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of paraffin and plotting the slow and painful murder of their plumber using garden string, a tooth-pick and some out-of-date mascarpone.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!
