"E a uno a uno li ho lasciati dietro di me. Geometria. Un lavoro perfetto." ( "Novecento" by Alessandro Baricco )

Wednesday evening, 1st of May, a public holiday here.  Here, very sensibly, they take their holidays very seriously.

We were sitting outside the local bar listening to a live band playing covers of Johnny Cash and Jefferson Airplane and other incongruities, while the sun set on a sweltering Labour Day Holiday.  There was quite a crowd, young and old(er), many having just returned from a day on the beach.  They were smoking, drinking, eating pizza and porchetta; these latter being sold from a van set up by a nearby hotel and the quality was excellent.  But mostly people were strolling and chatting and the band went largely ignored, pity, because they were rather good.

We have been here nearly eighteen months and know many of the locals, some only by sight, but that doesn't deter any one of them from approaching us to ask whether our house is finished yet, and they all do, and our answer is well practised, "No, not yet, but soon, in two weeks we hope."  This news is greeted with hearty congratulations.  "Yes", we go on to say, "there are only a few outstanding jobs, we are awaiting the electricity company, the plumber, the electrician and the carpenter to complete them."  This information is followed by tight-lipped, knowing smiles, and the congratulations quickly turn to variations on "Good Luck!" What they don't know, and we don't dare say outright, even  to ourselves, is that water or not, electricity or not, whatever or not, all our worldly goods are arriving from England in 2 weeks and we are moving in, whatever.  Thus the optimistic quote above, which roughly translates as:  "And one by one I left them behind me.  Geometry!  A job done to perfection."

Here is a photo' of the almost completed house.  The railings have been put up and the walls have just been painted.  The paint is in fact a form of coloured plaster "intonaco" and the owner of the shop that sold it to us advised, in his patriarchal way, that we wait at least a month before even looking at it.  But how can we not notice now that the colour of  the fresh paint in the bright sunlight is quite startling? Either it will weather or we'll simply have to get used to living with it, as with so much else in our 'new' house.

The view of the house from across the valley puts me in mind again of Baricco's  "Novecento" - "Aveva un dente d'oro proprio qui, così in centro che sembrava l'avesse messo in vetrina per venderlo." This, I think, loses a lot in translation: "He had a gold tooth, right here, placed so centrally that it looked as though it had been put up for sale in a shop window."

Whether it is symmetry or incongruity that pleases you, there is something for all in the knowledge that Jorma Kaukonen, the lead guitarist of Jefferson Airplane, had/has a gold tooth in his shop window.

Come July, when the land has dried out well enough, the earth around the house will be bull-dozed into some sort of symmetry.  At that point we shall start thinking about the planting ...

Il Gelso as it was ...

Il Gelso as it is today.

"Allan didn't know if the prime minister was Left or Right. He must certainly be one of them, because if there was one thing life had taught Allan, it was that people insisted on being one or the other." ("The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared". Jonas Jonasson)

The Italian elections last week proved, if proof were necessary, that "Allan", despite the wisdom of his hundred years, was most decidedly wrong.

I spent this morning talking with our lovely bathroom lady about bathroom accessories, in particular, loo brushes. She started by showing me three extravagantly produced catalogues of the most marvellous bathroom accessories I have ever seen. Seeming-precious metals and semi-precious stones designed by artists deserving of that title and produced by artisans worth their weight in gold. What was more amazing was that I might have been tempted to buy if it weren't for the prices. However, I was quickly brought down to earth when told that none of these products was available. All three companies had gone bust. "This is the state of Italy today!" said our lovely bathroom lady. These companies had been selling to the rich, the famous and the aspirational all over the world, now the market had completely dried up. In Italy, she said, no-one is fitting new bathrooms and, where they are replacing the worn out, they go to IKEA. The sales of bathroom accessories in IKEA, she knows, have increased by 300%.

In the shop she just happened to have one loo brush remaining from one of these extinct companies. Last of its kind - a beautiful, bronzed dinosaur, and, just for me, it came with a "sconto" (discount). I bought it, how could I not.

And why was I shopping for bathroom accessories? Because our bathrooms have been tiled! A week of blood sweat and tears getting our awkward-sized tiles and our complicated walk-in shower unit around the "squadrati" (not squared) walls. Added to which, only one tiler was on site, the other having to care for an injured relative. This lone tiler, using his knowhow gained from years of experience, and with bountiful concern for our wellbeing, advised us that the "fuga" (grout) which we had originally chosen wasn't quite right. The whole of Le Marche then had to be scoured (by us) to source precisely the "right" fuga.

Last week too, the windows and external doors were fitted and look amazing - framing all the views out, that is, before we have to bar some of them in. This is on Paolo's advice and we're still not sure whether it's for security or for aesthetic reasons.

An example of traditional Marchigiano window ironwork

So then the "fabbro"(blacksmith) came.  Paolo introduced him in flamboyant style, "Never been to school, but can fabricate any piece of metal to any design with the greatest of skill!" Looking at this diminutive, shy, old man we wondered...  His son had ferried him in the company truck. After dropping his father off the son deftly backed the truck straight into Paolo's ironwork gates which crumpled on impact. The son got out of the cab and looked at the sorely bent gates and said cooly, without hint of a grin, "Good thing we're blacksmiths'. The father walked up to inspect the damage and pronounced, "If I'd made that gate it wouldn't have crumpled like that." You've got to give it to them, that was some sales pitch!

Paolo's gate after the event

Next Monday morning we have a 10 o'clock appointment to confirm our order with the blacksmith's daughter.  Taking everything into account, perhaps these Italians know what they're doing after all.

"All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair - The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing - And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor build, nor sing." ("Work Without Hope" Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

It is Monday morning, the start of the working week and a momentous one for us. This week the tilers will come to lay the floor and bathroom tiles.  The carpenter will come to put in all the windows, the marmista (marble mason) will measure shelves for the bathrooms - layers of finishing touches which will make the house a home, before we make it our home.  I note there is no vocabulary in Italian to distinguish "house" (casa) from "home" (casa).  Something to thank the Saxons for.

It is early Monday morning, before 9am, and outside the house vans and cars are parked. We approach, smiling, with an air of expectancy and curious to see the unfolding of this watershed day.

As we approach we know something is amiss. There is much muttering, walking around in circles, swearing, names of prominent politicians flung, together with gesticulating arms, into the frozen air.  On seeing us they stop talking, discard their cigarettes, stare at their boots.  We quickly learn that a new law has been passed (when? where? how?) which prohibits more than one artisan from working on the same building at the same time.  We are told that, if caught breaching this new regulation (and sure as eggs is eggs they will be caught), the fine is 10,000 euros!

Now, one could waste time speculating as to the rationale behind such a law - is it to stop these massed artisans from arguing? to stop them wasting time gossiping? to prevent them tripping over each other? to delay a week so they can finish off another job? (too cynical?) to ensure at least one party is paid?  Such speculation is futile.  Much better for them to waste considerably more time trotting off to the local  tax lawyer and pay him a hefty fee.  For this the "commercialista" will help them form an "associazione" thereby enabling them to work as one.  The paperwork and approval will take a week to be drawn up and approved.  Meanwhile all work ceases.  The gates to the site are chained and locked, the key is left to rust and we are left to rage.

But it could have been worse.  Later in this idle week we idle into our regular greengrocer, only 12 kilometers or so from the site of the house.  He is effusive in his welcome and full of sympathy for our plight.  We haven't said a thing yet, honest.  He knows all about how the work on our house has had to stop, how the tilers were caught breaking the law, how they were fined, how aggrieved they are, how innocent folk for miles around are outraged at the injustice of it all - and so on, and on.  We are, to say the least, a little taken aback.  We buy some blood oranges (like gossip unbelievably juicy at this time of year) and reassure him that he must have misunderstood the story somewhere along the line (how long and tangled that line!).  Unless, of course, the misunderstanding is all ours...

We speculate on how this will impact on the rest of our re-structuring.  All the workmen are specialist artisans (artigiani) from Sandro the stone-mason to Gabriele the plumber; from Mirko the electrician through to Reimund the carpenter.  Will they all have to tip-toe onto the site one at a time with no two allowed to work together?  We are not too discouraged, after all we have some reason and sufficient experience to suspect that this week of enforced idleness will have been put to good use working out an appropriate "scappatoia" (escape route or work around!),

The week is at an end.  It is Saturday; the temperature has dropped.  We have had some snow, but now the sun is shining and we can all enjoy our day of rest.  

"How eerie it had looked in that first morning light, like a shipwreck that had risen silently to the surface." ("The Crossing" Elly Griffiths)

La Pensilina Fotovoltaica

This is a wondrously strange wooden structure.  Covering 12 x 7 meters of land and standing 3.80 m. at its tallest.  We had thought, in the planning, that it would dominate the garden, obscure the view south eastwards towards the hill fort town of Piticchio, dwarf the principal house and incite the wrath of the locals with its discordant aesthetics. Of course, we also thought that it would harness the sun's energy to provide an ecologically (and financially) efficient means of producing electricity.  The latter has yet to be proven (the financial benefits will take years to realise), but the former have all proven to be unfounded ... so far.

There is a concrete base on which sits a framework of massive fir beams, which, whilst admittedly big, has blended into the landscape with (dare I say) an aesthetic of its own. It is as if it has been absorbed by the landscape in the same way as it in turn will absorb the sunlight.

Inside the house the piping for the underfloor heating has been intricately laid throughout, all 7 kilometers of it.  The plumbers brought in a mobile boiler (have you heard of such a thing? I hadn't) to test the system, and it is working.  Just as well really, as the whole floor has already been cemented over.  And this is no ordinary screed, it contains metal filings designed to conduct  heat more effectively.  This too will have to be proven, although how one judges whether they make any difference is as much of a mystery to me as the whole cat's cradle of the photovoltaic system!  But, the fact remains that the house, without doors and windows, is heating up very nicely thank you.  Long may it continue.

The weatherman: impressive, indubitable, in his air force uniform, assures us that we will have snow again within the next two days.  Not so much, I hope, as to delay the arrival of the piastrellisti (tilers) to lay the floor tiles.  After that, the underfloor heating had better work, or we're all back to the drawing board, or the ice age.

Other great strides have been made.  The pergola has been assembled, an oaken structure, this time to shade from the sun.  Again, not as straightforward as one might think.  The base follows the old stable floor plan and is not a perfect rectangle.  Paolo mutters about how these old houses are all "squadrate" - out of kilter.  And then there is the problem of where to place the vertical beams so as to minimise the obstruction of the view.  It only takes half a day, five grown men and teatime looming to help solve everything.  I think they did rather well.  The next day the structure was completed.

La Pergola

The Main Pergola Cross-beam

Strides too on the stairs front.  Alessandro tiled the whole staircase in a day by himself. Paolo and I took over 2 hours (effectively the best part of a morning) just deciding how to arrange the tiles on the two (yes, two) steps leading from the ingresso (hallway) to the soggiorno (living room).  I think we did rather well. That afternoon the tiles were in place and grouted.

Stairs from below

 Stairs from above

Steps from hall to living-room

"She suggested they go into the forest where the wild boar were still hunted. 'If one charges you,' she said, 'you have to wait till the last second, then jump to one side like this. The boar run fast but they can't change direction.' 'I'll remember that,' said Bruno.' " ("A Possible Life" Sebastian Faulks)

We saw one once, a wild boar as big as a Dexter cow and twice as broad.  We were driving home from a nearby restaurant after midnight, turned a sharp bend on a steep road and the boar suddenly appeared in the headlights, calmly ambling across the road right in front of us.  The car was slowed because of the bend, which was fortunate because that boar wasn't going to veer or slow for us or anything else.  After that I knew as well as Bruno that if a boar were charging me I wouldn't wait till the last second.  At the restaurant we had eaten a pasta dish with cinghiale (boar) sauce, it was very tasty.

Boxing Day (Santo Stefano sees the hunters out in full regalia in full force.  Their cars line the country roads at all the strategic locations.  The sounds of gunshot and baying dogs are all around.  (We have been told of a hunter who hunts only out of season for fear of getting shot.)  Then all is peaceful once more until New Year's Eve (notte di San Silvestro) when, of course, we have the fireworks.  This year, prior to the night, the news is full of the new laws banning fireworks in town centres (finally!), except in Naples which, for reasons every italian seems to comprehend, is exempt.  Despite this, the next day the news is full of deaths and maiming caused by fireworks.  Here one has to resort to the French, "plus ça change..."

Work on our house continued right up to the 24th and will resume today.  In the interim we have been visiting our site with family and friends to view progress and debate THAT colour.  Thankfully throughout the holiday the weather has been gloriously sunny and the "sticky" mud, a feature of the building site, is drying out, mocking our insistence that all visitors bring along "suitable" footwear.

We spent New Year's Eve as guests of Italian friends.  After a veritable feast we toasted and embraced as the changeling hour struck.  Of course Paolo was there.  Everyone put him on the spot asking for a date in 2013 when our house would be completed.  Even in his cups he remained steadfastly, albeit charmingly, noncommittal.

After midnight we all sat at the table and played cards till 3.00am.  The game was called Sette e Mezzo (Seven and a Half), a gambling game played with Neapolitan cards.  Now you'll ask me how one plays and I will tell you.  There are no rules, or if there are, they are somewhat flexible.  Laugh a lot, shout a lot, swear a lot, cheat ad infinitum.  Leave the table at will and return at will without ever losing your turn (whenever that was).  Glare at your opponents cards and advise (preferably unwisely) whenever you can and especially when you can't. Argue about all of the above all of the time and then some.  Beg and borrow when you must, promise to repay and then forget...  are you getting the hang of it? Great fun to play (!), even though at the end we had lost all our initial stake - all five euros of it.  When gambling here, we now learn, it is advisable to keep the stakes low.

"And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, ... If one settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: 'That is not it at all, That is not not what I meant, at all.' " ("The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" T.S. Eliot)

For the most part the exterior of our house is "facia vista", exposed stonework, in all the subtle earth colours of the region from soft yellow to deep rust.  But there are areas, including the whole of the kitchen, which was the stables, where the exterior is plastered, "intonacato". Here we need to choose a colour of paint. It's not such a big deal.  It's not easy either.

Paolo insists that there are unspoken rules about colour. Houses must be painted in Marchigiano (from Le Marche) hues in order to be traditional. Looking around the towns and countryside you can see that for the most part he is right. Unusually in a country where conformity to the rules of fashion is paramount, there are some transgressors. Bitterly striking yellows, acid greens, deep, almost purple, browns and even (most unforgivable) white, will taint the horizon.

From the outset I had my sights on one particular house in a small hilltop town nearby. Mondavio boasts the best preserved "rocca" (fortress tower) in the region. It is also where I occasionally go to school to learn Italian. This house is not especially remarkable except for the colour of its intonaco: an earthy, pastel apricot. It has the advantage of blending with the stonework, having terra cotta tones, whilst a bit fruitier for interest. I have passed the house many times on my way to lessons, seen it in all weathers and at different times of day. I've set my heart on this colour.

Far too timid simply to knock on the door and ask the owner where he got his paint, we go to the supplier of our building materials, give the proprietor the address of the house and ask him to check it out and match the paint.  This is Italy, he understands, obliges, and eventually produces two sample paint pots.  One, he says, is spot on, the other a little darker, but we are to try both on a patch of our wall and wait and see.  There are also instructions about not painting the samples close together, about painting very large patches, and more. We ignore them all.

On a drizzly afternoon two small patches are painted side by side on the kitchen wall. Before the paint has even dried we stand back in horror and exclaim, in unison with Paolo, his sons, Alessandro and everyone with a view: "They're not right, they're all wrong.  O per amor di Dio, che faciamo! (What in God's name do we do now!)  In desperation we paint the least offensive colour onto a large brick and Peter and Paolo's son (the painter) drive up to Mondavio to see if the colour matches against the house. They return fairly sure it is the same, but insist that I take the sample myself and check just to be sure.  In reality it is so that, should it be wrong, I can be blamed.

My Brick in repose against the kitchen window

I carry the heavy brick, the bulky colour chart and the burden of my responsibility up the hill in Mondavio.  I stand outside the all important house, deposit my load by the roadside and begin my assessment.  An elderly lady walks slowly up the otherwise deserted road, wishes me good day and without asking, immediately intuits what I am doing, as though this were a normal everyday event in this peaceful place.

"Yes, yes, put it here to see" she commands. Then, "No, no, it's weathered there, but here, yes here, see it's the same colour. Che bello colore!"  She goes on her way, she has an appointment in town at 2.30 she explains.  It's nearly 3.00, but I am secretly glad she is delayed.  She has made the decision and in so doing has relieved me of the responsibility.

On my return to the building site the proprietor of the supply store has arrived, somewhat diluting my triumphal return.  He is delivering some cement bags, but has time to look at the samples on the wall. He is a patient man.  He looks at the wall, looks at all of us and says benignly, "Paint another, bigger patch and wait, wait, perhaps a month, and you will see."  It's not a: "be patient, my dear children, and all will be revealed unto you," but it may as well have been.

We are waiting, and watching...

"sta il cacciator fischiando / su l'uscio a rimirar" ("San Martino", poem by Giosuè Carducci).

The Feast of San Martino celebrates the transition from summer/autumn to the depths of winter;  seen by Carducci as a threshold.   The weather is expected to be unseasonably mild;  the Italian version of an Indian summer.

This year, however, whilst very warm, it rained, and it rained.  In Tuscany and Umbria they were flooded, as RAI news endlessly reminded us.  Even the "Tevere"in Rome nearly broke its banks.  Here in our little part of Le Marche our little "temporary replacement" bridge (see blog of 1st May 2012) was swept away by the flood waters of the Cesano river.

Now there are two bridges, the old and the new, both impassable.  Locals come from the north and from the south banks of the divide to stare at the destruction.

On the south side there is a little restaurant, a kind of roadside cafe, frequented by lorry drivers and canny locals. The food here is excellent and cheap, as is the house wine (even cheaper this time of year because the new "novello" wines have just been pressed). Today the restaurant is almost empty. The patron bemoans his loss of custom with a shrug and a smile, as he heaps another helping of fresh "pesce blu" onto our plates. These "little pilchards"(?) are baked whole in a seasoned crumb  and are eaten with your fingers. They may be finger-licking good, but this is more feast-food than fast-food.

Whilst one thoroughfare has been destroyed another has been created.  The pathway up to our front door has been concreted.  The actual work took less than two hours.  The build up took many hours of argument among the workers - how wide should it be, how high, how steep the angle of incline?  We had very little say and, as usual, Paolo did it his way.  Once paved, I'm sure it will be perfect, or, at least, Paolo will convince us it is so.

For those interested, here's my own liberal translation of Carducci's "San Martino"

Clouds shroud the hills
A mist rises
And under a nor’ westerly
A rage-blanched sea cries out.

Meanwhile, unseen, beguiling fumes
Of fermenting wines in oaken vats,
Smother the alleyways of the borgo,
Seducing the senses.

A spit, over a burning log
Turns the roast, the fat spatters,
In a doorway stands the hunter
Whistling, watching, waiting.

Starlings swirl in charcoal scribbles
Across the clouds’ pastel blush
Wayward scrawls, like wayward thoughts
Atone at evensong.

"Sometime before noon, clouds scudded in from the west and rain fell in big scented drops; but the sun re-emerged with a scorching heat, and now the sky is so clear you can see Heaven and spy on what the saints are doing." ( "Bring Up The Bodies" Hilary Mantel )

I know I am not alone in thinking that the juxtaposition of Festivals that are celebrated in Italy at this time of year is rather curious.

On the 31st of October we have Halloween: originally pagan, and which (despite the garish, plastic pumpkins which adorn the supermarket shelves in a land where the real things grow aplenty), remains eerily ghoulish.  The 1st November sees in All Saints Day, dating back to the martyrs of The Holy Roman Empire.  Then on the 2nd of November, The Feast of All Souls when souls in purgatory are said to reappear and, being hungry, eat the meals carefully prepared and laid out for them on their tombstones or haunt the houses which the living vacate on this day to visit the cemeteries.

Near us, the town of Corinaldo is most famed for its Halloween Festa, which begins on 26th October.  Pilgrims come from all over Europe, many in their camper vans, to enjoy the spectacles and partake in the festivities.  But this year we had rain.  The bad weather had been predicted by all the meteorological internet sites and the faithful stayed at home.  Corinaldo tried to put on a brave face - the streets were decorated, local artisans set up stalls in the thoroughfares and most of the planned events went ahead, including the "Miss Strega" (Miss Witch) beauty (?) contest.  Without the usual throngs the commune of Corinaldo ended up out of pocket and deemed the whole affair "un flop" (trans. a flop).

After which the sun came out.  Which was just as well because it enabled the builders to finish the roof on our annexe.  As with the completion of the roof on the main house we shall have our own little celebration and invite the builders and their partners to a dinner;  perhaps a pizza this time, given that it is a relatively small roof.

Another milestone in the construction of the house came with the purchase of a postbox which we proudly put up at the roadside.  A symbolic sense of ownership?  Not really, we were expecting bills for water and electricity and, lo and behold, 2 days after placing the postbox the bills arrived.  Now that's what I call a prompt and efficient postal service;  don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

The Postbox

Il Gelso - The Mulberry Tree

" 'The low-lying areas of the town around the Forum, and the valleys between the hills, where flood-water usually collected, were drained by sewers leading down to the Tiber.' And this, adds Dionysius, was 'a wonderful work exceeding all description.' " (The "town" was Rome and Dionysius is quoted here in "The Etruscans" by Verner Keller).

The plumber finally arrived last Tuesday!  ("He's the best", says Paolo).  We know this prodigy has arrived because the "new" internal walls have all been hacked almost to ruins, and multi-coloured pipes criss-cross the floors like elaborate sketches for a prototype man-trap.

Outside, yet more menacing pipes have been laid in deep trenches leading from the house to an adjacent field further down the hill.  There are 2 tracks of pipes, one for black water (sewerage) which flows to a septic tank, and one for white water from gutters, sinks et al.  (Fascinating, huh?)

Stefano and his mate are back on site choreographing 2 diggers - to make the channels; to place the septic tank; and then to refill the holes.

Meanwhile, up at the annexe, the cement mixer returns with a new load to fill the "cordolo" (a cordon) which secures the wooden beams in the roof, effectively holding the structure together.  The reclaimed "coppi" (roof tiles) sit patiently to one side, watching cement dry.

These works are dependant upon dry weather.  The Gods are smiling on us this October day, the sun is shining, the temperature has reached 25 degrees.  But, proverbially speaking, we need more than one day.

Paolo walks us up to a high point on our plot of land.  "From here," he booms over the engine of the cement-mixer, "the symmetry of the house can be viewed at its most pleasing."  If you close off all other senses and avoid looking down at the sewage channels, you might be inclined to agree.

"It is towards Girolamo Guerrisi that we should extend the finger of blame - or, indeed, the hand of congratulation - for inventing the fable that Marco Polo brought pasta to Italy from China." ("Delizia!" by John Dickie)

In this quote Dickie is referring to a short story printed in an American publication called "Macaroni Journal" of 15th October 1929.  The title of the story is "A Saga of Cathay" (written by the above Guerrisi) and its protagonist is none other than a fictional Venetian named Spaghetti.  I'm not altogether sure what relevance this has to my blog, other than I was reading the book whilst on holiday last week and was much amused.

We spent the week visiting the area around Recanati which is just south of Ancona.  It's a little inland from the much coveted holiday resort of The Conero Peninsula (National Park).  There are, undoubtedly, many wonderful things to see and do around here.  A tour of Leopardi's library in Recanati is a must.  Not so the watery cappuccino served in the Porto Recanati bars.

The folk of Recanati are justly proud of their town.  One elderly man stopped his car in the middle of a busy thoroughfare as we were walking along to ask (these obvious tourists!) where we were from, "Ooh, I love the English!"; to sing the praises of his town; and to give us directions, unwittingly,  to all the sights we'd just visited; all the while totally oblivious to the traffic snarling up behind him.

But there's none so proud as the policewoman (vigile urbano) in Filottrano;  super smart in her spotless white and blue starched hat and impenetrable Ray-Bans.  We stopped her in the street to ask directions to a small WWII museum we particularly wanted to visit in the town.  She was fairly sure it was closed on a Saturday morning, but was immediately on her service mobile to someone who might know more.  That 'phone was busy.  Undaunted, she marched us across town to the museum building.  It was closed, but the opening times on the door said it should have been open.  We would have given up, but not our new friend. She led us into the public library next door and demanded an explanation, to be told that the curator was away on holiday - "in America!" (with the key in his luggage?).  We thought we'd come to the end of the line and took leave of our new friend with effusive thank you's and goodbyes, as she went off to resume her civic duties.

We wandered back into the street.  Whereupon, stridently approaching us, was the very same uniformed lady. She'd had a brainwave and, as consolation for our disappointment, invited us back to her offices where she had maps and guides to the town.  Not wishing to disappoint her, in turn, we trooped again, single file through cobbled streets, into the marbled innards of the local police station with its enviable, antique cotto floors.  Here she unlocked cupboards and drawers, producing bounty-loads of tourist guides.  For this she had to take off her official police-woman's hat, but not, we noted, her "official" sunglasses. We now have many more reasons to return to Filottrano, other than the WWII museum.

Back "home" the rustico awaits the plumber ... (at least he's not in America as we see his van about town most days).   Paolo has taken on another hand to construct the low wall which will define the sloping pathway down to the front door.

Progress on the annexe is encouraging, it's almost ready for the roof to be put on, with its reclaimed (coppi) tiles.

Back to the plumber.  He promised to come last week;  then this week;  now he's promising to come next week.  From experience, I know that this trait in plumbers is not exclusively Italian.  Wherever it may have originated, it's gone global.

"But there's a full moon risin', Let's go dancing in the light, We know where the music's playin', Let's go out and feel the night." ("Harvest Moon" Neil Young)

Last week saw a full moon by night and much activity on our building site during the day.  A digger and bulldozer cleared swathes of land around the house and annexe.  In reality it's only a few acres. but, now bare, make thoughts of future landscaping and planting quite daunting.

A drive of sorts, has been gravelled.  It is on an incline rolling down the west-facing hillside.  Not a steep slope, but sufficient to instil some worries as we watched the conveyor lorry, job done, loaded with the huge 120 ton dozer, attempt to climb it; heaving its weight up to the road and failing on the first two attempts.  (We left after the second.  It wasn't there the next day.)

Whilst the house sits silently, still awaiting the plumber, the annexe is taking shape fast; the exterior walls already as high as the window sills.

During the day we too have been busying ourselves.  Finally we have bought a little terra cotta "fontanella" which will be placed on the wall adjacent to the front door.  So much more modest than our original designs on custom-made marble, but more in keeping with our humble rustic residence.   (And less than a third of the price.)

The carpenter making our windows and doors advised us to go to Fano (north along the Adriatic coast) to choose the "maniglie" (door and window handles and knobs).  Finding the shop was difficult.  It is a little, un-signposted shop, tucked away on a lost industrial estate on the less celebrated side of town.   Only known it seems, by "passa parola" - word of mouth.

Inside; a "tardis" of door and window fittings, from the ultra modern to convincing replicas of the antique.  The shopkeeper, indifferent to two strangers wandering in by chance (as if!) to his premises, until, that is, we mention the name of our carpenter, whereupon we are long lost family.  We come out with a precious, glossy brochure to browse through at our leisure, trusted to return it to the carpenter with our order, at our leisure.  Except there'll be no leisure here because, at this stage in the proceedings, every excuse for contact with the carpenter is called upon in order to spur him to complete his task.

The week ended with a visit to the  "Festa della Cipolla" (Onion Festival) in Castelleone di Suasa.   The very same one I mentioned at the beginning of the summer and which has been much anticipated.  Well here we are at what is, certainly weather-wise, the end of summer, and Castelleone is sizzling with the pungent smell  of frying onions.  There are three bands playing, mostly 70's rock and pop, and mostly ignored.  There are some tired stalls selling sundry wares and an ice-cream parlour is attracting some interest.  But, mostly, there are "osterias" (makeshift food- stalls), serving the multitude with multitudes of dishes - all of them containing onions. The onions being celebrated are small, red and sweet - typical of the region.

Every osteria is full, whilst hopeful, eager queues form to pre-pay for their meal.  The food is served tepid, on disposable plates with plastic cutlery and plastic cups for drinks, whether wine or water.  The plastic covered tables and bench seats are all placed, sardine style, in the narrow cobbled streets, under a clear, chill sky.      

There must be several thousand visitors all come to Castelleone to eat onions and... well, just to be here on this harvest night.

" 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves / Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; / All mimsy were the borogoves / And the mome raths outgabe." ("Jabberwocky" Lewis Carroll)

It is August.  In Italy August is holiday, but seriously.

The motorways and the beaches are crowded.  Every town, and then some, is having a Festa.  Music can be heard in the hills 'til the early hours.  It is hot.

Work on our main house has been suspended, though, to be fair, most of the building work has been completed and we await plumbers, electricians, bathroom and kitchen fitters and, one day, the decorators.

Earlier this month, Paolo and the crew turned their sights to the annexe building.  It should not be such a demanding undertaking as the main house.  The base has been laid with TWENTY EIGHT cubic metres of concrete.  That's a lot for a little building.  The depth was specified by our "seismic" engineer and the exact amount of concrete needed calculated by Paolo.  At the first sign of seismic activity the annexe is where you'll find me!

For now, we are in the depth of holiday season.  But, Ferragosto has come and gone.  Soon it will be September.  Life, as we have come to know it, will begin again...

Alex constructing the weld mesh foundations for the concrete base.  The igloos are in situ to reduce the amount of concrete required.  The base will lie on 15 5-metre re-enforced concrete posts drilled into the ground.

Paolo deep in thought in the site "office" calculating the amount of concrete mix to order.

Weldmesh sheets added over the base and levelling datum points set.  All the shuttering panels are in place and fingers crossed that they will not give way - a potential disaster!

Three huge concrete mixers were required to manoeuvre gingerly over unstable ground

Plenty of practised standing around watching Alex do all the work.

The finished base.  This is what 28 cubic metres of concrete looks like.  The weight is 750 quintals approx. of mix.

Shuttering removed

The view from what will one day be the Annexe portico.

"The defeat of the Spanish Armada changed the course of history. It induced a rush of patriotism in England ... it gave England the confidence and power to command the seas and build a global empire." ("Shakespeare" Bill Bryson)

Le Marche is enjoying the hottest June in over 200 years.  What is it with the weather this year?

Pete and I have been choosing bathroom fittings this week.  Three long, hot sessions of three hours each choosing loos and taps!  What is wrong with us!  Our saleslady, now friend and confidant, is patient and knowledgable.  She flicks through the glossy brochures with the hermetic zeal of an ancient archivist.  This is a family run business.   Her brother sits at a desk at the far end of the shop, seemingly busy, staring at his computer screen.  Every now and then she shouts across to ask further about some product.  Every now and then he shouts over, unprompted, with further information about yet another product.

There is no one else in the shop, though the telephone rings often and she breaks from us to have  a detailed discussion and archive ruffle for some other demanding customer.  At one point she takes a break to collect her two year old from nursery, at another to lead us through back-room labyrinths to look at some product that is actually in stock - this is rare.  Other frequent breaks to shoo away her ten year old who, with precious entrepreneurial skill is trying to sell us his own home made lemonade at 50 centesimi a plastic beakerful.

During one session another customer walks in, sits behind us.  After an hour or so Pete turns to her to apologise for keeping her waiting.  "No problem" she replies genially, "I've spent weeks choosing a tap for my kitchen sink and I'm no closer."  If she'd told us that last week we wouldn't have believed her.

By 7pm Friday evening we are satisfied (as far as one can be) that we've chosen almost everything to fit out two bathrooms, but we have been known to change our minds.  We make an appointment to come back next Tuesday.

Outside, entrepreneurial son has set up  a lemonade stall in the car park.  There isn't another soul about. I feel for the lad and stop to buy, "One lemonade please, but 50 cents is too much, I think".
"OK, 25..."
"A deal!"  I can't decide whether the boy's not such an shark after all, or whether I should have bargained harder.  The tepid water with a squeeze of lemon and a sachet of sugar with the local bar's logo on it tasted quite good really - I tell him so.  His smile is inscrutable.

I am writing this as Italy is playing England in the quarter finals of the World Cup.  When you read this you will know the result.  Pete has gone for a boys' night at Paolo's agriturismo to watch the game on a big-screen TV.  He'll be the sole Brit there.  I felt a bit like Sir Walter Raleigh (playing ... bowls was it?), when the approaching Armada was sighted.  Goodness me, look what happened when England won on that occasion, but that was Spain, wasn't it?

In the garden here, one lone flower on the prickly pear has bloomed.  It blooms for one day and then it dies.  But what a day!

"A child said, What is grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know any more than he." (from "Song of Myself" Walt Whitman)>

Summer has finally arrived in Le Marche.  The balers are making hay and creating fever pitched frustration amongst the drivers on the narrow roads.  Vineyards are being weeded, sprayed (for bugs?), and prayed over.  One way or another the countryside is a-buzz.

And then there are the odd, few fields where, it seems, time has stood still.  Here men drive their womenfolk in the early morning and leave them to their day's work, harvesting the crop.  The women wear long, flowered dresses, with dark scarves tied over their heads and as they work they chat to each other loudly and unceasingly.  The crop (for what it is I do not know) is gathered into little stacks around a wigwam-like,wooden frame.  When the frame has been covered with the dried grassy/hay-like crop, a little canvas "sail" or "hat" is tied on top and each corner fastened with string which is staked to the ground.  These little stacks have something medieval (almost primeval) about them.  Something one of the Breughels might have painted.  We have gleaned that the stacks are called "cavalli" (horses) because of those little hats tied on top like saddles (?).  The idea is, apparently, that from the stack, seeds, or perhaps beans? (or perhaps magic beans?) will fall - this is the harvest.  It looks as though this method of harvesting has not changed for centuries.  I don't really want to know what the crop is;  that would break the spell.

At sunset the "luciole" (fireflies) work their own magic as they ignite, flicker and frolic in their unchoreographed dance across the parched lawns.  The chemistry which makes them glow is the stuff of science - thank goodness no one's told them that.

Yesterday we went inland to Acqualagnia, the land of the "marmisti" (literally - marble-mason). We finally found an artisan who will make my little wall mounted fountain to my own design.  It's not an essential part of the house , we shouldn't really be bothering with it right now, given all the other things that have to be sourced and chosen, but right now this is my little bit of magic and mystery.


Today, at il Gelso there were two groundbreaking events. 


Firstly, the kitchen walls have been finished, the wooden beams have been fitted and this morning the "pianelle" (the ceiling tiles) are being put in place.  They are old tiles, I don't know from where they were sourced, but they are the last set of ceiling tiles to go in the house and they are the most beautiful; all shades of rust and ochre.  The kitchen is beginning to look like a habitable room at last. 


Secondly, this morning, Paolo became a grandfather!  A girl!  More magic and mystery.  He'll be in a good mood for a while; I must make some of the important, impending choices on the house before the euphoria wears off.  Suspect there's no rush though.