But humans had fought a long battle with nature. In London victory was almost complete. Acres of bricks and concrete and steel with only the tamest sprouts of green. In London a man could really feel he was master of all creation." ("Grace" Maggie Gee)

Our "house in the making" has been progressing apace.  The "ripostiglio" (utility room) has walls and a roof.  The walls of the kitchen are going up: new walls all around, including a double wall around the original building, necessary to hold up the roof and to establish the kitchen as a separate entity should the earth move.  This wall between the living room and kitchen will be over half a metre deep, almost a corridor!  On the side of the master bedroom there will be a "loggia": a little gallery or walkway.  The cement for its floor has been laid and already a cat, perhaps wild, or perhaps a fox, has left its prints.  Our neighbour had four of his sheep killed by a wolf the previous night.  Our paw prints may be those of a wolf, he suggests.  I think he was joking.

But the most impressive piece of construction, a tribute to Paolo's strategic planning, took place last Friday.  At present the annexe is a rectangular stretch of land with four little poles marking out the four corners of its area.  The main house is far from ready, but Paolo is thinking ahead.  The foundations of the annexe have to be prepared well in advance.  Early Friday morning a digger with a hydraulic boring screw arrives and begins to dig out the first of fifteen holes - each more than 5 metres deep.  Every strata of the clay soil comes out darker and heavier the deeper the bore goes.  The final layer is almost black.  It looks heavy, but it is deceptive, it is light and and slightly moist and crumbles as you clench your fist around it. (It has not the slightest smell petroleum.)

A host of rusty, tubular weld mesh wire cages have been lying around on the site, weeds have twined themselves around them.  I hadn't really noticed them, thinking them part of the flotsam of a building site.  Once the holes are drilled, Paolo and his helpers carefully lower the cages into them.  This manoeuvre requires strength and precision, it is feat of... heroic proportion (?)

As if by magic a cement lorry, its revolving drum turning like a barber shop sign, arrives as the last cage is in place.  The cement is carefully channeled into the holes..  The cement lorry, with the ability to turn on a penny (like a London taxi), positions itself precisely before pouring its load.  Not a drop spills.  That is, not until the job is done , when the driver tips out the remains of his load on a bare patch of ground nearby.  Paolo studies this dollop of cement incredulously, he hasn't yet worked out his strategy for disposing of it.  He's got a month 'til it hardens completely.  He's knows this, it is why he has filled the holes well in advance.  The buried cement pillars will form the foundations of the annexe.

There were two earthquakes in neighbouring regions of Italy over the weekend.  Major quakes - quite devastating in their effect.  Thinking of them brings home the fact, like nothing else so far, that I am truly in a foreign land.

Drilling the 5 metre holes for the concrete posts

Carrying the wire rod for the concrete posts

Heroically raising the reinforcing rods

Filling the post holes with concrete

"Breathe out the sense of place, the sense of humour, and the sense of despair that fill the air...". (Donna Leon commenting on the work of Camillieri)

We are currently living on one side of a valley and our new house lies on the other.  The ridges on either side are divided by the river Cesano, which lazily flows into the Adriatic, about thirty kilometres  away.  Few bridges cross the Cesano along this end of its journey.  One such bridge has recently fallen down;  reportedly by a flash flood.  It was a historic bridge with what must have been beautiful stone arches.  Now it is a crumpled heap of masonry scattered across the seemingly benign waters of a mild Spring.

Being one of the few, this was an important bridge for transport across the valley.  On all the approach roads the Commune has now erected unmissable and unmistakable "No Through Road" signs ("Strada Interrotta") in wild orange and black.  For none is this more inconvenient than for the cement company whose quarry blots the landscape to the north of the river.  But theirs is the stuff that constructs and their multi-ton lorries need to get through, and they know that the Commune is not going to rebuild the bridge in a hurry - not in a year, not in a decade perhaps.

So, the cement company has built their own bridge.  It seems kinda logical, doesn't it.  It's a low bridge, a bit boring maybe, maybe prone to flooding, but it's functional and it must be sturdy enough to bear the weight of those lorries, for now.

The Commune maintains its rigid signs - "No Through Road".  They know nothing of the new bridge ;-)

The local community knows better and traffic flows regularly and smoothly over this stretch of the Cesano.  An occasional car stops, hesitates, sees the next car plough happily through, starts up again and, lemming-like, wagons ahead.  Long may it last.

One wonders what will come first - the reconstruction of the centuries old bridge, or the collapse of the new under the weight of those cement lorries.  Then again one wonders why the cement company doesn't construct a new bridge in the likeness of the old.

As in a glass house, we travel south across the valley to view the latest developments on our new construction.  The wooden frames where the doors and windows will go have been put in place.  We are here to decide which walls the bed heads will rest against so that those walls can be straightened.  Our choice is limited to those which are already relatively straighter, i.e. the one in each room.

Our bed will face south, I don't know if that's good feng shui, but it leads to Rome and so perhaps feng shui is a bit irrelevant here.

"At that moment he spotted the Traffic Department car parked behind his and the overalled warden jotting down his registration number. Harry crossed the street and held up his ID card. "I'm on police business". "Makes no difference. No parking is no parking", overalls said without pausing in his writing, "send in a complaint" ". ("The Leopard", Jo Nesbo).

The Italian newspapers today report that the "vigili urbani" (traffic police/wardens) in Rome have run out of official parking tickets.  (A case of "cuts" cutting off the nose to spite the face?).  No problem, with sound Italian ingenuity the vigili have printed off, and are attempting to present transgressors with, photocopies.  The question is whether a photocopy constitutes a valid legal document.  The wardens are consequently having to summon up all their "charm" to convince the lawbreakers that their parking tickets are indeed valid and that the on-the-spot fine must be paid forthwith.  How resourceful can a traffic warden be?   Disarmed, must be disarming!  as one resourceful journalist put it.  (The alliteration translates well).

Due to a "technical" hitch the amount of  real space for the staircase in our house falls somewhat short of that allowed on the original plan.  We are aware (sort of).  Paolo has been trying to worry us with this for weeks:  "But, I have to recalculate every step to the millimetre!" ...  "I have to redesign the entire stairwell!"  We smile meekly, sympathise, place a reassuring hand on his shoulder,  rue that there isn't one on ours.   Whether out of self-preservation (this was a problem too far), or whether out of absolute faith in Paolo's ingenuity (I prefer this one) we didn't take the bait, refusing to be reined-in to this potential nightmare.

As it turns out, Paolo has won through.  We always knew.

The base of the staircase has just been concreted.  We have access to the first floor as such, as yet.

There will be a first floor... won't there, Paolo?

"Marine atmospheres in search of colours, in the naturalness of materials and lines of horizons." (from the introduction to one catalogue of medium-range Italian kitchens, designed by their specially commissioned "poly-sensorial" architect. The english translation is theirs.)

Now that the concrete base of the kitchen is down, we have a clearer idea of its dimensions.  This means only one thing - we have to choose a kitchen.

When it comes to state-of-the-art kitchen design Italy has no peer.  At the top of the range the Tate Modern would be hard put to find worthier exhibits.  A few of these kitchens even look as though they might be fit-for-purpose (as functioning kitchens, that is).
But, as with all things Italian, for the modest man with a modest budget, buying a fitted kitchen is quite a different kettle of fish.  I think I may have moaned about shopping in Italy before - it's a nightmare!  (And you can forget internet shopping, Italian design is pre-Unification when it comes to web sites.)


There are hundreds of little outlets for fitted kitchens, one for almost every town in Le Marche alone.  Many are reasonably priced and Italians, it seems, will not think twice about ripping out and replacing a kitchen on a whim.  Styles range from the cluttered, impractical country-style with tile and grout worktops - what? -  a poor imitation of a gypsy caravan, through endless IKEA lookalikes (or is it vice versa), to copies of the modern masterpieces.


We think we'd like a country style kitchen of sorts.  But, when it comes to country kitchens you can't beat English design and workmanship.  I now know why endless repeats of "Midsommer Murders" (dubbed) are so popular on RAI TV.  Italians aren't interested in solving the crime (they've got Montalbano for that), they simply want to catch every glimpse of those quaint, english kitchen interiors.  Who can blame them!


I, however, have my sights on BIGGER horizons, neither of which fall within the fitted kitchen pricing category at all.  Firstly, I'd like a BIG fridge, with a BIG freezer - for ice-cream.  Secondly, a BIG sink - for washing BIG pasta pots.  And the third is, an outrageously  prominent, all singing, all dancing gleaming stainless-steel coffee-making machine for ...  "bella figura".  And, lastly, a cosy corner where I can drink my mug of Instant; eat my Marmite toast unseen; and with confidence, plan my day in the sun.

“Something was nagging at me. I tried lying down on the bed and reading. A book about how the potato came to Sweden. I had read it several times before. Presumably because it didn’t raise any questions. I could turn page after page and know that I wasn’t going to be faced with something unpleasant and unexpected. I switched off the light at midnight. My two animals had gone off to sleep (...) I tried to come to a decision.” (“Italian Shoes” by Henning Mankell).

I read today, that in the current economic crisis, Italians are spending about the same as always.  The difference being that they are spending less on shoes, but more on over-the-counter medications.  I don’t spend too much time drawing conclusions from that.

The burning issue which kept me awake last night was “cotto”.  For the floors of our “new build” do we lay real cotto tiles or porcelain (gres porcellanato)?  The pros and cons are manifold.  Cotto is the genuine article.  It is, and it looks it!  It complements a rustic house.  It diffuses heat evenly from underfloor heating and, with modern methods of wax protection, it is (we are assured by the makers) relatively easy to maintain.  But, it creates an uneven surface, it is more expensive and complicated to install and it is more prone to crack, especially in an area of seismic activity.

Ah, seismic activity!  Peter, Paolo and I spent two and a half hours last week with the structural engineer, agreeing (trying to) his detailed report, which ran to over 1,000 pages (we took his word). It was not the report itself which took so much time, as the discussion, sometimes heated on the engineer's side, about the nature of Italian bureaucracy which requires such a lengthy report on a small house.  Oh, and the one about unskilled brickies being paid more than highly qualified structural engineers.  (For all I know there may be a commissioned report somewhere which analyses how each of these income groups spends its money).  At the time it seemed like a relief when the "seismic" question surfaced.  Peter asked how the seismic activity beneath our house rated.  “Moderate” was the expert’s reply.  No-one  asked, nor was told, where “moderate” features on the Richter scale of an earth moving disaster.

Back to cotto.  Yesterday we drove 2 hours inland to Perugia to visit a real Umbrian cotto manufacturer.  (Such is the gravitas of this decision.  It should also be mentioned that we had previously visited a world renowned porcelain tile manufacturer, based not a million kilometers from here).  In Perugia each cotto tile is made by hand in an enormous barn.  The floor is heated and the tile makers work at a blink and you miss it pace, hopping to their industry on bare feet and using the simplest of wooden frames to shape each tile.  The tile is then placed on the warm floor to partially dry before going into the oven.  The oven is then heated to some unimaginable (scary) temperature.  For some reason the rough wooden templates, and those bare feet, brought the pyramids to mind.

Porcelain tiles, on the other hand, are relatively effortless to install and maintain.  They are virtually indestructible and, with Italian design ingenuity, can be breathtakingly beautiful.  Some can look like the real thing - almost.

It’s a tough call;  can lead to sleepless nights.

Back to the house itself where work progresses at its own pace.  Igloos are ready to be put in place and soon we will be pressed to decide on the flooring.  Something to be pondered upon after a good night’s rest, I think.  Domani ...

Stack of igloos waiting to form the sub-floor

"Spring is sprung, the grass is ris. I wonder where the birdies is. Some say the bird is on the wing. But that's absurd. I always heard the wing was on the bird." Spike Milligan

Trees that a week ago were still laden with snow are now abundant with pink and white blossom.  The season of the snow plough is ended - bring on the diggers!  Well, one digger actually, owned and operated by Stefano - a modest fellow, but so sought after for his skills that we (we are assured by Paolo) are very fortunate to have him working on our house.  Fortunate indeed!  Stefano and his little digger can move heaven and earth in a six hour shift and, if the mountain won't come to Stefano, god help the mountain!


Earth has been removed inside and outside of the house to depths where you can feel (nay, see) the heat rise from the earth's core.


As we approach from the roadside the house is almost invisible behind mounds of displaced earth.  The grounds around the house look like an alien breed of giant moles has invaded, whilst the house itself rises like a little jewel in the midst of all this activity.  The whole team is there.  While Stefano digs and twirls, others scoop and "bob" in this carefully choreographed dervish dance.  Paolo is measuring depths, grinning and growling alternately, but mostly growling: deeper, deeper!

Our dogs sit patiently in the open doorway, watching and wondering: Surely with this much digging someone will come up with a bone or two soon!  If any treasures are uncovered neither we nor the dogs get to know.

This is not all.  Around the walls even deeper trenches have been dug so that cages can be fitted into which concrete will be poured to secure the foundations of the old walls.  The floor levels have been grazed to the required depths.  The house itself will have 3 levels as it cascades down the hillside, and ceiling heights will be... anyone's guess.  The area for the kitchen has been gauged, levelled and concreted.  All is ready for the "igloos" to be put in place.  Igloos are igloos.  They sit on the concrete under the floor and are there for ventilation.  In case you're wondering, they're made of plastic!

For the first time we can walk freely around the ground floor.  Now we have a true sense of the dimensions of the rooms.  This is not a big house - where will we put all our stuff in storage?  Stuff that worry, where will we put anything at all?


The whole of the first floor ceiling has been demolished and until it is reconstructed, we look up from ground level to the top floor roof beams - cathedral-like.  We had better make the most of this illusion,  the new ceiling, i.e. the whole of the first floor goes in next week.

"Round its roof hung a gutter as wide as a human thigh. Here whatever fell from the sky fell in abundance. There was no other man-made structure in sight. ("Anatomy of a Disappearance" Hisham Matar).

And now the snow has gone.  It is hard to believe that such snow ever fell here at all.  Though in its wake much has been ruined.  Towns are impassable, where the structure of palazzos in their centre, has been weakened and threatens to collapse.  Young olive trees planted last spring, have withered entirely, having been buried in snow.  Much older, well established trees have been bent and broken by the weight of snow.  Fallen branches litter the roadsides; men are at work everywhere lopping precarious branches or repairing road surfaces ruined by over eager (perhaps inexperienced?) "ruspe" (snow ploughs).


Our structure has proved itself sound.  The roof has held solid and the chimneys stand proud and valiant.  The new copper gutters gleam in the sun.  These gutters have a dimension and an almost-beauty which English houses, their roofs wired with sorry strands of black plastic, can only envy.


The next stage of the project will be the re-construction of the kitchen.  Men are already at work!