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)
