Saving olives, seconds shops, stufas, sanding tubs, surprise chestnuts, St Martino, slurping with Ma & Pa, soubriqrets, sneezing, snow, snow, snow

Juliet writes:
Cari amici,

It’s been another busy few weeks in Cerignano. We’ve almost given up hope of having a civilised house in time for Christmas, but not quite yet. You just never know whether a bit of 11th-hour elbow grease and a sprinkling of reliable workmen might save the day.

Since the last blob, we’ve had our olive harvest, which is undoubtedly my favourite time in the farming year. Rummaging for little black pearls in the warm late autumn sunshine with the smell of wild mint and the sound of eagles overhead is possibly the closest thing to heaven. There was a moment of mild panic when the Squire took a stroll around the estate and informed me that there was hardly any fruit this year, but then I remembered he wasn’t wearing his glasses. As it turned out, we had a slightly bigger crop than last year (and that is with only pruning two trees – imagine if we can be bothered to do them all!). So we now have just under 20 litres of Tuscany’s finest extra-virgin. The acidity rating in our little borgo is 0.001% which, in layman’s terms, is the best you can get. Our neighbours sold some of their olio as far afield as Milan and Lake Maggiore. Of course we had no idea it was this good when we bought the house, but we feel rather smug now we do :o)

To celebrate, we did a spot of bargain shopping. P and I stumbled upon some second-hand shops in the Sarzana / La Spezia area. Think Steptoe with a bit of Italian bling thrown in. After some scouring we picked up an oriental mirror, a heavy antique bronze coat stand, a beautiful battered old low coffee table for the den, half a dozen more old lamps and lights for me to restore and some DVDs, all for under €100.

On Ebay Italia I picked up a beautiful fire guard and an antique cast iron stufa (wood-burning stove) for a snip, which I somehow managed to pay for and get delivered safely despite a distinct lack of language skills. Unfortunately the seller of the shower I’ve bought needs proof of house ownership, certificate of building works, carta d’identita, codice fiscale and the number of hairs on my left eyebrow before they will send it.

Still trying to find a wardrobe large for all our dusty clothes that doesn’t cost the equivalent of BA’s annual losses.

Another nice distraction came in the form of St Martino’s day on November 11th. Our friends in Comano have a little chapel dedicated to this patron saint of soldiers, geese, winegrowers and poverty, among other random things. We were invited to a service there conducted by the fascinating local padre (who has been around the world on various missions), said a prayer for our wine crop to be resurrected and indulged in a delicious English afternoon tea. We met some lovely locals (who looked at the cucumber sandwiches with slight mistrust) and the only other expats – she a Hollywood costume designer and he a retired shipbuilder from Glasgow. It was a really fun and interesting afternoon – grazie tanto Sue e Matteo!

Life here has picked up pace again after a long time doing bugger all. A year ago I ordered a lovely cast iron claw foot bath. Due to an ongoing legal battle between storage company and shippers, we have given up hope – at least for now – of seeing it in Italy. So a cheap and quick replacement was needed. After begging with another shipping company to give us a good price, it arrived on Thursday. It’s not as nice as the original one, but with the drop in temperature and the increase in jobs that make us ache all over, we just don’t care anymore. And yesterday, after a few hours of sanding, cleaning and painting plus some ageing of the claw feet, it does actually look quite passable. Now all we need to do is pray to St Bartholomew (patron saint of plumbers).

Meanwhile, two of the four bedroom floors have been laid in Peter’s terracotta and chestnut design. As with everything the Staveleys turn out, they look beautiful but are not exactly high-scoring in the practical department. Dust and rubble have already collected in all the gaps. But at least the chestnut bit is easy to clean :o)

Talking of chestnuts, we went gathering in our local woods a few days ago. In the late afternoon sunshine, our hands became red raw from prizing open the spikey cases. We collected a large basket and were about to cook some when we realised with disappointment (and a smattering of disgust), that maggots had made homes in some of our bounty, although the locals assured us that they roast well too. Hmmmm – not sure that is particularly vegetarian but I refuse to let two hours of my time go to waste!

My birthday was a rather strange event. It started off with a lovely breakfast cooked by the resident chef while I opened my gorgeous cards and presents from said chef/friends/family but then we had to don our work clothes and shift furniture for the flooring to be laid. That said, my favourite builder Ivan (Vanya in Ukranian) flung his tools down, sang ‘Tanti auguri’ and gave me a big hug and, thanks to P, I did manage to quaff a good amount of prosecco in between painting walls, so I can think of worst ways to commiserate being old :o)

Work has also started on the cantina (cellars), which means there is now 3 inches of dust on every surface and in literally every crevice. We sneeze hundreds of times a day between us. This is quite depressing considering the amount of hours P and I have previously spent on our love affair with Mr Sheen. However, on the bright side, we do now almost have a Persian den of iniquity, the walls of our shower room are up and the curved corridor ceiling has been built. I’ve sourced a gorgeous hand-painted Persian tile mural for the shower (cheaply from a Tunisian artisan based in Atlanta – confused?), plus an antique English tap and a great local stone sink. The tile man might even be able to custom make the dining room floor quicker and for less money than the company in Sicily who already has them in stock (but are yet to send me a payment order despite 9 months of phone calls and emails). The builders are back on Monday to just finish off the vitals but then will leave us in peace until the new year as we have so much to do before Christmas.

Sometimes it feels like all we do is get up early to greet builders, work hard all day, get mucky and collect splinters and bruises, but I am being unfair and too complaining. We do manage to squeeze some fun in between the chores, reminding ourselves why we passionately love this country. Our local mercatino natale (Christmas market) provided such a cue – old fashioned carousels, a little train running through the cobbled streets, some gorgeous hand-crafted gifts and two hours sitting with locals drinking a mandarin punch that dissolved the tongue. Then, a couple of days ago we found ourselves in a car park on a freezing cold day meeting up with Ma and Pa – the names we have given to Jennie and Alan, an English couple who have run a local B&B here for years. Thanks to a day out in Lucca, several lunches and dinners and much laughter, they have become very dear friends. Our mission for the day was to storm the large market in Forte dei Marmi – Italy’s 3rd most expensive resort (after Portofino and Capri). After Santa’s elves purloined a few stocking fillers, we had a gorgeous and very alcoholic lunch outdoors in the sunshine (not bad for December) and inevitably the party got slightly lairy. Pursuant to some rude jokes (during which Peter acquired the soubriquet Stiffy Staveley), some loud cackles, a convincing Welsh accent and various strange looks from the other diners, we skipped off to Camaiore to pick up our original mullion and chat to the workers. By which point we had disappointingly sobered up, so Ma and Pa – who know this part of Italy so well – suggested we dabble in a wine-tasting at a local agriturismo. They produce some of the best wine in the region so of course we took great delight in trying every bottle and slurring our way through a conversation with the staff. We bought a case of exceptionally smooth 2006 Lunae for next to nothing, which should see us through Christmas day.

Talking of which, we – rather prematurely – ordered a large turkey and invited Ma, Pa and carpenter round for Christmas Day. Luckily they are all lovely so hopefully they wont mind the dust and mayhem too much. But I can’t begin to tell you how much I have to do before they arrive. I am writing this blob now in a futile attempt to delay the 24-hour painting, dusting, cleaning, moving of furniture, moving furniture again once floors are laid, making mince pies, wrapping presents, decorating trees, pleading with plumbers, creating a princess bedroom, food shopping, harvesting veg and all the other bits that will inevitably follow.

Today is glorious – a foot of snow (the heaviest for years in the borgo, which has played havoc with our water pipes but at least the roads are clear thanks to three snow ploughs working busily this morning) coupled with blinding sunshine – and I just can’t seem to get motivated to paint anything. But needs must… we have our favourite family coming to stay three days after Christmas and we have been excited about it for 9 months (since they booked their flights!) so we have every reason to make the house safe, clean and Christmassy. Clare, Asi, Ella and Maia – I only hope you know what you’re letting yourselves in for!

If I don’t get the chance to write another blob before Christmas, Peter and I wish you all a wonderful festive time and a very, very happy and healthy New Year.

Hopefully I’ll see some of you in January, if they let me back into Blighty with nibbled passport!

Take care and wrap up warm.

Lots and lots of love from me and Stiffy XXXX

Two Blobs for the Price of One. First up: Organ stops, slugs, fires and murders, hospitals, family and a distinct lack of 2009 vintage

Juliet writes:

As Dame Shirley Bassey once sang: ‘Where do I begin?’ To which a rather smug Austrian nun disguised as Julie Andrews already knew the answer. I wont allude to any more cheesy songs, or go back that far in our adventures, but I’ll do my best to fill you in on the Tuscan grapevine.

If I remember rightly, last time I scribbled something down we were surrounded by packing boxes and traumatised cats. Ah, how little changes. In fairness, we have been exhausted. Totally stanco, distrutto and in pezze, as the locals say. So we’ve undertaken impressive amounts mooching about, eating cheese, watching films and half-heartedly cleaning the odd bit of stone or wood. I probably do us a disservice as I know that we haven’t really sat on our proverbials the whole time – it just feels like we are doing nothing compared to the frenetic pace of the last 18 months.

As I write, I have cotton buds jammed in my ears... not just the result of a nasty ear infection that has been bothering me for days, but also because – full trumpet fanfare and dancing girls with feathers and sparkly bits please – at last we have the plumbers in to install our radiators and there is much drilling/hammering (of previously smooth, lovely, painted walls, naturally). Although it’s still gloriously warm here in the sunshine during the day, the mornings and evenings in October onwards are decidedly crisp. Add to that the enormous holes/gaps in all our windows and doors and you have a very draughty cold house. Frankly, certain parts of my anatomy have been sticking out like organ stops for several weeks now. And I have become rather fed up with retiring to bed wearing thick pyjamas, two jumpers, long woolly socks, at least one cat and sometimes gloves and hat, while tightly grasping our impressive collection of hot water bottles (4) and trying to forget the cold by stringing them all together and pretending they are Matthew McFadden.

I digress. Anyway, I am delighted to report that – breaking news – the radiators are leaking cold water through our dining room ceiling on their first test. Hopefully by tonight we will have progressed to leaking hot water. That would be lovely.

Talking of water, we had another mild aqua crisis a few days ago. One morning I went to fill the morning coffee pot and something strangely brown came dribbling sorrowfully out of our lovely copper tap. Funny, I thought, must be local waterworks – it’s often brown-ish when it first comes back on again. So I made the espresso and life continued as normally as the Staveleys’ lives ever do for the rest of the day. We then watched the water supply slow to less than a few drips of gunk. Nevermind. It’ll be back on properly in the morning, she mused hopefully while brushing her teeth for the night. After a whole day of scooping water out of our dip pool for household use, P went to check on our neighbours supplies. All fine and watery there. Hmmmm. Our plumber Andrea was on holiday, of course. So we called up Gaia – the Italian equivalent of Thames Water, only a lot more complicated. Another day of pool water and sponge baths ensued, before a charming engineer arrived. After tinkering with the valves and pipes outside, he located the source of the problem with much glee. At which point it all goes a little blurry because my husband let out a soprano scream and I did a squeamish dance around the garden yelping in a shamefully girly way. If you are eating while reading this, I suggest you finish up or walk away from your plate now. The cause of the blockage was an enormous slug stuck in the valve, or more accurately by the time the engineer had finished, half a slug and lots of slimey bits of organ (do slugs even have organs?). Suffice to say, Peter and I had no dinner that evening and washed our teeth about 15 times. In bottled water.

As with everything in life, monumental cock-ups come in threes. Our internet has been playing further havoc, going AWOL more times than it’s been behaving. It is certainly a nuisance as far as trying to get anything productive done or make calls to our loved ones, but it has been nice in the evenings. We sit huddled by our almost working log fire (another story too boring to elaborate on) and think of ways to entertain ourselves... steady on, the filthy-minded among you! Some nights, it is board or card games. Sometimes just chatting about what we have done and what we still have to do. Sometimes we watch a film. But nicest of all is when my hubby – who has always had a velvety voice, sits and reads to me. Our book of the month is an old one of mine – The Fifty Most Amazing Crimes of The Last 100 Years, by Parrish & Crossland. As it’s antique, it covers the contemporary likes of Dr Crippen and Jack the Ripper with wonderfully entitled chapters such as The Green Bicycle Mystery and The Terrible Fate of Mrs Staunton. Oh, the stories of cads, swindlers, imposters, vagabonds and thieves. We are usually so engrossed in tales of treachery that we forget everything that is malfunctioning in our lives.

Which brings me – with a joyful liver and a tear in my eye – to the sorrowful Murder of The Tuscan Vineyard by Mr and Mrs P H Staveley. As you know, I spent several weeks in spring and some summer days fighting with the vines, hacking back the branches and tying it all up with wire, bits of string and prayers to Bacchus. Then, one is supposed to sit back and let nature take its course until the new leaves and baby grapes appear, when they need a good, regular drowning in organic copper sulphate to ward off all beasties. As we were somewhat distracted by kitchen unit assembly and haggling with builders, P didn’t get the chance to spray them more than once. So, two bugs later, our 2009 vintage consists of the finest Tuscan raisin juice. Still, at least we still have enough of the 08 to keep us dancing merrily until we can persuade someone local to help us clueless foreigners out next year.

Talking of clueless and foreign, my dear husband is now proud to claim he is on first name terms with the entire staff of Fivizzano Hospital. After getting a foreign body stuck in his thumb (probably a piece of splintered wood) that then turned septic, he has officially made it into double figures for hospital visits since our arrival 19 months ago. A quick slice of the knife helped no end, and best of all he promised the doctors something that I have been imploring him to do for over a year - to wear gardening gloves as soon as he steps outside.

Onto happier stuff, I feel. And family provided it in spades. The visit of P’s youngest son Ben and partner Di turned out to be the nicest 4 days we have spent for a long time. After a hellish journey getting here (10 feet off the runway at Pisa, diverted to Genoa and coach back to Pisa), they managed to unwind courtesy of a long and liquid dinner at Spino’s. As always, alcohol loosens people up and Peter and Ben had a heart-to-heart that was long overdue. This was promptly followed by lots of hugs, an amusing father-and-son duet on the bongos and far too much Phil Collins to be beneficial to anyone’s health. As a result, I think it’s fair to say that they are closer now than they have been in years and I am so happy for them both. And as I’ve known Ben since he was 11 and grew to love him fiercely, I have missed him tremendously these last few months, so I’m happy for me too! Di’s positive outlook, love, support and determination has turned Ben’s life around – they are very much in love despite 4 years of every type of challenge being thrown their way and we are so pleased and grateful that Ben has found someone so special. We spent a super few days doing the usual coast and city trips, although Lucca was particularly poignant for Di with her Italian grandmother, as her youngest son is named after the city. They are generous, fun, relaxed, enthusiastic, helpful and very easy company and we cannot wait for them to visit again xxx Even better, Di is a practical country girl, her eldest son is a landscape gardener, while Ben is skillful at everything from computers to painting, so we have an ulterior motive in getting them back here as soon as possible!

Extending the family visitations, P’s eldest (and wisest!) cousin Rosalyn and husband David happened to be holidaying nearby and popped to see us for a long lunch last week. It was a first for us to pick up guests from our local train station with no luggage! And what a lovely 4 hours we had together in the autumn sunshine, talking about family, life, love, opera, jewellery making (Rosalyn is a very talented silversmith) and alternative energy sources (David has written a paper on wave power). They are super company and we look forward to them returning for a longer visit, perhaps for the Puccini festival next year?

And on the subject of visits, I am hoping to return to Blighty to see my mum (long overdue) and catch up with friends next month. As many of you may have heard, the only snag (of course there is one, I’m Juliet Staveley!) is that my passport was nibbled by my friend’s puppy last time I returned and it’s no longer in an acceptable state. So, after realising that the Italian Consulate has stopped its passport services, followed by several long conversations with the UK Passport and Identity Service and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, I have established three things: (1) I could never be an international jet-setting spy (2) I always look like a criminal with a serious skin problem in passport photographs (3) the only ways I can get a replacement passport are to stuff lots of euros in an envelope addressed to Paris or do a dodgy postal application to the UK. I’ve opted for the latter, because I can only remember three words of French. And they are not printable.

Ciao per ora, cari amici XXXX

Oh, a quick wildlife report before we rush off to tend to a friend who had a bad car accident recently… P spotted a deer bounding in our garden yesterday afternoon, which was terribly exciting (although I fear it may have been frightened out of its natural territory by the hunting season – guns going off day and night here now!), our bats continue to do their nightly fly-past, we are being infested with pretty little bright green beetles who seem to think Villa dei Lecci is a great place to turn brown and die, and our semi-feral cats are a constant and alternating source of headache and amusement. In the chill of our radiator-free house, Stinky has curled up tight against me every night under the duvet (spoilt? Noooooo) and Weed sits on my lap by the fire as often as possible. Soppy, silly pair.

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