"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.