion, perhaps, or a rushwork chair...
Just when I thought I might sell the stair gate...
Just when I thought the various members of my household would get along without my having to operate a complex airlock system to separate the scratchers and the biters from those with delicate flesh...
Just when I thought embarrassing smells were a thing of the past...
Just when I thought I might be on top of the laundry, rather than buried beneath it...
Just when I thought it was safe to cancel my membership of Deranged SAHMs Anonymous...
This happened :
He is Loki. He is Indra. He is Nun. He is Enlil. And he is Arawn.
He is Jakob!, Lord of Misrule. His powers of destruction are infinite as the stars in the sky. His command of the forces of chaos is total. His appetite for pandemonium is profound.
You see my point?
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