CRAZY CHIUSI: A blurry report of debauchery and gorgonzola in Chiantishire (31st August-4th September 2010)

Are the Staveleys axe murderers? Is it possible to fill ones days entirely with wine, cheese and snorting? Just how much fun can you have before you spontaneously combust? Would a porn cooking channel be a viable success? What is a Happy Van? How many necklaces can one wear before they sink in the pool? Did you meet Paul McCartney in 1973? The answers to all these questions are probably somewhere below…

If you cast your minds back (or view my last blob), you may recall us meeting up with the Browns of LA in Marrakesh. Well, a couple of weeks after our return we received the most generous invite in our in-box. Wife Denni was due to celebrate a certain important birthday in Tuscany and they had hired a stunning and expansive Etruscan villa to celebrate the occasion with dear friends. What’s more, they wanted us to join them for a few nights. Us - people they had only met for 3 hours. People, who I seem to remember, were rather full of alcohol and phlegm at the time. It was such a generous proposal, we of course accepted it readily and gratefully.

As a small gesture of appreciation, we offered to cook a four-course meal for them all on our first night (the last night of summer). So when we arrived (well, more accurately got lost and asked husband Stephen and his old schoolfriend Robert to meet us and guide us in), we took a quick tour of the amazing house and grounds and unloaded the crates of prosecco, Sicilian tuna balls and homemade ravioli. Then we shook hands with lots of slightly scared looking strangers before donning our pinnies and getting to work on aubergines. Over preparations to the music of Puccini, we were introduced to the party. They consisted of Robert and Jo, an English couple who had been friends with the birthday girl and her beau forever; Bonnie, a dear LA friend and colleague with hair like a mermaid; Irene, ‘The Shanghai Princess’ another lovely friend and colleague originally from the Philippines and now living in China; Rick and Amy – Denni’s brother and sister-in-law from Manhattan; and last but by no means least, Chance, the gorgeous son who we had already met in Morocco and Josh, the equally gorgeous son who we hadn’t.

As the final scraps of my limoncello tart were being nibbled, a confession came out… For the last three nights at the villa, the guests had been getting more and more anxious at the idea of having to live with a couple complete strangers that Denni and Stephen had got squiffy with. Who could vouch for their character? Who were these mysterious expats? Were they actually murderers? The flights of fancy got more and more elaborate and by the time we arrived I think they were all convinced that our kitchen equipment may just be weapons of mass destruction. No wonder they looked so terrified as we sliced up the ciabatta with very large sharp knives. Of course, we played up to it by suggesting that we had poisoned the prosecco and would be cackling evilly over their bodies in the middle of the night. Woo-Ha-Ha.

Actually, once they realised that we were more likely to be a danger to ourselves than to anyone else, the first night was hysterical. A sign of things to come. While we drunk far too many limoncelli to be considered legal or moral, we started to bond with this amazing international group. It was all rather hazy but I do seem to remember us dancing to the tunes of Robert and Josh – both excellent DJs – and a long conversation with Jo, who is an excellent cook and immediately became my partner in crime. As the alcohol consumption and our naughty level of humour seemed to rise in line with each other, the idea of a porn cooking channel was born. Trust me, it went downhill from there.

The following morning, we shuffled into the kitchen with heads that had unwittingly been used as trampolines by a herd of elephants in the night. There we found that our surrogate mum had made us large mugs of coffee. Bless you Irene! We also found Jo, slumped in a chair wishing that we had murdered her in the night afterall because she felt so ill. Normally, we would have been subdued in this post-alcoholic state all day, but when Peter declared “Lovely meal last night darling, was one of the courses we ate sh*t by any chance?” the laughter started again. We then had to scrape ourselves off the floor and jump into the back of the hire car (thereafter known as The Happy Van) for an appointment with Bacchus. In my infinite stupidity, I had booked us a lunchtime tour of the award-winning Montalcino (Altesino) winery, but regretted this immediately on the bumpy route when the late night revellers had to use every pore of determination not to chunder on chauffeur Stephen. And I swear that Josh’s face was actually mint green at one point. But as soon as we arrived, the fresh Tuscan air was gulped, as was the cheese and fantastically velvety Brunello, which proved to be a very posh hair of the dog treatment. I think our little party bought half the wine estate, no doubt partly lured by the magnificent scenery and the sales expertise of our knowledgeable guide Sabine.

En route back, we stopped off at Montalcino, a beautiful (but very steep) fortified town, where we soon acknowledged Bonnie’s inability to pass by a shop without going in, our inability to go without food for more than 2 hours and Josh’s love of pharmacists :o)

On return, most of us collapsed by the pool, in bed or on each other for a few hours. Then it was time to eat again. Yes, this was one of the themes of the hols, initiated by the birthday girl, who is a great cook and loves Italian food, having lived in bella Roma for 4 years. They had booked a fabulous local fish restaurant by the river and lake just across the Umbrian border. So once us gals had donned sparkly numbers, we climbed into the Happy Van for another adventure. I have no idea how Stephen managed to drive straight with so much giggling in the back, but then it was partly his fault… we had only been going for about 2 minutes when he suddenly shouted “It’s coming on my foot!” He was, of course, innocently referring to the air conditioning, but those with filthy minds just collapsed in fits of hysteria. We did try to be sensible for a few minutes when we arrived and the setting was certainly sobering. Quite magical in fact – a large moon lighting up the willow trees, the smell of lavender, kittens roaming around outside and the cicadas in full chorus. Inside, the food was absolutely wonderful – all local and freshly caught fish, beautifully presented. Even the vegetarians of the group, myself and the delicious Bonnie, were served with a feast. I felt my waistline expand with every mouthful.

Now, sane, wise, clever people would have gone to bed early that night after such little sleep the night before. Which probably explains why I didn’t. At least one Staveley has braincells. He stumbled up at midnight, leaving Jo, Josh and I to have a long chinwag over more limoncello and other illegal substances. At one point, we stumbled outside and lay on the grass, looking at the plethora of stars. It was truly magical. At least it was to us, perhaps not so much to other members of the household who were disturbed by our rather enthusiastic discussions about the meaning of life and how much we loved each other. As soon as the other night owls retired hurt, my tummy started to rebel from a pasta overdose, so I stayed up until the small hours, attempting to clear up the kitchen from an earlier cheese massacre.

The following day was Thursday 2nd September 2010, which as you all know is Denni Brown’s 21st. So, with trumpet fanfare and much whooping, we began to celebrate her BIG day! And what a magical day it was.

It began – as all true Italian birthdays do – with homemade pizza. The crew spent the morning rolling out the dough, prepping toppings and stoking up the outside forno. It took some practice, but eventually a myriad of belle pizze were created, cooked and served. I award 10 points for effort, 10 for taste, 10 for presentation and -3 for my top, which seemed to excel at catching all the mutinous passata.

After we had finished nibbling, the present ceremony began. Denni’s ‘White Knight in Shining Armour’, as she romantically refers to Stephen, gave a amusing little speech and presented her with a gift that he had thought and stressed about for months. He needn’t have worried. The birthday girl adored it, as we all did! A beautiful antique English gold bracelet with Etruscan designs around it. Simply stunning.

But the other gifts weren’t going to come quite so easily for the birthday girl. We announced to Denni that we had devised a treasure hunt, with each gift being hidden either in the house or the huge garden somewhere. Every so often, someone read out their cryptic clue for her. First Josh, with a beautiful necklace hidden in the bookcase. Then Jo and Robert’s designer handbag under the ping pong table in the summer house; followed by Bonnie’s pretty silver picture frame under Denni’s pillow. As Denni then found our ancient Italian fossil necklace in an old olive tree and Irene’s exotic coral choker by the swimming pool, we all wondered just how many necklaces it would take to sink a birthday girl! (The answer: More than 3)

After much rushing about, it was time to flop by the pool and the braver ones amongst us had a dip in the very cold waters. Peter and Stephen did an impromptu diving competition. I think Stephen marginally won on points awarded for water displacement with his Brown Bomb special: The Dresden.

Soon, it was time to get dolled up for the special birthday dinner. And how gorgeously elegant everyone looked (see pics on Facebook for proof). The Happy Van trundled off to nearby Cetona and to one of the best restaurants we have experienced so far in Italy (tough competition, as you can imagine, and a credit to the hosts research skills). But first there was time for us to wander around the main piazza and for Bonnie to indulge in her love of shop windows.

Beside a 13th century clock tower, down in the vaulted wine cellar, our long table awaited us. Upon being seating we immediately requested more salt (sorry – not enough space to explain this very silly 'family joke'!) We were joined by characterful American friend Vera, who has a holiday home nearby Cetona, and a delightful Milanese couple who work with Denni and Stephen. The food was simply exquisite. Course, after course of delicately presented pasta, vegetables, meats and other delights. And the wine was dangerously quaffable.

It was lovely to get to know our dining neighbours a little better – Irene – you really should write a memoir about your family!

We popped out for a ciggie break and once again got a fit of the giggles as Jo and Peter started chatting to a group of Americans who mentioned that their cousin Billy-Bob, Billy-Bob Junior had been to England and asked if Peter had ever met Paul McCartney in Liverpool in 1973. Crazy people, although not wittingly.

As we settled into the chocolate course (Jo and Josh enjoying it so much that the waiter actually brought them the bowl), sister-in-law Amy stood up and announced hers and Rick’s present for the birthday girl. A crate of prosecco delivered within the most witty, original and clever limerick about everyone at the party. Amy – you definitely have another career there if you ever need one!

And then it was Stephen’s turn to raise a glass and say a few words about Denni… if there was a dry eye in the house, I would be amazed: the love between this husband and wife is so obvious, it makes you melt. You smooth bastard!

It was the perfect finish to a perfect birthday.

Although as we didn’t want it to end, some of us stayed up late yet again (Punishment Glutton Awards). This time Robert, with the axiom ‘If you can’t beat ‘em…’ decided to join the naughty corner. We learnt a little bit more about his fascinating heritage and the losses and loves of his life. As well as his excellent taste in music :o)

As Josh – the infinite globe-trotter – was sadly leaving at crack of sparrow’s fart, we tried to stay up to say goodbye, but the excesses of the last few days caught up with us and we eventually crawled up to bed. This included Josh, who managed to fall asleep and accidentally miss his taxi so Stephen had to drive him to the station with half an eye open. Thank goodness he made his flight… just!

At a slightly more civilised hour, Rick and Amy also departed. We were supposed to be leaving too, but Denni and Stephen very kindly insisted that we stay on for the last night. Of course, entirely out of politeness (nothing to do with the promise of homemade pasta), we agreed.

After just a sprinkling of sleep, I chauffeured Denni and Irene on a quick pop to the shops. 3 hours later, just as the rest of the gang were about to call a search party, we returned with some local ceramics, a strange wine bottle that rattled and a year’s supply of cheese.

Then, we split into two groups – those that were to undertake the Tuscan cookery masterclass, and those that weren’t. As we were so pooped and had spent the previous week doing lots of Tuscan cooking, we passed on what looked to be a great experience. Every time I popped my head around the door, the party were, under the capable eyes of the chef, rolling out dough, stirring sauce, chopping unusual foodstuffs and quaffing wine (essential for any serious cuoco). In the meantime, we spent a delightful afternoon on the veranda, swatting mosquitos and talking about American politics, among other things, with son Chance. He really should run for office – an incredibly bright and mature mind.

Then it was time for us slackers to enjoy the fruits of the others’ labours. We sat down at a beautifully laid candlelit table to enjoy a four course delight made by Denni, Bonnie, Jo, Roberto et al and served by the chef and his assistant. Tonight was Denni’s turn to say a few words about her birthday trip, picking out everyone individually to thank them, particularly her White Knight of course. I think Mr and Mrs B should go into professional speech making! The atmosphere thereafter was a little muted due to (a) long-term alcohol poisoning (b) too much gorgonzola and (c) we were all leaving the following morning. We had made such firm friends, it was awful to know that we wouldn’t be seeing most of them again for a while.

We decided to be good and turn in early, but as always, we were too tempted by the company. Denni, P, Chance and I ended up perched in the kitchen and talking into the small hours about everything from Obama to Borat. I can’t remember anything in detail except lots of laughter and the recitals of many comedic scripts.

So anon to our tearful departure. Many hugs and heavy hearts. P and I have never been so touched by the grace and genorosity of two people as we were with Denni and Stephen. I had an enormous lump in my throat when I kissed them goodbye. At least they mentioned coming to Italy next summer, we had arranged to see Irene and her hubby Sylvain in a few weeks' time and had made Jo and Roberto promise to look into flights from London, as well as insisting that everyone returns next June for our anniversary, so that took a bit of the sting out of it. We were the last in the house and it felt so quiet and odd without everyone that we beat a hasty retreat. We were left with charity food parcels as there were still a lot of goodies in the fridge and wine crate. It was much appreciated - we’ve only just finished the last bottle – thanks guys! Oh, and the rattly one? That, sadly, was not a large diamond or a priceless Roman pendant but a piece of metal wine-making equipment. Still have no idea how it got in the bottle as it is too large to fit through the neck – answers on the back of a postcard please.

Thank you for the most amazing (and sore!) 5 days we’ve had yet in Italia xxxx I apologise if my recollection is a little hazy or I have got any details wrong (please correct me/fill in the blanks!) but we will never forget our holiday or you. Please can we do it all again very soon? We insist on playing hosts at Villa Dei Dustpit next time. It’s not posh, and comes with mad cats and a paddling pool, but you can spill your grappa and not worry and there are hugs and wines on tap. Please let’s plot something - we love and miss you all so much already. You have become our new Mad Family. You know, the ones you hide away under the stairs and bring out on special occasions :oD

A presto, cari amici, cari famiglie XXXXXXXX

PS Book your tickets to Pisa for our 1920s-themed 10th anniversary on 25th/26th June 2011 (and beyond) - the debauchery WILL continue!

Madonna, Marrakech, Musical merrymaking, Meeting twins, Mowers, Moist murder, Maggiore moments, Mayoral mooching, More hospital visits & Mousey smells

Cari amici,

With the leaves of our plane tree beginning to show their first golden blush of autumn colour and the nights getting a little crisper, I realise that a new blob is long overdue. Summer at Lecci was a very warm, sociable and alcoholic one … so I’m duly using my liver recovery time to bore you with our season’s adventures.

The Staveleys are pleased to report that nothing too biblical has happened recently. In fact we note, with some delight, that we have been free from fires, floods and other natural disasters for the entire summer… although plagues of insects is another story (see somewhere below).

The one proper religious event occurred when our community restored the little shrine at the end of our lane that is dedicated to San Antonio of Padova. In case you were wondering, he is the patron saint of animals, the elderly, barrenness, horses, harvest, poor people and travellers… all of which seem to apply to us! Of course nothing like this passes without a blessing from the Virgin Mary, a sermon by a visiting lively young priest, an unholy amount of alcohol and another random raffle for charity (we won 10 things but only know what 2 of them are). La Processione della Madonna was truly magical (pics on my Facebook page). Candles, torches and fairy lights lit her path from church, via our home, to the shrine. The shrine itself was lit with more bulbs than the Blackpool illuminations yet still somehow managed to look tasteful and quaint. As he passed by, the Padre signalled a blessing upon Lecci – perhaps a reason for the lack of disasters of late… maybe we do need to become Catholics afterall?

Given his pyromaniacal history, I was mildly wary of the joy on Peter’s face as he ran around with a lighter, lovingly fondling anything potentially flammable, but, possibly due to divine intervention, he was unable to summon the dishy Italian firemen for me.

Soon it was time to pack for our first proper hols in 6 years – a 12-day break in Marrakech. The day before we jetted off, Room 5 (Penny Cooper and Peter Horstead, with whom we frolicked in Sri Lanka) arrived with many hugs and some homemade jam. They had very kindly (or foolishly?) volunteered to look after cats and garden while we were away. We had a lovely meal at Spinos and caught up with each other, albeit far too briefly.

What can I say about our time in Morocco, our first dabblings in a Muslim country? It was pure heaven, despite us both getting nasty colds/coughs on Day 2 (I blame Horstead entirely!) To be woken to the sound of the Muezzins calling out prayers over the rooftops of the ancient Medina is an experience you cannot quite describe. As was wandering around the main square – Jemaa El Fna – savouring its heady mix of spices, mint tea and dust, while snake charmers, musicians, storytellers, jugglers and toothpullers (the poor man’s dentist) provided the entertainment.

Summer there is a quiet time of year for tourists, so our little riad was like having your own private palace with staff. We immediately fell in love with Nawah, our cook and housekeeper who made us crepes, briouats (hot cheese pastries) and a birthday cake for Peter nearly every day. I seem to remember the entire holiday was based around cake, champagne and shopping (every girl’s dream?) I embraced the latter with full force, haggling with everyone and learning a few Marakshi phrases such as “You must be joking” and “I could buy your grandmother for that price” We purloined a rug, several antique fabric hangings, 7 lanterns/lights, a heavy old mirror, candles, an ancient berber key and wooden prayer plaque, a mint tea service, 200 rivets for our cantina shower door, 10 old toggle light switches and a suitcase to put them all in, among other things. In fact, we came away with so many bargain goodies for our cantina that Peter’s eye-rolling abilities should have won a medal.

As we were both pooped, we spent time each day just dozing, dipping in the little courtyard pool and loving/feeding/wanting to take home all the stray cats we could find. One day, I talked my way into the main mosque (which is usually strictly for Muslims but a lovely lady took pity on me). Poor Peter thought I’d just be having a quick peek before dinner in the souks, but an hour later I emerged, stiff knees from praying and sweating under my headscarf. I think I have too many hot flushes to ever be a devout Muslim but it was an amazing experience.

On our anniversary, Mr Smoothie booked us into a wonderful posh French restaurant where, instead of a romantic candlelit dinner, we spent three hours laughing our heads off with a gorgeous family from LA (The Browns). English husband Stephen, American wife Denni , son Chance and girlfriend Nicole were most definitely the evening entertainment. We swapped contact details and vowed to keep in touch.

Towards the end of the hols, following a tip from our new Stateside friends, all the money we had saved through haggling was blown on a day trip to the Atlas mountains, with our taxi driver Mohamed, the only one-legged driver in Marrakech (trust the Staveleys!) with a penchant for great music and dry wit. The highlight of the day was lunch at Richard Branson’s kasbah, Tamadot. It was one of those places where you pointed at the menu and just ignored the price until the day the bank repossessed your home. Heavenly, but very naughty.

On our last day, we were very honoured to join Mohamed and his wife and two gorgeous children for a sumptuous feast at his home. It was every bit as filling as Tamadot and very interesting to see a slice of proper Marrakshi family life.

It was actually rather lovely to come home to a summery Pisa instead of rainy Stansted. Especially when we saw the fruits of Room 5’s labours: Two very happy fat cats, not a millimetre of unplanted soil in the veggie patch, dry stone walls springing up all over the place and the beginnings of a herb garden and pathway, as well as various DIY projects in the house. Please can you come back next week P&P?!

During the hols, with retirement, married life and arthritis/ill health in mind, we made a vow to each other to enjoy Italy more and break backs a little less, so between our return and our next visitor, we really excelled at doing bugger all, bar a bit of washing and ironing, pottering amongst veggies and feebly pruning a few things.

That next visitation came in the form of P’s old cohort Charlie. We think he wins an award for the most relaxed, convivial company we have yet experienced at the villa. Days by the pool and nights dancing and drinking seemed to slip into each other. So this is what life’s all about? More please Charlie!

In fact, it was quite an effort to scoop ourselves up from the floor and go south to Lajatico for a few days to catch a peep at Andrea Bocelli and friends. The three of us were joined by Donna, our American neighbour from our first rental place and Simon, property developer, part-time actor and good pal. The agriturismo was super – panoramic views, a great pool and a very relaxing atmosphere. We had lots of giggles, ate too much cheese, got lost many times and visited a few medieval towns. Bocelli was in fine voice, although for me not as powerful as he used to be, nor an equal to the ‘greats’. But his guests were fabulous, including Piccone, an incredible ballet dancer I had seen as a young teenager at the Royal Ballet School, and a staggeringly versatile soprano who did a rag doll act that blew us all away. Also the three-course picnic complete with 6 bottles of champers went down very well.

More champagne was quaffed on hearing the exciting family news that Amy (P’s daughter-in-law, wife of James) had safely delivered twins, doubling his grandchildren overnight. As proud step-grandmother, I can say with certainly that William and Olivia are completely adorable. While I reluctantly stayed behind to manage dustpit and felines, P popped back for a few days to meet them both and catch up with James and Amy, and also to see his Pa, who now has an impressive total of 11 great-grandchildren.

While mio amore was away, I had another couple of trespassing stories. Nothing as dramatic as the coughing horse / caribinieri incident a while back but still worth relating, I hope. On the Sunday he was due to return I was awoken very early by the loud cracks of a shotgun. I thought this was rather odd since (a) I was completely deaf in one ear due to a nasty ear infection, so it must have been really close and (b) it wasn’t the season for massacring anything furry or feathered here. I shrugged it off, shrugged on my dressing gown, made myself a triple espresso and sat on our new balcony steps in the emerging dawnlight, trying to force my eyelids open and remember where I’d left the wallpaper paste. My fuzzy thoughts were rudely interrupted by a spaniel weeing up the support posts beneath me and then the man responsible for the gunshots came up our terraces and stood there a few feet away, with weapons, a strange skin disease and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, just staring at me and his mutt. After shooing the dog away and loudly muttering something about privacy, I ran inside, embarrassed to be in my pyjamas in front of an unknown man (how very Catholic of me). His 7 hounds continued to treat our garden as their own personal toilet for 30 minutes, while the unabashed hunter peered into our dip pool, wandered around the vineyard and picked fruits from our tree. Being typically British, I kept going outside, tutting in his direction and shuffling back in again. By the time he left I was wide awake, quite irked and had already composed a Disgusted of Cerignano letter to Berlusconi in my head. While the laws here do give rights of way to hunters during certain seasons with the landowners permission, I am not aware of one which allows strange ogling men to eat your figs and take potshots at rabbits in your veg patch at 6am in the morning on a Sunday.

As if that wasn’t enough, no sooner had I got dressed, turned on my Radio 4 podcast and sat down to check my emails when a strange lady peered directly at me through our dining room window and shouted something to her female companion who had wandered up our garden path. Now normally I am very welcoming. I love to meet new people, practice my Italian, show neighbours our latest projects, have impromptu guests and even throw together 5 course meals at the last minute. But when you’ve been woken by gun fire before daylight, experienced Mr Wart and his dog poo brigade and now a nosey old woman is yelling 5 feet from your face, it’s a different story. I stomped to the front door and blurted out something about it being private property. Allegedly they didn’t realise the house was lived in (hmmmm – the parked car, house lights and radio really should have been a giveaway) and proceeded to tell me how lovely the place was. There was no apology, in fact they kept wandering around the front garden and peering inside the hallway as if expecting an invite to have a cup of tea and a sniff around, maybe even to move in. Probably a bit too hastily I retorted that the reason we love it here is the peace and quiet, wished them a Buona Domenica and shut the door in their faces.

Meanwhile P was having a slight hiccup of his own. Due to accidents, roadworks and the infuriating inflexibility of Ryanair, he had missed his flight back home by 4 minutes and thus couldn’t return until the next day. So, after ensuring our front gate was bolted and a skull and crossbone flag pinned up on the door, I sat down to organise a B&B and taxi for him. It goes without saying that when he finally arrived at Pisa, a rather delighted wife was there to meet him.

After two days of napping on the sofa and being licked to near death by his two furry daughters, more family arrived in the shape of Lynton, sis-in-law’s brother. Having come from a walking and dancing holiday in the Italian mountains, he was content just to rest his feet, potter about Lecci and environs and go for a daily siesta, which Staveley Tours Ltd greatly appreciated. Lynton – you were wonderful, easy and positive company and it was super to catch up after too long an absence.

No sooner had we waved goodbye then it was time to polish the cats and roll out the red carpet for a long, aloholic Sunday lunch with our adopted Ma and Pa - Jennie and Alan from Bagnone. What lovely friends they are and we are exceedingly miffed that they intend to return to Blighty soon for grandchildren/children, leaving us errant sprogs behind to get up to all sorts of mischief.

Somewhere along the line, we have managed to squeeze in the completion of the last bedroom floor, the restoration of our bedroom chandelier, the sourcing of some gorgeous handpainted old tiles on Ebay Italia for our dining room at a fraction of the price of the new, wrong coloured ones (now returned), the mowing of the acres at least twice, more veg patch work and enjoying the various pickings (melons, aubergines and sweetcorn particularly yummy) and the beginnings of the herb garden. Yes, I know this last project has been mentioned before but each time I pause to figure out a workable irrigation system, the weeds grow back even worse than before and I have to start again.

As the course of true Lecci never runs smooth, unfortunately dad’s trusty mower has finally gone to grass-cutting heaven so P is reduced to the strimmer again and our tomatoes got a disease and have all perished so my passata jars will lie empty for another year. Guiliano also let us down as our extra hand on the land, so the vineyard is once again looking very sorrowful. However, we’ve found some new local chaps who did a great job of cutting our terraces and seemed to nod enthusiastically at the idea of helping us with new posts and wires so we’ll enrol them after the vendemmia (grape harvest).

Our latest project, which I started but gladly handed over to my heroic hubby after I pulled my shoulder up a fruit tree, is to scrape the existing cement of all the antique dining room tiles. There was a reason for them being a bargain of course :o) I nervously await a scream as P uses a power tool on a wobbly work table to clean them up. If he survives, we will source border tiles and book the builder. Then we might actually, 2 and a half years after removing the heinous 1970s brown tiles, have an authentic-looking proper floor. My feet may need therapy for the shock.

On the topic of treatment, P and I have decided to adopt the entire hospital staff as our second family due to the fact that we seem to spend most of our lives in the local A&E. Once again, hub gave his convincing Michelin man impression when stung by a stingy thing and getting an adverse reaction. Two jabs in the bum and a painful blood test later, things appear to have calmed down. While we were there, I decided to mention my ear, which had not been getting any better despite daily jabs in posterior. Turns out the infection had become quite inflamed after being given the wrong antibiotics by my GP. So I had a punctured bum for nothing and P had a very bruised arm and a wife nagging him to get an epi-pen and a lifetime supply of antihistamine.

Still, we were in fine enough health to start a war with our neighbours. A wet one, that is. Being such grown up people, we had promised our neighbours’ son Joe that we would have water fight and, for various reasons (namely the hangovers of certain recruits), we had had to postpone it. So we owed it to Joe, our rookie, to pull the stops out. Peter and I bought as much weaponry as possible, then hubby, or ‘RAF Command’ as he insisted on being called, filled up the pool, water balloons and buckets while Capt Staveley set about putting up signs everywhere, loading guns, making team flags and creating a barracks from garden chairs, olive nets, umbrellas and barrel tops. We donned war paint and marched over to their old priory to the tune of The Ride of the Valkyries (Apocalypse Now) to collect Private Joe and inform the enemy of the start time. Due to the absence of Major Evans who had gone on a bike ride in the mountains and got a puncture, the enemy was reduced to mother and daughter team, Sergeant Allanah and Lieutentant Xenia. So Joe - as gung ho as a 10 year old can be - easily captured their flag and returned to the bunker to help the Capt give them a serious soaking as they tried to steal ours. They came close to success, but a surprise aerial attack from the RAF section (Peter on our balcony with a bucket) meant that victory was soon ours. All that still needed to be done was to force them at gun-point into the pool with their clothes on and await the return of AWOL Evans so he could be court martialled. Honestly, we have rarely had so much fun. Probably says a lot more about our mental ages than we care to admit.

More watery adventures were soon to follow as we drove off to spend three nights with Leo and Elena at their holiday home in Lake Maggiore. It was very relaxing and great fun and we spent much time eating, sleeping, paddling in the lake and talking about Tuscan sausages. We met their neighbours and other family members and boosted our stumbling language skills by talking in Italiano almost constantly for four days.

Our expanding dictionary came in little use as we both suffered mental blocks when we met the Mayor of Fivizzano for the first time in two years at a super local festa in Turlago. Senore Paolo Grassi was very friendly, especially when he learnt that we live here permanently and adore the Lunigiana region (these always seem to gain brownie points with the locals). He said that if we need anything, we must come to him, upon which prompt I blurted out something nonsensical about pools, balconies and soft earth and how difficult the permissions might be. He seemed very enthusiastic so, you never know, we may just receive a little help from high places when we’ve rustled together enough money and brown envelopes to begin such progetti. We celebrated our first Italian VIP meeting by doing a little dance with the local children, eating too much cheese and watching in awe as our electrician tangoed his partner around the dance floor with such grace and aplomb we really think he should give up his day job. Especially as his electrical skills leave something to be desired.

The most fun you can possibly have in 5 days without actually exploding finished off our summer. This was courtesy of the Browns of LA & Friends, who were celebrating a certain notable birthday in Italy and invited us to join them. We feel that it really does deserve a separate entry (see above).

After such an enjoyable yet busy summer involving many trips away, we are now looking forward to a quieter Autumn ensconced at Lecci with just a trickle of guests, the vendemmia, a chance to rest our abused livers, and various schemes on how best to heat our home over winter for less than 1,000 euros a minute. Our cats appear to have forgiven us for our multiple desertions, due to finding excellent cat-sitters in our absences. However, Weed, in particular has been clinging to her mum like glue. Talking of which, they have rather cleverly started their own blob, the link of which is at the bottom of this page. If you are a feline fan (Mrs B, Mon, Chloe et al), please do have a peek and let them know what you think!

Oh and talking of the bewhiskered ones, I owe an apology to my dearjoy, who I have been accusing of having unsociably odiferous feet for the last few weeks. The repugnant whiff emanating from his office was getting unbearable and I assumed the culprits to be his rather whiffy slippers. I confiscated them immediately, washed them and shoved some odour remover in his direction. When the problem returned, I was about to remove all his shoes from the house and burn them when I spotted a small shape under the bed… brace yourselves… it was a dead mouse, a little present courtesy of our girls, which had been slowly getting more smelly. Many grimacing facial expressions and five tons of Jif later and normality is resumed. Well, as normal as we ever are…

Ciao per ora :o)


UP NEXT: MADNESS IN CHIANTISHIRE: (Probably only relevant to the people in attendance, for reminiscing value, but definitely worthy of an exclusive report)

Festas, flights, fires, flushes, floods, forlorn floors, farming, free-time, frog street and future plans

Despite great efforts to hide from civilisation, even sabotaging their internet and evading police capture, Mr and Mrs Stavelli of Toscana have finally been spotted in a local hostelry after several months without a published word. They were seen last night huddled in a corner of La Locanda, smelling vaguely of paraffin and plotting the slow and painful murder of their plumber using garden string, a tooth-pick and some out-of-date mascarpone.
La Nazionale, 24 aprile 2010

Juliet writes:
Carissimi amici,

Yes it’s true, dear friends, we are still alive… just slightly chargrilled and in therapy. Sorry for long absence. Many reasons that I wont bore you with but words like ‘knackered’ and ‘cellars’ come into it. Not really sure where the time went – all a bit of a blur really, but I will now try to re-focus in the name of entertainment (or boredom?).

Suffice to say that Christmas came and went without incident or injury. In fact we had a jolly nice time cooking turkey for the starving masses, going to socials, roasting our chestnuts complete with maggots (mmmm) and playing silly games. New Year was even better due to the week’s visit from our dearest friends – Clare, Asi, Ella and Maia Brosh. A wonderful, lazy few days just catching up, cuddling, reading bedtime stories, watching the rain and playing yet more silly games.

Of course, being Italy and the Staveleys, our mobile contracts finished without warning (ok, we didn’t understand the small print) and we had no internet over the holidays. In fact no-one in the region had internet as the main server in Milan was down… or more likely, someone forgot to turn it back on again after one too many festive limoncelli. P managed to speak quickly to his dad but our prolonged silence worried everyone, to the extent of the police being called out. I appreciate that our track record of hospital visits, playing with large machinery and dodgy communication links might raise eyebrows and shake nerves but you can imagine our surprise when the Commandante (Chief) of the Lunigiana Police turned up at our door to check we were alive. We are sorry for worrying anyone. We hope it doesn’t happen again, but if it does, please keep calm and know that we are in the process of training a crack-team of goats to deliver reassurances when all else fails.

Our second random visitation came in the form of two Jehovah’ witnesses at 10am one Sunday morning. While this may not seem too strange at first glance, anyone who has visited knows how far away we are from, well, anything really. A bit like an Avon lady trying to sell Sir Edmond Hilary some moisturiser at the summit. Still, as it occurred while I was away and P was a bit lonely, it was a good thing. No doubt he dragged them in, made them a coffee, forced them to stay for hours against their will and tried to sell them shares in my veggie patch.

As mentioned, I took flight in the new year: A fortnight’s trip to Blighty, whereupon I caught up with most of my friends, laughed, snorted and ate in vast quantity, realised just how much I miss my girls, shopped til I popped and eventually got my brand new spangly passport that has been the cause of much grief. I almost didn’t make it back home as Heathrow security was adamant that my two bargain lights for our cantina were weapons of mass destruction (unusual, huge and made of iron – but they don’t make a ticking noise). After some odd looks, three suitcases opened and inspected, money flung in the direction of everyone resembling an official and sprinting to the plane, where I was the last one onboard and promptly had an asthma attack, I was delighted to kiss the ground at Pisa and then my estranged hubby. Probably should have been the other way round for health and safety reasons but there you go. I was treated to a lovely surprise overnight stay in Pisa, where we walked in moonlight around the Piazza dei Miracoli (home of the wonky tower) with no-one else in sight.

In my absence, dear hubby had painted all the front shutters, put up the marble house sign and postbox and there were vases of lilies everywhere. I vow to go away more often :o)

In fact, since New Year, there has been much progress at Lecci. Our beautiful exterior wrought-iron staircase/balcony has finally been installed. Of course, it was installed too low and we had to have several fraught meetings with the metalworkers to resolve it, but now it is super – we stand outside with our coffees first thing in the morning, shake off the dust at sunset and relax in moon/starlight and look at our staggering valley view. It never fails to take our breath away. Best of all, there are no suicidal long-drops from the kitchen door and the cats don’t have to jump out of the window for a wee.

All bar one of our bedroom floors have now been laid. Our feet are happy to potter on cotto and wood rather than cracked cement and I admire hubby daily (steady on!) for his design idea. The last one is shortly to be put in place as P has now done the dreaded 400-mile round trip to pick up some more tiles. Madness, I know, but it’s the only place he found that makes old, traditional terracotta at a sensible price.

Talking of floors, things are also getting posh downstairs in the cantine. Like the sleeping quarters, all bar one of the rooms has been worked on lovingly by our builders. The beautiful stone walls have been washed and re-pointed, the tunnel ceiling has been formed, the non-stone walls have been painted (in one day by dear hub, or Roller Man as I now call him), the lights are up (including weapons of mass destruction) and more cotto has been laid underfoot. The laundry room is up and running; the Persian den has lots of niches for candles and my lovely old wood stove piped in and now awaits seats, my sari fabric ceiling and a huge and rather indulgent home cinema to be bought (keep dreaming, P!); the Moroccan shower room is emerging slowly from a flood; and the wine room, well, it’s being used to store lots of ‘useful’ rubbish but it will be presentable soon. I just need to repair a barrel and make it into a table, find some nice cheap bottle storage and label more wine. We have decided to delay the last room until we get a shed as it appears to have been breeding power tools and paint pots since we last looked.

Talking of paint, all of the rooms have now been washed with colours, except the hall, stairs and landing, which require some kind of temporary Babel to reach the dizzying heights. It’s good Staveley teamwork and we enjoy it – I mix the colours and do the edges while P rollers for Tuscany usually while dancing to cheesy 70s music. Replacing the stark white walls with subtle blues, beiges, creams and yellows has definitely made it feel more like a home.

Which is more than I can say for that romantic notion of a log fire we spent so long trying to realise. It still covers the room in thick smog because our interior dome design wasn’t followed properly, which will involve another fight to fix it. But we are in no hurry now the warmer weather is en route and one can only fantasise about bumping off so many workmen in one year.

Ah fires, that reminds me... a couple of little ‘episodes’ to relate, if you will indulge me? Are you impressed by the magic trickery of David Blaine? If so, you will love the all-new, singing dancing Peter Blaine! Dearjoy, my reliable source of love and drama, managed to set fire to his hands while refilling a lighter the other day. Flames flapped everywhere and cats and wives looked startled. Luckily, while it was a spectacular show, it didn’t burn him. A true professional, then.

After this, I should have locked away all flammable items, but I was busy gluing 19th century Puccini manuscripts onto toilet walls and myself, and forgot. So, last week, Mr P Blaine decided to go for a fabulous finale (she uses the word ‘finale’ in hope). One rather chilly evening, he turned on the paraffin heater in our room to break the ice before bedtime, smiled, waved his wand and securely closed the door. All the best magic tricks should be secret (and unventilated) afterall. Soon, he was distracted by a family member in crisis and completely forgot about aforementioned volatile gas-in-a-box. 2 hours later, wife (or befeathered assistant) noticed a rather strange smell and traced it up to the boudoir. You don’t need a degree in disasters to predict the scene. Flames were billowing out of the heater, thick soot coated the walls and ceiling and befeathered assistant’s entire wardrobe of sequinned, sparkly, beautiful clothes was charred black and stunk of paraffin. Sob. Still, I had enough murderous thoughts about workmen to attach any additionals to hubby so I did a quick practical scan. No major harm or damage and all humans and felines safe and well. Walls can be dusted down, washed and painted (twice in a fortnight!), most of my clothes have been washed and resuscitated, books can be wiped and most furniture can be restored. The only permanent victims so far appear to be my antique feather fan, the chair cover, one shoe and a few more delicate items of clothing. So all in all, a lucky escape (talking of escape, I wish P had used Houdini as his role model as he didn’t like fire). Suffice to say that the resident pyromaniac has been forced into early retirement by the glowering look on his wife’s face every time he glances lovingly at a matchstick.

After all that talk of hot stuff, you would think that some nice cooling water would be a welcome sight. Not if you are the Staveleys. We have – at the last count – had 8 floods, 3 engineer call-outs due to buggered boiler, 2 very upset children who were forced to take a cold shower in mid-winter because hot water just gave up and 2 really, really upset adults who are fed up with brushing teeth downstairs, screaming in mid-shower when it stops/goes cold, being perplexed when new toilets wont flush, developing nervous twitches each time they see a tap and suffering complete exhaustion at the hands (or valves) of radiators which regularly wake them in the middle of the night humming louder than a Vespa with chronic asthma. Some drips have been wiped up – no harm done. Some leaks have slightly buckled the wood flooring but we can live with the effect because it looks ‘old’. Some floods have been the size of an Italian lake and have completely ruined the floor. That’s the floor P drove all the way from England of course. Not any of the local stuff. Nah – too easy.

We should have sacked/tortured the plumber by now, I hear you cry. Trouble is here, there are only three local plumbers (you need local for commune regulations), they all know each other, they are possibly Mafia and Andrea – our dear employee – is the cheapest, nearest and friendliest of the bunch. He also tends to come quickly if there is an emergency. True, the emergency is usually created by his own clutziness in the first place, but he is nice, has had quite a few personal problems, is very obliging with our strange foreign whims for trough sinks and antique taps and hey, everyone deserves a last chance.

So, after various threats, a three hour meeting/long list of grievances and several small pokes with cheese knives, Andrea has agreed to rectify the problems and pay for the damage. Well, I say pay – I mean rip it all out and get the builder to lay a new floor (local one this time) so he can have fun fitting it all wrong again. But at least it wont cost us anything, other than more grey hairs and some slightly odiferous crevices while we await the nuovo bagno.

Ah, I speak the lingo now, you see. Well, not exactly, but it’s coming along slowly, thanks to our wonderful new Italian teacher Laura (pron Lau – ora). It’s strange to be back at school (only we are allowed to smoke in our break without getting detention); ploughing through exercises and homework. I think some of it is sinking in as we have managed to have more detailed discussions with our Italian amici, but we still have a long way to go.

At least, now most of the house is habitable (grilled beds and warped bathrooms aside), we have vowed to take more time out from restoration and have some fun. For the last 5 Sunday mornings, we have gone to Lucca, where one of the old theatres is holding concerts of all 32 of Beethoven’s sonatas. We feel very lucky to sit in an old chapel, listening to some world-class pianists play 90 minutes of heavenly music and then have some complimentary vino and delicious nibbles – all for €5.

We also went to the Viareggio carnival with friend Marilyn. It’s known for its political messages and is the largest costumed party outside Venice. It was amazing. Huge floats with everything from bees to Obama on them. Weeks later, I am still picking confetti out of my handbag. Pics are on Facebook for those readers who are technically inclined / can be bothered.

When we can’t afford the high-life, we get most of our free happiness in the garden. I’ve potted up all my veggie seeds for the summer (30 different yummy things) and generally tidied, hoed, raked, staked and pruned. My daff and iris bulbs are in bloom at the front and the wisteria is sleepily coming to life. P has been involved in an ongoing war with the grass (Forth Bridge stuff, as soon as last bit is mown, first bit needs doing again) but at least now he has dad’s mower for the flat bits. I think I should be in charge of the bonfires though, don’t you? :o) And finally, a new recruit in the shape of Guliano, a local agricultural genius, has been helping us to sort out our problematic vineyard. Hopefully by summer, we will have new wooden posts and proper wire to tease all the plants upright. Then the huge gaps where the old vines have died will be more obvious. More money will be needed to replace those eventually with some decent black (red) varieties. Oh joy.

We had a lovely Easter with the Godstone gang, including a day’s cooking demo with dear friend Andrina – a true Italian cook, passionate about anything edible. We finally talked our way into the privately-owned Verucola castle and church, which was even more magical than we had imagined. The Easter egg hunt at Pescigola (our local villa nobile) probably amused the grown ups more than little Luca, who was a bit overwhelmed by the hoards of screaming Italian children! We all loved the trip to the seaside with a picnic in the sunshine and the last day’s cheesy tourist pics in Pisa topped it off. The kids/teens were a delight to talk to and it was lovely to get to know them all a little better. Hope you enjoy your mugs guys!

We have some rather super news… P is to shortly double his amount of grandchildren as James and Amy are expecting twins! We are so unbelievably excited and are looking forward to more trips back to England to be babysitters/house-cleaners/general skivvies – I’m sure with two, they’ll need all the support they can get! Congratulations Mr and Mrs S – we are keeping everything crossed and can’t wait to meet the new additions to the Staveley family.

And one final joy for us – we’ve booked our first proper long holiday in over 5 years – whoop, whoop and dobeedoo! Off to Marrakech in June for P’s birthday and our 9th (where did that go?!) anniversary. Thank you to Room 5 for being catsitters/gardeners in our absence – we couldn’t go away and sleep for two weeks if it wasn’t for you xxxx Hopefully, we might wake up for a few hours so we can browse around the Medina and see if we can spot any exotic bargains for the den. With excess baggage so far costing us the equivalent of a swimming pool in the last two years, we might just book a crate this time :o)

Ciao per ora. A presto.

J and P XXXX

PS Animal update: First ever pine martin sighting; Cats clingy and as usual trying to kill each other; Stopped for 2 mins by an oblivious badger waddling across the road; Almost wet myself with excitement when I saw a wolf (wow – very beautiful and majestic), Lots of wheely bugs, moths and butterflies heralding spring; Took most of the night to drive back from restaurant yesterday due to frogs littering the road (I made P promise he wouldn’t hurt any, poor man had to drive with the skill of Jensen Button, only a million times slower); And I’ve finally realised a dream and signed myself up for some voluntary work at the dog rescue centre 35 mins from us. Walking, loving and socialising many beautiful mutts. Hours are flexible so it fits with my tum, which is great. Not so great for marriage if I adopt all 200 of them, which I am worried I might do!

PPS Other random things of note that don’t fit into any of the above:
(1) For reasons we really can’t fathom, the word ‘postcard’ is banned from our Italian email. The server would not let me send a message until I established/deleted the culprit. This terribly rude and offensive word is so much worse than anything else I ever write, of course :o)
(2) Also for unfathomable reasons (but maybe Ian McCaskill could explain), about a month ago, it was a little nippy here (no breeze, no snow, all calm) so we drove into Fivi (1 mile downhill) for some heart-warming pizza and we were met with a snow blizzard that would have seemed completely in place in Dr Zhivago. Could barely see 6 feet in front, Mimi (or should she be renamed Lara?) skidded everywhere and when we left the car I was actually blown off my feet by a howling icy gale. Had to cling to a lamppost. Feeble I know!
(3) Yesterday while pottering about Massa – our regional capital town – I spotted some shoes that I could only politely describe as ‘footwear for ladies of the night’ We’re talking 10 inch heels and lashings of black shiny material, with obligatory sparkly bits thrown in. If you could ever find anything so seedy in England, they would be in a bargain basket at T K Maxx for £5. Here? €695!!! We have been musing, as we are running out of money, maybe we could proffer Peter’s hot hands to the bank manager for some extra cash. But at that price for necessary equipment, we will never be able to afford to turn Lecci into a brothel!