Archives
29/03: Rain –
The rain has fallen for days now, so much, that the creek that runs down the valley, and curves around the mill has swollen. Last night we lay in the dark, listening to the rain fall on the tile roof and rush down the creek. The mill “mulino” sits in the valley, at the end of a long, twisting path that dips and curves. The mill complex has two buildings, a big and small mill – The house we stay in is the big mill, and it sits in the curve of the creek. The creek falls about 100 feet in about as much distance, from just above the first mill, to just below the second. Water used to be captured in a mill pond and then passed through and out a tunnel at the bottom (the mill is about one-story high on one side – and about three on the other). The water was then diverted and recaptured, and sent the second, smaller mill – and, again, out a tunnel below. The little mill house has been partially restored, and the girls use it as a playhouse. Both buildings were built about enormous boulders that are scattered about the creek bed. These are enormous hunks of stone that are covered with tangles of ancient ivy and violets. The grey-blue boulders lean against each other, creating little caves and perches. Usually a placid stream full of toads and lizards, today the stream-bed is a brown torrent. Not knowing when the rain will end, today we took the precaution of moving the Opel to the other side of the water. There is a foot bridge near the driveway that connects one boulder to another on opposite sides of the stream.Before we left for Venice we bought red rubber boots for the girls (stavali de gomma rosso) and though they were not greatly needed there, but the girls love them (particularly Lizzie) and they have come in very handy these rainy days. Clay cakes the bottom of the boots and in a matter meters walked the girls gain several inches in height. They happily clean the clay off in puddles in streams. They are a big hit, with both the girls and anyone who sees them in their bright red boots.
26/03: Angering the Gods
We have been having some trouble with the pellets stove, and as the weather was turning cooler, we decided to visit Peter (who’s house and tiles I earlier described) as he knew the stove repairman. The day was grey, and cool, and as we passed through a cluster of houses we saw an old nun out cutting a piece of wood with a bow-saw. Tory’s heart melted, she said we should stop and her, but we pushed on. We angered a vengeful god, as we curved our way up the winding mountain road to Peter’s medieval village there were flashes of lightning and thunder, the skies opened up and hail poured out of the skies – coating the road with white ice. Driving slower than usual, we made it to the top of the mountain, where Tory loved her first visit to the hill top town. Peter was a gracious as ever – and showed us through his houses and all the work they had completed, even in the short time since we I had seen him last.
26/03: Venice
We left early in the morning for Venice, and as we carried the girls to the car, snow was falling heavily – leaving a white frosting on the ground. As we made our way down the road to Fano, the snow was covering the hills, making it look remarkably like New England in the winter – but instead of clapboard, stone and tile houses doted the fields. Thunder and lighting was interspersed with thick, heavy, white snowflakes. We boarded the train in Fano, and settled in for the long ride to Venice. As we made our way North, the skies cleared, and the sun came out. Arriving at the Venice station, we found it cool, but pleasantly sunny. We bought a vaperetto pass and boarded the #1 for the Rialto stop. Our Penzionne was tucked down a small alley between the Rialto bridge and the Venice fish market. We checked in, left our bags, and went off to explore the city.It seems foolish to try to describe Venice, everyone I have ever talked to about the city describes it in glowing terms, and it seems a cliché that we should fall in love with it – but we did. It is the most remarkable and unique city I have ever become acquainted with. It is a city to become lost in, with small back alleys, slivers of blue sky stitched above. It is like being a mouse in a Renaissance and medieval maze, the alleys and tunnels so narrow in places that I had to turn sideways to pass through. Zoe climbed the walls, legs splayed out with a foot on each wall, like she does in the doorway of the kitchen at home in New York. Water, and the smell of the sea was everywhere, as well as bridges zig-zagging and arching over the canals like a sea serpent.
Tory fell in love with the Basillica of St. Mark, I loved the alleys and bridges and Venice at night, light reflecting off the water. Venice is not a scary city, and to navigate it’s streets at night was a treat. I would set my sights on a landmark, off the beaten path, and try to make my way there without the help of a map. Just when I thought I was lost and passing down one of these tiny alleys, it would open up on a grand Piazza, where, even in the late hours of night people were crowded in front of wine bars, drinking and laughing. For Zoe and Lizzie the hands-down favorite part of Venice were the pigeons in St. Marks square. After pouring corn kernels into the girl’s hands, the pigeons landed on and around them in such quantities that Lizzie began to be alarmed. Zoe, though, thoroughly enjoyed it. She shrieked and giggled as the birds landed all over her head. Lizzie preferred being the one in pursuit, and was always chasing “whitey”, a pearly white pigeon who wanted nothing to do with her.
Venice has been built and rebuilt many times, and so it seems bits of buildings are re-used again and again. Bits of Medieval barley twists, or gothic arches are stuck into walls, old capitals and columns are built around, and everywhere stone faces stare out at you from nooks and corners. Despite it’s ancient roots (this is an oddly descriptive term, as Venice is built on wood pilings driven into the mud, so old, and absent of oxygen, they have begun the process of fossilization) the city has modern touches – electric cables twist like vines around the stone heads of Mary, and the outside Frescos share walls with spray painted graffiti “stop the war”.
On our second evening, we entered the church of Santa Giovanni e Paulo, where we were gestured into seats by a man near the door. Under the dome a group of string musicians were playing. We listened to a concert that reverberated around the dome, Venice was the home to Vivaldi – and his music can be heard everywhere. The setting sun pierced through a round window above us, and Bellini’ Saints stood near us, as we sat listening among the tombs of the Doges’.
Later we sought out a recommended trattoria, and were disappointed to find it closed – but, after a little research, found that it served dinner 7:00 – 11:00, so we returned at 8:00 to the now busting spot. The room was lively and warm, and we all enjoyed great food. The girls are not adventurous eaters, and ate their margharetta pizza with eyes averted, as Tory and I ate our meals – Tory’s second course consisted of polenta and squid cooked in it’s own black ink. Even on a good day the sight of Tory’s squid would have turned the girl’s stomachs, but that day the girls were distinctly “off” seafood, as the first adventure of the morning included a walk through the nearby fish market, where boats unloaded heaps of fish, crabs, and a swordfish longer than Lizzie. As we watched, a customer had grabbed two long eels that were wiggling their way frantically toward freedom at his feet and placed them back onto the table with the others.
On the last day, we visited St. Marks once again, fed the pigeons, walked through the Basillica’s golden domes. We were awed by the treasury, I was particularly struck by the reliquaries – a tooth of a saint cradled by a golden cherub, enclosed in glass and gold ornament, just one of a hundred or so. We bought our lunch at a small shop on a side street; rustica pastries, squids cooked in a tomato sauce, a mix of fried squids, shrimp and sardines that you could pop in entirety into your mouth. For Zoe – a remarkable surprise we have found in Italy; French Fry Pizza. We sat and ate our lunch as huge bells struck 12:00 above us. We had time for a gondola ride, where were shown the homes of Vivaldi, Marco Polo, and Casanova from the water.
We loved Venice, and were sad to leave its mask shops, glass baubles, little Canal hounds (the girls counted forty four the last day). We caught the train with heavy hearts, lighter wallets, and Zoe with tears in her eyes.
19/03: 100 churches –
Today, Zoe said, out of the blue – “there must be a hundred churches in Italy.” “No,” I responded, “hundreds of thousands.” Religion is everywhere. There are little shrines, at least one every mile along the roads. Within the villages, shrines are set into the walls of houses, set into nooks – mostly Mary.Riccardo asked me what religion we were – I explained to him Tory and my complicated religious background. I asked him what percentage of Italians are Catholic. “If you are not Catholic, you are not Italian.” Was Riccardo’s response.
Yesterday, Saturday, we drove to Urbino, fast becoming one of our favorite towns. There are not many tourists there – it is too far away from the other major stops, but is a United Nations World Heritage city, because of it’s well preserved Renaissance core. There is the palace, and the cathedral – but there are back alleys, views over the valley below, fountains, and churches – every few meters it seems, another church. One hidden jewel is the Chiesa di San Giovanni. It is well off the beaten path, up a side alley from the main street and un-imposing from the exterior. Tory and I payed two euro each to a man at the door, who, opened a small wooden door and we walked into a little jewel box. The church is covered from floor to ceiling in frescos, in 1416, by two brothers – Jacopo and Lorenzo Salembeni. You won’t find them in the art history texts, but these frescos are some of the most beautiful and brilliant I have seen, intricate patterns, bright colors, majestic folds –everywhere. We had the church to ourselves and spent a long time gazing up – counting the little dogs that popped up in almost every scene.
Then, Lizzie pointed to the alter and said “there is a dead person in there”. We have been in a lot of churches lately, and I have explained to the girls all about the tombs that line the walls, “no, I thought, that’s an alter” but then, peering through the darkness and bending down to Lizzie’s height, I could see through the glass a shriveled hand, and then to the left a head. She was right, there was a dead person in there. Try explaining that to a five year old – gelato is an easy way to change the subject.
19/03: Petrella –
After market day in Sestino, we went on a little explore (Tory and the girls had little choice in this as I was driving). We went a couple miles into the hills until we reached Petrella, a little town of stone houses and cobbled streets, even many of the roofs were made of stone. Half of the homes were in a state of ruin – but one was very well kept – and had stone carvings, seats and columns everywhere. Including a whimsical mail-box holder, with a grotesque face.In a chicken run along the streets we discovered the chickens had been given on old stove as a coup. Only after trodding over the grass and cobbles, and returning back down the hill did we find what a beautiful view the town had. Looking down into the valley you could see a tall tower and church. We liked the view so much that we returned later that evening and sketched on the hillside in the fading evening sun.
Petrella is typical of the small towns you find here in this little corner of Tuscany – it is isolated from the rest of the region by the Apeinnes, and so the tourists haven’t over-run it yet, the house haven’t all been bought up by foreigners – unlike the slopes south of Florence now dubbed “chianti-shire” because of the number of English who have bought homes there. Here the old houses are likely still be in the hands of the original families, like the medieval towered house that Riccardo and his dad have recently bought, from a man now in his ninties, handed down from one generation to another. The house has massive stone stairs that seem as if they were built for giant trolls and not people, it also has a massive fireplace and mantle, the symbol for Christ in Latin carved into the center, and the date of 1532. Many buildings stand in a state of ruin, or abandonment, a victim of movement to the city from rural towns like these. Subsistence farming can be a hard life, like that of our nearest neighbor, an old man in his eighties. We have seen him every morning, tending his vines, tying up the new shoots. We started just waving to him, but had no response, but now call out the window a hearty Italian greeting, and receive a smile and nod for our persistence. His house and barn are made of old stone that sit on even older and larger grey stone – ancient foundations.
Riccardo tells me that the young are caught in a dilemma, they can pursue education, but leaving for the city means being trapped by the high cost of living, the cost of housing alone gobbling up much of your earnings. So many Italians choose to stay with mom and dad, where no rent is due, but opportunities scarce in smaller towns.
Almost every building of any kind boast pigeon-holes, indentations in the walls, with little perches of stone for the birds to sit on. Coming from an upbringing on a Yankee farm, where pigeons were highly disliked and considered one step above a rat, and where Wal-marts and city buildings line all high surfaces with spiky avian torture devices, the effort to build special accommodations for the birds seemed odd to me. That was until Riccardo explained that the pigeon are a source of food in Italy, roasted pigeon can be found on many of the finer menus depending on the region. Now it all makes sense.
19/03: Florence –
We got an early start on Wednesday, carrying the children to the Opel, hoping they would sleep more as we made our way over the mountains, to catch the train from Arezzo to Firenze, but just after we passed the town of San Angelo, Tory let out a yelp and pointed to the healthy sized scorpion crawling on her shoulder. I pulled the car to the side, and she jumped out of the car and shook the scorpion off. This woke everyone, including the girls up – but it was a good thing I was awake, because as we approached a hairpin right hand turn on the mountain we met a tractor-trailer that was quickly coming down the mountain and taking up the entirety of our lane. We both came to a screeching stop – I drive more conservatively than the local population, and as it was stopped only a couple feet short of the truck that added more heavy black tire-marks to the mountain road.From Arezzo the train ride is only a half an hour, and parking is much easier to come by. The train station In Florence is nicely located, and drops you off just in front of Santa Maria Novella – that houses Massacio’s famous Trinity. From there, the rest of the old city is in easy walking distance, with vehicle traffic restricted to locals. It is a beautiful city to walk in, and wherever we went ancient churches with great works of art tempted us. But we restricted ourselves to the Uffizi and Santa Croce. Zoe and Lizzie stood in awe and contemplation for a very long time in front of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. They were the only children we saw in the museum, and were much fawned over as they stood discussing the merits of the painting. Primavera was on another wall in a room filed with the artist’s work that was by far the highlight of the girl’s trip. After the Uffizi we went in search of what we were told was the best gelato in Florence, we found across the Piazza from Santa Croce and up a side alley – Zoe got marshmallow, Lizzie had chocolate coffee, Tory had pear caramel, and I had chocolate orange. It was the best we have had yet, and we enjoyed it sitting in the sunny piazza. In the piazza we met a couple graduates of BYU on their 20th anniversary, also enjoying their gelato.
13/03: An old entry -
At the top of the hill as an olive grove, and a small vineyard, like most of the vineyards around us here it is a small family plot, about the size of a large swimming pool. We walked up to the vineyard today, and followed the trail into the village of Monteromano, The walk was beautiful, the trails curves back and forth along the edge of the hill and looks out across the valley, with fields and river below. We passed a small ancient cemetery, and then old brick and tile pig and chicken houses, tucked above and below the path. Monteromano is a very small Medieval village, a cluster of stone houses and a church, a tap keeps a constant flow into a series of three troughs, once used to water livestock near the center of town. It is a fifteen minute walk and a century away. Lizzie gathered up hard, funny little pinecones from the cobbled street, and Zoe found and Olive branch that she carried home and gave to her mom. Soon after we arrived home Riccardo came biking up the driveway, and showed us the nearby towns of interest and told us of the best outdoor village markets and days. He could not, however, have any success with our pellet stove, and called in his dad, Colombo, who appeared about an hour later. His dad did much of the stonework on the house, and as he reached out to shake I was amazed at the breadth of his hand, his fingers were thick as sausages and course. He was kind and friendly, spoke no English and went right to work. He vacuumed out some parts and got it working, and trying as best as I could to communicate with him I used our little translator to ask if I should vacuum it out occasionally, I only found out later that I was asking if I should vacuum-pack it occasionally. No wonder he appeared so confused.
12/03: weekend
Arezzo –Half the fun is getting to a place. We had decided to strike out on an adventure back into the valley on the other side of the mountains that rise down the center of italy, like the ridges on a dinosaur.We started out for Arezzo early Saturday morning, but we stopped in San Angelo in Vado, as the village was just a short way off along the way and Tory needed her morning cappuccino. We found a Café, and after pastries and coffee we took a short stroll through the medieval street that are so beautiful and typical of many of the towns around here. The piazza was empty on this cool grey Saturday morning, but we came across an unexpected, charming chapel. It was just a door set into the village street, candles were burning inside a small room, no larger than a living room,. The room was narrow and tall, the ceilings were ancient and painted, as were the walls which were also covered from floor to ceiling with photographs, some old and faded, some new. In the front was a very old crucifix, and of the each sides were panels, so ancient and sot covered that you could only just make out the figures of angels. The were also covered with old solver medallions and rosaries, and on the left a bundles of crude crutches tied with a faded red ribbon. The paintings on the ceiling were pale decorations of lilies and sky blue, rising to an image of a flaming heart in the very center. We made our way up and over the mountains, past San Sepolcro, and into Arezzo, I was stymied in my attempts to get into the center of the old city, as the signs pointed me in the direction of the a street that was blocked off for a city Market. We parked, and made our way through the market, and the new part of ton, and eventually into the old city.
Arezzo is a wealthy town, and home to the Antique market the first weekend of the month. It is famous for antiques, and for jewelry, and countless shops line the old streets. The antique shops sells REAL antiquities – tory and I stared in the window of one shop that sold bits of roman statuary, a torso, lids of tom, a marble foot. We dared not even venture into these shops, but made our way up to the 13th century church of San Francesco, to see the fresco cycle by Piero Della Francesca. As we crained our necks peering up at the choir walls, we envied Zoe and Liz, who spread themselves out on the floor under the saints and angels. The frescos are beautiful, and were restored only in the 1990’s. One scene has a depiction of the city itself, painted with charming ealy use of perspective. The rest of the church was full of bits of frescos that had some how survived the vagaries of time.. We toured other churches as well, a favorite little jewel was the church of San Domenico with frescoes of darting Giotto-like angels, a lovely annunciation, and a richly painted and twisted crucifix by Cimabue. Almost al the frescos exist as fragments, which make them all the more compelling. You awe at the audacity pf some important official who tore into the chalky heartfelt frescos only to erect their own marble and bronze overly ornate tombs.
Sunday –
From the hill above the mill I saw a ruin near a house across the valley, and made my way up to it. I followed an old road up to the house, which turned out to be an old three story home that only housed hay and a horse. The old road became increasingly overgrown and I made mt way through trees and under-brush to a ruin, with just it’s four stone walls standing and an overgrown stone trough, water still trickling in. even further in was yet another house, the red tiled roof caving in. As I stepped in the crumbling door I saw old simply made chairs scattered about, and above an old stone sink a Madonna and a St. Francis hung on each side of the deep window, glass broken from their frames. Near The houses was a little alter, you se many in every town around here, this one, like the houses were abandoned, the little roof falling in on a faded lilting crucifix.
Ricardo came to drive us up to see Peter, the architect’s, house. Tory was not feeling well, and so Zoe and I went with Riccardo, his sister and his dog Roxy. Peter purchased land in this area at the right time, snapping up old ruins and farm house, and turning them around now to make a good profit, His purchases included the mill we are staying in. Now he seems to have set his sights on owning most of a medieval town that sits on a hill above Belleforte. He intends to start a bed and breakfast, and has restored an old house using hundreds of hand-painted tiles and antique architectural details, The result is beautiful. Peter and his elegant wife are gracious hosts and showed us their own house, which has two rooms entirely decorated in elaborate ornaments from floor to ceiling. When they purchased the house they knew one room was painted, but the rests were painted white. Smoothing the walls before painting, his wife flicked off a bit of paint, only to discover the paintings beneath – in the end three rooms and a hall-way weree uncovered – a slow painstaking process which required a surgeons scalpel and thousands of man hours. Before we left Peter was nice enough to give me a stack of tile discards – colorful, like jewels.
12/03: I could get fat here
We drove into Piandimeleto this morning, the sun gave way to clouds and rain started falling in the market. Stalls hurried to roll clothing under the canopies and we made our way to find more oranges, lemon and strawberries. I wanted to paint the beautiful lemons from yesterday’s market, but the leaves had fallen off, so today I looked for lemons with the most leaves – some lemons still hung in number from bits of branches, and I lifted one branch only to be stuck by it’s thorn. I never knew lemon trees had thorns. From a vendor in the alley I bought a panchetta panini, a slow roasted pork sandwich, thick, and marbled with tasty fat. We had not been as successful with our oranges, after buying a sack full we found these were blood oranges, which seen to be everywhere, and are not favored by the girls since the first day we made the mistake of calling them by their American “blood orange” instead of “arancia rosso”, if we had gone with the Italian they would have been a bigger hit.
12/03: Market Day – 3/6/2007
We intended to go to the big antique market in Arrezo on our first Saturday, but our internal clocks were off, and we had no change of clothes. Monday night our bags arrived (there was much celebration, like Christmas), and we asked Riccardo where the best market was. He pointed us in the direction of Marcerata, a hill town to the north with a market on Tuesdays. We were up and off early and, after a beautiful twisty ride, maneuvered the Opel into a small spot among the many cars in the town. Booths were set up along all the alleys, and offered a lot to choose from, from fabrics to fruit and fish. Artichokes are in season, and we bought ten from a man with a stack higher then he was, rising from the back of his small three -wheeled truck. The artichokes are inexpensive, and so were the oranges and lemons that we bought with their dark green leaves and stems a beautiful contrast to the vibrant colors of the fruit. The cheeses were also inexpensive, beautiful and tasty provolones, asiagos, and fresh mozzarellas. I am timid, worried things will cost to much, but when the smiling women explains that the chalky-white knots of Mozzarella are a euro each I quickly change my request “due” I say and hold up two fingers. She nods and smiles and grabs another and pours in the cheesy water to keep them moist. At the fish stall they are offering fried and fresh seafood. I order us an early lunch, fried fillets, a scoop of shrimp and a heaping scoop of calamari. I find Tory finishing a cup of espresso at a nearby café and we sit together in the square and eat our lunch from its waxy paper. Zoe is delighted with shrimp, but both girls are horrified when we start popping entire fried little squids into our mouths – they are even more aghast when we pull out two fried sardines the server threw into out bag, and I bite the crisp fish from tail to just below the head.As we finished our lunch, the market dog of Marcerata saunters up. Every town seems to have one a local “cane” and we have taken to calling them “hill-top hounds.” This one is small, and friendly, and the girls pet him and offer him fish heads, he rolls on them blissfully, devours them, and disappears into the market. I see him later making nice with a fashionable, attractive girl coming out of a butcher’s shop. Everything tasted wonderful, but the unexpected hit of the day were the oranges. It is as if we had never had a real orange before – we eat four of them, with Lizzie consuming the majority, as we take our time, stopping in hill towns and monasteries, winding our way back to the mill, the smell of sweet oranges filling the car.
12/03:
Communication – 3/5/07The sun came out again, and the temperatures rose into the seventies. The sun shone into the windows in the early morning and we threw open the windows. I rose to make Espresso in the little pot, as has become our custom, and mourned the absence of a milk frother, to make espresso as Vera Vivante had taught us. With all stores closed on Sunday we found our provisions low, and so we made it our mission for the day to stock up – and buy a little frother, and a corkscrew. Off to Sestino where our first stop was the bakery, tucked below the bridge. The woman who runs the shop recognizes us now, and offered us samples of the pastries under the glass – We bought a bag of biscotti, and bread (with salt), and stopped at the grocery, butcher and then Mr. Santenelli’s office to check on out bags - nothing. We also had no luck finding our frother or corkscrew, so off we went to Belleforte, where I purchased a corkscrew from a shop after explaining what I need by saying “vino” twisting my hand, and making a popping sound. Tory has made a breakthrough with me, the teetotaler, by appealing to my Yankee side. The wine here is so inexpensive (the bottle we picked up for dinner tonight cost .80 euro – less than a dollar) that we can try a variety of wine inexpensively. We would have had little success finding the corkscrew in the store on our own, there seems little rhyme or reason for the organization of goods, the corkscrew was next to some saws.
Our mission was not complete however. Next door we peered into a small-darkened shop, with no sign, “No one’s in there,” Tory said. This wouldn’t be shocking, some of the shops are empty, or can be found with keys dangling from the door during the quiet “lunch time” which can last from 12:30 until about 4:00 depending on the kind of shop. But back in the dark recesses we saw movement, as well as the glint of kitchen utensils. We spotted a frother, a red and stainless beauty, and carried it up to the counter. An ancient man with a tweed cap and bottle-bottom glasses felt for the frother, turned it over and peered at the price – he couldn’t read it, he was very nearly blind. He asked us to read the price, and with our awkward Italian it was a case of the blind leading the blind. We were able to explain that it was 8.20 euro (otto-venti) and handed him a ten, again he held the bill up close to his nose and lifted his glasses – flummoxed. We suddenly panicked at the thought of him navigating the till and scrambled to find exact change. We placed a five, three euro coins and .20 in his hand. He felt for a little paper sack, placed our frother inside and handed it into the space in front of him. We thanked him greatly, and emerged triumphant into the street with our treasure.
12/03: Italian Spring –
Riccardo visited us this afternoon, and declared it the first day of spring. The sky was blue, and Lizards joined us warming ourselves on the rocks around the mill. There is a river that flow around us, the sound of rushing water is the only sound that we can hear, with the exception of a rooster somewhere far off this afternoon. Yesterday we ventured to Urbino, a beautiful, storybook renaissance town with small alleys and stone buildings rising to a palace and church capping the top of a hill. The journey there was on a small road that wound up through the mountains like a viper. There girls slide around in the back of the opel as we switchback. Each hill top is the home to a medieval town, monastery or chapel, with green fields, vineyards and olive trees all around. As we walked through the old city of Urbino you could look down through the alleys and see the green fields as a backdrop far below.The travels so far are not without hiccups. Our luggage has not arrived with us. And we wash all our clothes one day and wear our seconds the following. The mill has been shut up all winter, and we are slowly warming the cool damp walls. Moisture had happened all the bedding, and swollen the woodwork, much to be expected from a iii old mill surrounded by water. The fire is starting to dry out the place, but it has also awakened some of our co-inhabitants. I woke at night at two, still trying to get used to the time change, and went to get some water. A dark shape moved on the wall, and investigating it further I declared “Scorpioni” to Tory, also awake in the bed. At that time Zoe poked her head up and said “there’s a scorpion on the wall?” yes, I said. I scooped him up in a glass and he sits on our table, we will release him soon, but at the moment Zoe has named him “Scorpi” and plans on springing him home with us.
05/03: Colombo
At the top of the hill as an olive grove, and a small vineyard, like most of the vineyards around us here it is a small family plot, about the size of a large swimming pool. We walked up to the vineyard today, and followed the trail into the village of Monteromano, The walk was beautiful, the trails curves back and forth along the edge of the hill and looks out across the valley, with fields and river below. We passed a small ancient cemetery, and then old brick and tile pig and chicken houses, tucked above and below the path. Monteromano is a very small Medieval village, a cluster of stone houses and a church, a tap keeps a constant flow into a series of three troughs, once used to water livestock near the center of town. It is a fifteen minute walk and a century away. Lizzie gathered up hard, funny little pinecones from the cobbled street, and Zoe found and Olive branch that she carried home and gave to her mom. Soon after we arrived home Riccardo came biking up the driveway, and showed us the nearby towns of interest and told us of the best outdoor village markets and days. He could not, however, have any success with our pellet stove, and called in hid dad, Colombo, who appeared about an hour later. His dad did much of the stonework on the house, and as he reached out to shake I was amazed at the breadth of his hand, his fingers were thick as sausages and course. He was kind and friendly, spoke no English and went right to work. He vacuumed out some parts and got it working, and trying as best as I could to communicate with him I used our little translator to ask if I should vacuum it out occasionally, I only found out later that I was asking if I should vacuum-pack it occasionally. No wonder he appeared so confused.05/03: Italian Spring
Riccardo visited us this afternoon, and declared it the first day of spring. The sky was blue, and Lizards joined us warming ourselves on the rocks around the mill. There is a river that flow around us, the sound of rushing water is the only sound that we can hear, with the exception of a rooster somewhere far off this afternoon. Yesterday we ventured to Urbino, a beautiful, storybook renaissance town with small alleys and stone buildings rising to a palace and church capping the top of a hill. The journey there was on a small road that wound up through the mountains like a viper. There girls slide around in the back of the opel ssas we switchback. Each hill top is the home to a medieval town, monastery or chapel, with green fields, vineyards and olive trees all around. As we walked through the old city of Urbinno you could look down through the alleys and see the green fiels as a backdrop far below.The travels so far are not without hiccups. Our luggage has not arrived with us. And we wash all our clothes one day and wear our seconds the following. The mill has been shut up all winter, and we are slowly warming the cool damp walls. Moistture had dappened all the bedding, and swollen the woodwork, much to be expected from a iii old mill surrounded by water. The fire is starting to dry out the place, but it has also awakened some of our co-inhabitants. I woke at night at two, still trying to get used to the time change, and went to get some water. A dark shape moved on the wall, and investigating it further I declared “Scorpioni” to Tory, also awake in the bed. At that time Zoe poked her head up and said “theres a scorpion on the wall?” yes, I said. I scooped him up in a glass and he sits on our table, we will release him soon, but at the moment Zoe has named him “Scorpi” and plans on springing him home with us.