"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!

“The mass of anything is made of round, cushy atoms hanging together like strangers, waiting for a noon bus. Precarious solids are worrisome.” (From “Half Life” by my favourite YouTube poet, tinySpectacle).

I like these two images.  One of the “strada bianca” after the snow plough and the second, taken at the same time, of the cloud formation overhead.  Who’s imitating whom?  A reflection perhaps?  Or simply a coincidence, like the one that finds us here this particular winter.

“The others leap, shout: Freedom! The moving water will not show me my reflection. The rocks ignore. I am a word in a foreign language.” (“Disembarking at Quebec.” from “The Journals of Susanna Moody” by Margaret Atwood).

“Yes, Officer, I’ve got the snow chains, trouble is, I CAN’T FIND THE CAR!!”

It has been snowing for five days.  White on white.  Outside, with each step, your leg sinks hip-height into the snow.  The electricity is intermittent and today the water pipes have frozen.

Yesterday on TV news we saw the Pope looking out from his misted window onto the snow which St. Peter’s Square has not seen the like of since the middle of the last century.  Rome’s public services complain they can’t cope; its Mayor is saying his prayers.  People are skiing on the streets of Naples.

We are lucky.  At seven a.m. whilst we are cleaning teeth with melted snow, a trusty fellow from the Commune is chugging down the hill to our house with a makeshift snow-plough attached to his tractor, clearing, as best he can, the roadway to the village.  He leaves mountains of snow and ice ridged up by the roadside.  Fortunately, Peter’s Land Rover has been in and out and we have a tyre track thoroughfare.  Also, I had opened the electric gates on seeing the first snowflake, thus saving Peter from half a days digging in order to get them open.  Paolo calls that “perspicacia”.  I looked it up in the Italian/English dictionary; it said “perspicacity” but, my English dictionary is in storage.

Yesterday afternoon Paolo phoned, worried, from his house in town.  He believed his younger son (30+) to be marooned in his agriturismo B & B 5k away; he is not answering the phone and Paolo cannot get his own car out of the drive.  Peter offered to drive Paolo over to check things out.  The Land Rover is maneuverable, just, with snow chains and the “diff lock” on.   Paolo, anxious, was at his gate and as we drove up he exclaimed, “The English have come to liberate us!”.  He must have a long memory!

Young son was safe and well at home, and in the capable arms of his girlfriend, his mobile having run out of juice.  But, his electric gates were closed and not operating.  Peter and Paolo had to stealth their way in, on foot, under snow. Even if the gates had been open no-one would have been able to navigate through the seeming-iceberg left by the snow plough which had cleared the road in front.  Stranded son had a full larder; wood for the fire; a working TV, and a full bottle of whisky, a Christmas present (perhaps from a perspicacious friend):  everyone has their own idea of freedom.  Paolo breathed his second sigh of relief.  Too soon.  The Land Rover had become stuck, poised pivotal on top of the “iceberg” at the gate, in a vain attempt to bulldoze an exit for Paolo’s son’s Panda.  It took an hour for the three men to dig the Land Rover free.

The scaffolding enclosing “our house in the making” has been removed.  Not before time.  When the weather improves (...?) work will resume.  Meanwhile, if our water supply is not resumed soon, we may have to seek out alternative alternative accommodation for the duration; somewhere dog friendly.