I blame Christmas! Two months without a blog - how on earth did you cope? What shall we talk about? And in what language? Ah! There you have it! If this blog is supposed to be about Life in Liguria, one might assume a little Italian (Little Tony was a little Italian who wooed many a young maid when he appeared on the ground-breaking 60's tv programme 'Oh Boy' but I'm far too young to remember that or him).
My problem is that I speak very little of the language. I've tried. Oh, have I tried? Well, I was warmly recommended to avail myself of the Michel Thomas tapes/CDs. You don't need to know how I acquired them (no names, no pack drill - whatever that means). Only marginally put off by the atrocious wig said Thomas was balancing on part of his head, I plunged in. Two students are taught by the master on the CDs and the listener becomes the third student. I have fallen in love with the voice and manner of the female student and hope she has nothing to do with the intelligence-starved male student. There are something like 8 CDs in the series but, in theory, the first 2 give an excellent grounding in the language. Also in theory I must not make notes and if I fail to master Italian it is the fault of the teacher not the student - nice cop out!
I've listened to the first 2 CDs dozens of times. Michel Thomas, now sadly departed this life - presumably so he had the opportunity to turn in his grave at my efforts - was of European extraction. (I, myself, am off to a Romanian dentist tomorrow). This means that his enunciation sometimes causes confusion. For example, when he explained that the literal Italian translation of 'I am hungry' is 'I have a little salmon' I was somewhat sceptical to say the least. It took several hearings before I realised he was saying 'a little famine'.
Italian is a really easy language to learn for two main reasons. You don't need anything other than the present tense. 'La vedo domani' - 'I see you tomorrow' and so many words are practically the same - 'probabile' - go on have a guess. The real problem lies in having the opportunity and the diligence to put theory into practice. I go into the bakers (you see I'm in present tense mode already). In theory I could say 'Buon giorno. Come sta? Ah bene bene. Vorrei duo croissante naturale per favore. Mille grazie.' In practice I point at the croissants and put two fingers up - if you'll pardon the expression. You see the problem.
What I need is one to one conversation on a formal basis, possibly even with money changing hands. A friend of mine has taken this to its logical conclusion and married an Italian but my wife has vetoed this idea in my case. As we still spend much of our time in, currently snowclad, England and have a thriving Italian community in our midst, (where would you rather live - Tuscany or Twickenham? Answers on a foccaccio to ... No I don't live in Twickenham but I liked the idea of two T's - no sugar in mine.), it should be easy to find a young (female- dream on!) student in need of a modest amount of hard cash. But where to begin?
Actually Ialready have a potential source but in Liguria. On a train trip from Ventimiglia to Limone - thoroughly recommended - I sat next next to an Italain male. He was studying an Italian - English dictionary. We chatted away - mostly in our respective languages - and it transpired that his summer home was in the same village as ours. Quelle coincidence as they might say over the border. Fast forward eighteen months and who should I sit next to on the bus from the village to the coast? Exactly. He was even on the same bus as my little party when returning from the coast later the same day. We invited him, his wife and daughter to see our house but couldn't persuade them to stay for a drink. (I found it interessante, see what I mean, that when he explained they were rushing home for homemade pasta and I suggested they might be enjoying a robust Italian red with that, he almost recoiled in horror - 'no wine with pasta' he expostulated! I've always believed that you can't have pasta without red wine. That's my story and I'm sticking..actually that is my story for today. I'll keep you informed. Hasta la vista as they must say somewhere.
Monday, 11 January 2010
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
'I'll have the rabbit.' 'And the vegetables?' 'They'll have the same as me.'
Oh dear! I promised you all a blog a week and I’ve let you down. Still no one’s perfect although I’m a lot nearer than most. What shall we talk about today? My recent side trip to picturesque Piemonte? How to play golf on a modest mountain? The guilty pleasure of sneaking over the border to sample some French cuisine? No. Today’s menu features the local Italian restaurant scene.
This may prove a little difficult as I’m trying desperately to avoid identifying the village in which we reside. (I’ve already been outed by one reader who made it clear that he knows where I live but chose not to reveal the name. Thank you kind sir, you’ll get your reward in heaven.) Fortunately we are prepared to journey several kilometres to sample the various delights of Ligurian food and wine. Our culinary stops have taken in Dolceaqua, San Remo, Bordighera, Perinaldo, Isolabona, Ventimiglia and more. I should point at this stage in the proceedings that my wife and I take the drink and drive issue very seriously. My wife does all the driving and I do most of the drinking. I did take a driving test once, but as I felt it was much safer to risk hitting a stationary vehicle on my left rather than a moving one on my right, I was failed for spending too much time on the pavement.
We eat well in Liguria and generally experience excellent service and value. I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he tell us about that time at the seafront in Bordighera? OK if you insist. We just wanted a snack at lunchtime. We popped into one of the many establishments lining the promenade. Eventually convincing mine hostess in the (suspiciously empty) restaurant that we didn’t require the full a la carte, we were persuaded to try a little fish. It was very pleasant. The restaurant not only lined the promenade but the bill surely lined the pockets of the hostess for many weeks to come. As we left I’m sure I overheard her ordering a new car as she’d ‘very recently come into a little money’.
One of our favourite dining places is hidden down an ancient alleyway in ..oh what a shame I don’t seem to be able to recall the name. Only open three or four days a week the place is always full and I love the fact that we have only one decision to make - red or white. The food is simple, plainly presented, beautifully cooked and takes in seven courses. The enigmatic, willowy waitress and co-owner then presents a bill so small I almost cry in gratitude and have to force myself not to leave a large gratuity.
I’m now going to throw caution to the winds - look there it goes - and actually name a favourite place and its location. There is a wine bar in Soldano that goes by the name of Sacro e Profano. We stumbled across it one day and have been back several times since. Housed in an ancient building with bare brick walls and ceiling, it is presided over by a shy or possibly taciturn wine lover. We order rich reds like Barbera d’Asti , (prosecco for the ladies), and it is served with wonderful plates of free snacks - cold meats, cheeses, foccaccio (wash your mouth out, Timothy!) The second round of drinks brings more delicious delicacies and we eventually stagger out into the night, wondering whether we really require dinner after all.
One thing that surprises us is the infrequency of finding genuine Ligurian cuisine on the menu. The guide books tell us to savour the many dishes enhanced with pesto, with mushrooms and with truffles or to seek out specific local fish and beef favourites. Where? I ask. No reply, I hear. I exaggerate to make a point. Don’t get me wrong , I love the ubiquitous pizza. Forty years at the shrine of Pizza Express where my record of three and a half pizzas and three bottles of Valpolicella still stands, (shared with a mate you understand) makes me something of a fan. And I am getting a taste for coniglio, partially because our local ‘posh’ restaurant always seemed to serve it as the special of the day. I say seemed rather than seems because, sadly, the German owners have now departed amidst lurid tales of infidelity and toy boys.
On such an intriguing note and recognising that I have barely dipped my ciabatta in the olive oil of our wining and dining experiences, I bid you a fond farewell until the next missive. We’re off to Liguria via Marseille. What’s the French for bouillibaisse?
This may prove a little difficult as I’m trying desperately to avoid identifying the village in which we reside. (I’ve already been outed by one reader who made it clear that he knows where I live but chose not to reveal the name. Thank you kind sir, you’ll get your reward in heaven.) Fortunately we are prepared to journey several kilometres to sample the various delights of Ligurian food and wine. Our culinary stops have taken in Dolceaqua, San Remo, Bordighera, Perinaldo, Isolabona, Ventimiglia and more. I should point at this stage in the proceedings that my wife and I take the drink and drive issue very seriously. My wife does all the driving and I do most of the drinking. I did take a driving test once, but as I felt it was much safer to risk hitting a stationary vehicle on my left rather than a moving one on my right, I was failed for spending too much time on the pavement.
We eat well in Liguria and generally experience excellent service and value. I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he tell us about that time at the seafront in Bordighera? OK if you insist. We just wanted a snack at lunchtime. We popped into one of the many establishments lining the promenade. Eventually convincing mine hostess in the (suspiciously empty) restaurant that we didn’t require the full a la carte, we were persuaded to try a little fish. It was very pleasant. The restaurant not only lined the promenade but the bill surely lined the pockets of the hostess for many weeks to come. As we left I’m sure I overheard her ordering a new car as she’d ‘very recently come into a little money’.
One of our favourite dining places is hidden down an ancient alleyway in ..oh what a shame I don’t seem to be able to recall the name. Only open three or four days a week the place is always full and I love the fact that we have only one decision to make - red or white. The food is simple, plainly presented, beautifully cooked and takes in seven courses. The enigmatic, willowy waitress and co-owner then presents a bill so small I almost cry in gratitude and have to force myself not to leave a large gratuity.
I’m now going to throw caution to the winds - look there it goes - and actually name a favourite place and its location. There is a wine bar in Soldano that goes by the name of Sacro e Profano. We stumbled across it one day and have been back several times since. Housed in an ancient building with bare brick walls and ceiling, it is presided over by a shy or possibly taciturn wine lover. We order rich reds like Barbera d’Asti , (prosecco for the ladies), and it is served with wonderful plates of free snacks - cold meats, cheeses, foccaccio (wash your mouth out, Timothy!) The second round of drinks brings more delicious delicacies and we eventually stagger out into the night, wondering whether we really require dinner after all.
One thing that surprises us is the infrequency of finding genuine Ligurian cuisine on the menu. The guide books tell us to savour the many dishes enhanced with pesto, with mushrooms and with truffles or to seek out specific local fish and beef favourites. Where? I ask. No reply, I hear. I exaggerate to make a point. Don’t get me wrong , I love the ubiquitous pizza. Forty years at the shrine of Pizza Express where my record of three and a half pizzas and three bottles of Valpolicella still stands, (shared with a mate you understand) makes me something of a fan. And I am getting a taste for coniglio, partially because our local ‘posh’ restaurant always seemed to serve it as the special of the day. I say seemed rather than seems because, sadly, the German owners have now departed amidst lurid tales of infidelity and toy boys.
On such an intriguing note and recognising that I have barely dipped my ciabatta in the olive oil of our wining and dining experiences, I bid you a fond farewell until the next missive. We’re off to Liguria via Marseille. What’s the French for bouillibaisse?
Monday, 26 October 2009
Let's try an Italian w(h)ine
You’ve had a guided tour of the house and your initial stroll around the village. What shall we do now? First I need to resolve a couple of issues. I’ve mentioned my son, en passant, a couple of times and one eager reader asks if he’s visited our house or was it just his lucky sister. No worries as some Australians seem to say. Son and possible heir has enjoyed the delights of our Ligurian abode on more than one occasion with a myriad variety of friends. His sister too has used mi casa as a base for sneaky forays across the border – she’s bilingual you know but responding well to treatment. Daughter has also enjoyed careering down steep, snowclad inclines both waving sticks and wearing them. She calls it skiing and indulges herself at Limone, no more than a hop, step and broken ankle from our place.
You must also have been worrying yourselves silly over the undoubtedly attractive but hideously recalcitrant ivy that completely covered the facade of our house. You may recall that it had infiltrated the sanitation piping of the property with catastrophic consequences. It had to go. For several days I attempted leaning out of various windows and attacking the ivy with saws and scissors. After slightly less than a week I had successfully removed approximately 1% of the offending foliage. It was time to hand over to a higher power. Our local mentor and all round good egg, Vittorio, promised to have solved the problem prior to our next visit. Call me naive if you will, (was it really necessary to shout out like that?), but trusting is my middle name, fortunately tempered by my double-barrelled surname, No-One. True to his word, when next we came, the ivy was gone. A little later so was most of my life’s savings. Apparently one of those extendable scaffolding contraptions that sit in the rear of custom made vehicles had to be utilised. The cost was sufficient to relieve poverty in one of East Africa’s smaller nations. I’m still in therapy but making progress.
So what shall we do today? I know, we’ll have a barbeque on the terrace. We’ll need wine and lots of it if I’m in charge of the cooking. Where shall we get it? On one of our first forays we tried a wine wholesaler in Camporosso. Now here’s a funny thing. In the UK if you buy a bottle of wine and it costs X, then a case of, say, twelve bottles, will cost less than 12 x X. It’s called quantity discount. So I asked how much the Rossesse di Dolceaqua was. Seven euros. And if I buy twelve bottles? The sales assistant didn’t understand the question. I tried again. Eventually it became clear that even if I bought the entire stock it would cost me 7 euros a bottle. (This lack of incentive to spend more seems endemic to the Italian psyche, Having stayed in a hotel for a couple of nights during an early reccee, I enquire what the rate would be if we stayed for a week on our next visit. I was greeted with a look of total bafflement. You know the answer – seven times the nightly rate. Weird or what?) We continued our wine search with a visit to Gajaudo, a wine seller to the North of Isolabona. Here, at least, we were encouraged to sample some of their wares. Having decided on some Vermentino, (‘for the ladies’ as those Aussies would say), and some Rossesse, I risked scraping the bottom of the barrel (geddit?) and grabbed a few bottles of their vino da tavola. A snip at something like 5 euros, when a euro knew its subservient role to the British pound, It was surprisingly robust and merited another trip some weeks later.
But what’s this, a Lidl has opened in Vallecrosia? Shurely shome mishtake? We checked it out. Actually its perfect for non-foods – loo rolls, kitchen foil and the like. Expect low prices but don’t expect big name brands. The wine section was really scary. Not a single bottle over 4 euros and most around 2. No local stuff but the ubiquitous Pinot Grigio and lots of Sicilian red. We’ve tried a couple and no complaints as you get what you pay for. But if you’re prepared to be disloyal to Liguria, there’s a wine seller at the Ventimiglia market who specialises in the wines of Piemonte. Barbera d’Alba is my current favourite. Which reminds me. There’s a wine bar we’ve fallen in love with that specialises in… but wait a minute we’re late for the barby and there’s food to buy. See you next week.
You must also have been worrying yourselves silly over the undoubtedly attractive but hideously recalcitrant ivy that completely covered the facade of our house. You may recall that it had infiltrated the sanitation piping of the property with catastrophic consequences. It had to go. For several days I attempted leaning out of various windows and attacking the ivy with saws and scissors. After slightly less than a week I had successfully removed approximately 1% of the offending foliage. It was time to hand over to a higher power. Our local mentor and all round good egg, Vittorio, promised to have solved the problem prior to our next visit. Call me naive if you will, (was it really necessary to shout out like that?), but trusting is my middle name, fortunately tempered by my double-barrelled surname, No-One. True to his word, when next we came, the ivy was gone. A little later so was most of my life’s savings. Apparently one of those extendable scaffolding contraptions that sit in the rear of custom made vehicles had to be utilised. The cost was sufficient to relieve poverty in one of East Africa’s smaller nations. I’m still in therapy but making progress.
So what shall we do today? I know, we’ll have a barbeque on the terrace. We’ll need wine and lots of it if I’m in charge of the cooking. Where shall we get it? On one of our first forays we tried a wine wholesaler in Camporosso. Now here’s a funny thing. In the UK if you buy a bottle of wine and it costs X, then a case of, say, twelve bottles, will cost less than 12 x X. It’s called quantity discount. So I asked how much the Rossesse di Dolceaqua was. Seven euros. And if I buy twelve bottles? The sales assistant didn’t understand the question. I tried again. Eventually it became clear that even if I bought the entire stock it would cost me 7 euros a bottle. (This lack of incentive to spend more seems endemic to the Italian psyche, Having stayed in a hotel for a couple of nights during an early reccee, I enquire what the rate would be if we stayed for a week on our next visit. I was greeted with a look of total bafflement. You know the answer – seven times the nightly rate. Weird or what?) We continued our wine search with a visit to Gajaudo, a wine seller to the North of Isolabona. Here, at least, we were encouraged to sample some of their wares. Having decided on some Vermentino, (‘for the ladies’ as those Aussies would say), and some Rossesse, I risked scraping the bottom of the barrel (geddit?) and grabbed a few bottles of their vino da tavola. A snip at something like 5 euros, when a euro knew its subservient role to the British pound, It was surprisingly robust and merited another trip some weeks later.
But what’s this, a Lidl has opened in Vallecrosia? Shurely shome mishtake? We checked it out. Actually its perfect for non-foods – loo rolls, kitchen foil and the like. Expect low prices but don’t expect big name brands. The wine section was really scary. Not a single bottle over 4 euros and most around 2. No local stuff but the ubiquitous Pinot Grigio and lots of Sicilian red. We’ve tried a couple and no complaints as you get what you pay for. But if you’re prepared to be disloyal to Liguria, there’s a wine seller at the Ventimiglia market who specialises in the wines of Piemonte. Barbera d’Alba is my current favourite. Which reminds me. There’s a wine bar we’ve fallen in love with that specialises in… but wait a minute we’re late for the barby and there’s food to buy. See you next week.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
what's the Italian for 'a French croissant please'?
Oh, hi there, thanks for popping by. Well if you stayed awake during the guided tour of my Italian home, are you up for some fresh air and a walk round the village? I’ve got to be a little careful as I don’t want you to work out which village it is. ‘No names, no pack drill’, as someone used to say.
Our first stop is Mrs. Bun the Baker ‘Due croissant, per favore – una crema e una naturale’. Mrs Bun is not always the most cheerful of people – could it be she agonises over the poor quality of Italian croissants compared to their French cousins, less than an hour’s drive away? No, I didn’t think so. A visit to the bakers is occasionally enlivened by the presence of Mrs B’s very part-time assistant – a pretty young lady who, if I understand her correctly, is studying English at university. If this is indeed the case, she should ask for her money back! One day a week the baker is closed, so off we trot to the little grocery store where bread and pastries can sometimes be found. If the bakery is Sainsbury’s, (I exaggerate to make a point), the grocery store is Morrisons, evidenced most clearly by the female staff smoking on the step outside the shop at every available opportunity.
My favourite shop, however, is the, I suppose Americans would call it a general store, but who’s asking them? This shop is run by a husband and wife team and, in terms of what you can buy, equates to Harrods. Say you’re planning a barbeque party. (Go on say it.) You suddenly realise at 7pm that you haven’t got any charcoal, beer, an adaptor for your hairdryer, a pair of shoes (you want to look nice for the guests) and insect repellent. No problem – all available at the general store. I once asked for a small block of wood, (you don’t need to know), and was presented with three to choose from. ‘No charge’, the wife said, in far better English than my Italian, ‘it is a gift.’ ‘If it’s a gift’ I responded, ‘shouldn’t you wrap it in pretty paper?’ They now make sure they can summon help quickly whenever I come in.
Next in the village we arrive at an estate agent, but I refuse to give it the oxygen of free publicity, as one of its employees is an incompetent charlatan, so we shall hurry by. We also boast a post office and a pharmacy. The former takes my money when I pay council and refuse taxes. I’d like to refuse taxes but as they are so reasonable compared with UK equivalents, I’m not really complaining. I’ve only recently paid my first visit to the pharmacy but realised immediately that my infatuation for the baker’s assistant may have been misplaced. An English-speaking pharmacist with a philosophical view of life may steal my heart; my wife, however, has suggested that I dream on.
The village is far from bereft of places to eat and drink. We wouldn’t be based there if
that was the case. Such is the range of quality, service, scurrilous gossip opportunities and hilarious anecdotes that ‘I could dine out on that one’ will be the subject of my next blog. (can you contain your excitement?)
Being Italy, we have not one but two churches. Also, being Italy, attendance is sporadic to say the least. Our first visit to the main church happened to coincide with the first visit of the new parish priest – the church was pleasantly full. The following week – about twenty of us. The highlight is the annual procession from one church to the other in honour of a particular saint – lot of people, a marching band, precarious carrying of an ornate, heavy-looking statue, a sense of community.
Well we’ve had a stroll around. We’ve enjoyed the balmy weather, the impressive mountain backdrop, the steep steps, the wild feline population, (no, not the pharmacist) the centro storico and the friendly ‘buona sera’ greeting to all we meet. It’s time for a drink. Where shall we imbibe? I know, we’ll go to …ah but that’s the next blog’s theme. See you then.
Our first stop is Mrs. Bun the Baker ‘Due croissant, per favore – una crema e una naturale’. Mrs Bun is not always the most cheerful of people – could it be she agonises over the poor quality of Italian croissants compared to their French cousins, less than an hour’s drive away? No, I didn’t think so. A visit to the bakers is occasionally enlivened by the presence of Mrs B’s very part-time assistant – a pretty young lady who, if I understand her correctly, is studying English at university. If this is indeed the case, she should ask for her money back! One day a week the baker is closed, so off we trot to the little grocery store where bread and pastries can sometimes be found. If the bakery is Sainsbury’s, (I exaggerate to make a point), the grocery store is Morrisons, evidenced most clearly by the female staff smoking on the step outside the shop at every available opportunity.
My favourite shop, however, is the, I suppose Americans would call it a general store, but who’s asking them? This shop is run by a husband and wife team and, in terms of what you can buy, equates to Harrods. Say you’re planning a barbeque party. (Go on say it.) You suddenly realise at 7pm that you haven’t got any charcoal, beer, an adaptor for your hairdryer, a pair of shoes (you want to look nice for the guests) and insect repellent. No problem – all available at the general store. I once asked for a small block of wood, (you don’t need to know), and was presented with three to choose from. ‘No charge’, the wife said, in far better English than my Italian, ‘it is a gift.’ ‘If it’s a gift’ I responded, ‘shouldn’t you wrap it in pretty paper?’ They now make sure they can summon help quickly whenever I come in.
Next in the village we arrive at an estate agent, but I refuse to give it the oxygen of free publicity, as one of its employees is an incompetent charlatan, so we shall hurry by. We also boast a post office and a pharmacy. The former takes my money when I pay council and refuse taxes. I’d like to refuse taxes but as they are so reasonable compared with UK equivalents, I’m not really complaining. I’ve only recently paid my first visit to the pharmacy but realised immediately that my infatuation for the baker’s assistant may have been misplaced. An English-speaking pharmacist with a philosophical view of life may steal my heart; my wife, however, has suggested that I dream on.
The village is far from bereft of places to eat and drink. We wouldn’t be based there if
that was the case. Such is the range of quality, service, scurrilous gossip opportunities and hilarious anecdotes that ‘I could dine out on that one’ will be the subject of my next blog. (can you contain your excitement?)
Being Italy, we have not one but two churches. Also, being Italy, attendance is sporadic to say the least. Our first visit to the main church happened to coincide with the first visit of the new parish priest – the church was pleasantly full. The following week – about twenty of us. The highlight is the annual procession from one church to the other in honour of a particular saint – lot of people, a marching band, precarious carrying of an ornate, heavy-looking statue, a sense of community.
Well we’ve had a stroll around. We’ve enjoyed the balmy weather, the impressive mountain backdrop, the steep steps, the wild feline population, (no, not the pharmacist) the centro storico and the friendly ‘buona sera’ greeting to all we meet. It’s time for a drink. Where shall we imbibe? I know, we’ll go to …ah but that’s the next blog’s theme. See you then.
Friday, 2 October 2009
'step right up, see the main attraction'
Let’s take a stroll around our new Italian home. Heavy wooden front door, (must get the wife to restain it), leads straight into our brand new bright yellow kitchen. Take a left through the brick archway into the living room, tastefully decorated in surround – sound brick. (There’s an awful lot of brickwork in this house, ceilings as well as walls – exposed, partially exposed, covered). The open fireplace boasts an impressive Muriel-covered chimney breast, as my first boss would have called it. The mural featuring a tree, a snake, and a boat on the sea is from the Naïve School of art, in other words it’s rubbish and we love it. Hang on to the thick rope banister as we climb high brick steps to the first floor or primo piano as we say in the trade. Sharp right and we face bathroom number one – no exterior wall or window but plenty of condensation. Right again and a large wooden-floored (more stain please, wife) bedroom greets us. ‘Buon giorno’ we reply as we take in the useful storage/boiler room stage left and the overwhelming mountain views from the stage right window/. Now we retrace our steps to the top of the stairs and turn left, hoping not to hit our heads on the overhanging, yes you’ve guessed it, brickwork. A pleasant, whiter-walled curving into a white ceilinged room faces us. We’re told it’s a second bedroom but no one tells us what to do, (apart from the children and any client kind enough to retain my services), so it’s a second living room, with a sofa bed. Floor to ceiling window with superb view – same mountains.
As we leave this room you remind me to tell you the story behind the artwork on the walls. Another time, perhaps. Which way? At the back of the room brick steps lead up to a second bathroom, ideal for those of restricted growth. Turn left, however, and we climb one step into what might as well be a different house. In fact it was a different house, so what’s your problem? This part of the property is modern and gleaming with tiled floors and not a brick in sight. The first room is the second bedroom, bright and spacious and, oh look, there’s those mountains again. Of this room is what some people call a ‘wet room’ which means you have to be careful with the shower curtain or you get soggy loo rolls. Now we climb some crisp white-tiled stairs to …look I’m going to get a little emotional now, ok? At the top is a sweet little room that would make a lovely little study for me. Picture me tapping away at my blog, my great first novel and deploying my brand new powerful telescope to focus in on, well I never, are those mountains? Now picture wifey loading the washing machine, hanging items on a thoroughbred clotheshorse and dashing away with a smoothing iron. I’m now one hundred and twenty seven years old and never had my own study but I must confess I do look attractive in my clean, pressed holiday attire.
We now leave the study, sorry utility room, and cross a little corridor to the extremely useful second storage room, the one the nasty grown-up property developer seller tried to keep from us. What do you mean this could be my study/? It’s dark, it has no windows, it’s…oh, forget it but I know you meant well. If we follow the corridor to the right it ascends some stairs to another property, mysteriously empty. To the left, then sharp right we follow the corridor to a door that leads on to an alley. It is the front door at the back of the house, three floors higher than the other front door and many yards to the left (or right depending where you’re facing).
This completes our tour. Thank you for being an attentive audience. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have. I do this work in a voluntary capacity but if you wish to show your appreciation in any way…
Next time – the world outside, its people, its dramas, its time I had lunch.
As we leave this room you remind me to tell you the story behind the artwork on the walls. Another time, perhaps. Which way? At the back of the room brick steps lead up to a second bathroom, ideal for those of restricted growth. Turn left, however, and we climb one step into what might as well be a different house. In fact it was a different house, so what’s your problem? This part of the property is modern and gleaming with tiled floors and not a brick in sight. The first room is the second bedroom, bright and spacious and, oh look, there’s those mountains again. Of this room is what some people call a ‘wet room’ which means you have to be careful with the shower curtain or you get soggy loo rolls. Now we climb some crisp white-tiled stairs to …look I’m going to get a little emotional now, ok? At the top is a sweet little room that would make a lovely little study for me. Picture me tapping away at my blog, my great first novel and deploying my brand new powerful telescope to focus in on, well I never, are those mountains? Now picture wifey loading the washing machine, hanging items on a thoroughbred clotheshorse and dashing away with a smoothing iron. I’m now one hundred and twenty seven years old and never had my own study but I must confess I do look attractive in my clean, pressed holiday attire.
We now leave the study, sorry utility room, and cross a little corridor to the extremely useful second storage room, the one the nasty grown-up property developer seller tried to keep from us. What do you mean this could be my study/? It’s dark, it has no windows, it’s…oh, forget it but I know you meant well. If we follow the corridor to the right it ascends some stairs to another property, mysteriously empty. To the left, then sharp right we follow the corridor to a door that leads on to an alley. It is the front door at the back of the house, three floors higher than the other front door and many yards to the left (or right depending where you’re facing).
This completes our tour. Thank you for being an attentive audience. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have. I do this work in a voluntary capacity but if you wish to show your appreciation in any way…
Next time – the world outside, its people, its dramas, its time I had lunch.
Friday, 25 September 2009
what's that smell?
Apologies to my loyal readers, all three of you, for this blog’s delay. Been to Liguria, with a pleasant side trip to Piemonte, (subject of a future blog?).
Where were we? Ah yes, we are now the official owners of our very own home in Liguria. We plan the first visit when we will be ‘a casa’. Concerned that the Italian estate agent hasn’t confirmed safe delivery of out Ikean furniture, I telephone her. ‘Didn’t I send you an email?’ ‘No, ‘cos you’re rubbish’. We book the ferry. Our new best friend Vittorio telephones ‘When you coming down?’ ‘On Tuesday’ I reply. An ominous silence. Eventually he splutters ‘No you can’t come down’. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because your ‘ouse is full of, how can I say this, of sh**’ ‘WHAT? Vittorio explains that the lovely ivy entirely covering the outside of the house has been busily taking up residence in the sanitation piping, (How did it get a mortgage?), with disastrous results. To cut the cr**, we postpone our visit for a week as Vittorio assures me he will solve the problem by then.
Some time later…we set off in a car loaded to the gunnels (whatever they are) with all the paraphernalia that turns a house into a home (cue strings and introduce Dionne Warwick).
We belt through France with one night’s stop at a delightful auberge and a French hostess with a sense of humour.(surely shome mishtake?) In some trepidation we arrive at our new home. Vittorio is on his hands and knees scouring the kitchen floor with sand as a faint smell of je ne sais quoi lingers in the air. Actually we are surprised and relieved at the state of the house. Over a drink with Vittorio at our nearest bar/restaurant, he tells us that the ivy has to go or the problem will return. He adds to our woes by informing us that the local council has decided that the footpath outside the house must be dug up, the pipes replaced and the cost is down to us. Oh what a tangled web we weave when England’s shores we attempt to leave.
I spend the next few days hacking away at bits of ivy, but as It has climbed three storeys high, I make practically no impression but would do so on the ground if I leaned any further out of the window. Vittorio will solve the problem by hiring a man with a crane and as I contemplate an Italian bank robbery, he tells us that one problem has gone away. Apparently the man from the council has listened with sympathy to the argument that we have only just bought the property and were not responsible for growing the ivy. He has said he will return for a further inspection ‘with one eye open and one eye closed’. I ask Vittorio what the hell that means. He explains that the inspection will convince the council man the ivy problem under the public footpath is the council’s responsibility. ‘Why would he do that?’ naively I ask. ‘Because you will give him a money-stuffed envelope’ is the reply. I love abroad, don’t you?
I haven’t mentioned the kitchen. We didn’t have one. A long drive, an impressive showroom, some hard negotiation and we buy an attractive traditional style in contemporary canary yellow for little more than the original asking price. Actually we’d ordered this on a previous trip but I forgot to mention it. It is fitted on this visit and we’re very pleased. We put a great deal of work into making the house habitable or I should say my wife does while I spend many a long hour checking that Ikea flatpacks have all the right number of screws, nails, bolts etc before getting her to assemble them.
We take time out to visit the village’s one upmarket restaurant. Newly taken over by a youngish German couple, they impress with a speciality starter – cheese and honey melting on a hot stone – yum, yum. Rabbit features strongly on the menu too and the house red is so good and so reasonably priced that we don’t bother with the wine list. Which is probably why they soon withdraw it. C’est la vie say the old folks; it only goes to show you never can tell.
It’s about time I started talking about the village and its inhabitants but that will have to wait for the next exciting instalment I keep mentioning my son, don’t I?
Till the next time...
Where were we? Ah yes, we are now the official owners of our very own home in Liguria. We plan the first visit when we will be ‘a casa’. Concerned that the Italian estate agent hasn’t confirmed safe delivery of out Ikean furniture, I telephone her. ‘Didn’t I send you an email?’ ‘No, ‘cos you’re rubbish’. We book the ferry. Our new best friend Vittorio telephones ‘When you coming down?’ ‘On Tuesday’ I reply. An ominous silence. Eventually he splutters ‘No you can’t come down’. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because your ‘ouse is full of, how can I say this, of sh**’ ‘WHAT? Vittorio explains that the lovely ivy entirely covering the outside of the house has been busily taking up residence in the sanitation piping, (How did it get a mortgage?), with disastrous results. To cut the cr**, we postpone our visit for a week as Vittorio assures me he will solve the problem by then.
Some time later…we set off in a car loaded to the gunnels (whatever they are) with all the paraphernalia that turns a house into a home (cue strings and introduce Dionne Warwick).
We belt through France with one night’s stop at a delightful auberge and a French hostess with a sense of humour.(surely shome mishtake?) In some trepidation we arrive at our new home. Vittorio is on his hands and knees scouring the kitchen floor with sand as a faint smell of je ne sais quoi lingers in the air. Actually we are surprised and relieved at the state of the house. Over a drink with Vittorio at our nearest bar/restaurant, he tells us that the ivy has to go or the problem will return. He adds to our woes by informing us that the local council has decided that the footpath outside the house must be dug up, the pipes replaced and the cost is down to us. Oh what a tangled web we weave when England’s shores we attempt to leave.
I spend the next few days hacking away at bits of ivy, but as It has climbed three storeys high, I make practically no impression but would do so on the ground if I leaned any further out of the window. Vittorio will solve the problem by hiring a man with a crane and as I contemplate an Italian bank robbery, he tells us that one problem has gone away. Apparently the man from the council has listened with sympathy to the argument that we have only just bought the property and were not responsible for growing the ivy. He has said he will return for a further inspection ‘with one eye open and one eye closed’. I ask Vittorio what the hell that means. He explains that the inspection will convince the council man the ivy problem under the public footpath is the council’s responsibility. ‘Why would he do that?’ naively I ask. ‘Because you will give him a money-stuffed envelope’ is the reply. I love abroad, don’t you?
I haven’t mentioned the kitchen. We didn’t have one. A long drive, an impressive showroom, some hard negotiation and we buy an attractive traditional style in contemporary canary yellow for little more than the original asking price. Actually we’d ordered this on a previous trip but I forgot to mention it. It is fitted on this visit and we’re very pleased. We put a great deal of work into making the house habitable or I should say my wife does while I spend many a long hour checking that Ikea flatpacks have all the right number of screws, nails, bolts etc before getting her to assemble them.
We take time out to visit the village’s one upmarket restaurant. Newly taken over by a youngish German couple, they impress with a speciality starter – cheese and honey melting on a hot stone – yum, yum. Rabbit features strongly on the menu too and the house red is so good and so reasonably priced that we don’t bother with the wine list. Which is probably why they soon withdraw it. C’est la vie say the old folks; it only goes to show you never can tell.
It’s about time I started talking about the village and its inhabitants but that will have to wait for the next exciting instalment I keep mentioning my son, don’t I?
Till the next time...
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
keep going, then turn left
It’s contract-signing time and we’re driving down. I say we but wife does the driving while I assume the mantle of the far heavier navigating responsibility. (I don’t drive as I take the drinking part of ‘drink driving’ very seriously. I did once take a driving test but as I calculated it would be safer to hit a stationary car on my left rather than one moving towards me on my right, my tendency to commandeer the pavement robbed me of vital points) We make a relatively early start as we’re only stopping one night en route. Arriving at Dover without mishap, we take the Sea France ferry to Calais – eat your heart out, Eurotunnel – and having enjoyed an overpriced and over-caloried breakfast, hit the motorway with a vengeance. By 6pm we’re at Nuits St. George and half an hour later checking into a pleasant little hotel in Beaune. We’ve covered 480 miles and thrown a substantial number of euros into motorway baskets. Superb meal but surely the wine could be cheaper – I can see the raw material growing outside the window.
By 6pm the following day we’re at our destination. We’ve covered 915 miles. I’ve arranged to meet the owner of charming apartment in a pretty square in Dolceaqua. I don’t, however, know what she looks like and the square is packed with people enjoying a children’s choir. Having unsuccessfully propositioned several women of undoubted probity, I am rescued by the lady herself. A drink at a nearby café is suggested and I retrieve wife from the car.
Dolceaqua is picturesque and the apartment high up in the centro storico. (who says I don’t speak the lingo?). We dine and sup well that evening, particularly enjoying the local Rossesse di Dolceaqua, reputedly a favourite wine of Napoleon, presumably Bonaparte rather than Solo.
The next day we meet up with our new best friend, Vittorio, and after a delightful lunch in San Remo, where we are joined by Eliana, the local representative of the UK –based estate agency and, perhaps, the most helpful, attentive individual we have ever met, we walk towards destiny and the notario’s office. (Refer to my first two blogs, dated 20th and 28th July for a fascinating account of this meeting.)
Now we have an official contract. The house is ours. How do we celebrate? What about a trip to Genoa and the wonders of Ikea! I hate shopping. I hate shopping for anything. Wife loves shopping. Wife loves shopping for practically anything. Do you see a potential problem here? After a long and tedious motorway journey, we see Ikea but we can’t get to it. Tempers fray a little but after a couple more circuits of industrial Genoa we are there. (Sometime later) Having ordered beds, sofas, wardrobes, tables and a myriad variety of other items, we linger a little longer to enjoy a hot Ikean beverage. Idly I peruse the rather lengthy receipt. It doesn’t take even me long to realise that the young assistant, (Italian perfect, English rubbish), has got significant elements of our order wrong. As the entire order is to be delivered to the house in our absence in a month’s time, can you imagine the drama of getting the wrong items replaced when we do turn up? Well can you? We track down the assistant and point out the error of his ways.
A day or two later it’s time to go home. But now we have two homes. We’ve enjoyed strolling round our Italian property. We’ve arranged for the Italy-based estate agent to ensure safe delivery of the Ikea order and to let us know when it happens. Then we can plan our first stay under our own roof. The journey back is uneventful and we even manage to achieve some non-motorway driving. By 10 pm the next day we’re home, warmly greeted by cat, post, telephone messages and email. Our Golf has done us proud and there’s a total of nearly 2,800 extra miles on the clock.
Does the furniture arrive? Are we informed? When will son get a proper mention? Didn’t I tell you not to mention ivy? Tune in again next week? No. We’re off to Italy!
By 6pm the following day we’re at our destination. We’ve covered 915 miles. I’ve arranged to meet the owner of charming apartment in a pretty square in Dolceaqua. I don’t, however, know what she looks like and the square is packed with people enjoying a children’s choir. Having unsuccessfully propositioned several women of undoubted probity, I am rescued by the lady herself. A drink at a nearby café is suggested and I retrieve wife from the car.
Dolceaqua is picturesque and the apartment high up in the centro storico. (who says I don’t speak the lingo?). We dine and sup well that evening, particularly enjoying the local Rossesse di Dolceaqua, reputedly a favourite wine of Napoleon, presumably Bonaparte rather than Solo.
The next day we meet up with our new best friend, Vittorio, and after a delightful lunch in San Remo, where we are joined by Eliana, the local representative of the UK –based estate agency and, perhaps, the most helpful, attentive individual we have ever met, we walk towards destiny and the notario’s office. (Refer to my first two blogs, dated 20th and 28th July for a fascinating account of this meeting.)
Now we have an official contract. The house is ours. How do we celebrate? What about a trip to Genoa and the wonders of Ikea! I hate shopping. I hate shopping for anything. Wife loves shopping. Wife loves shopping for practically anything. Do you see a potential problem here? After a long and tedious motorway journey, we see Ikea but we can’t get to it. Tempers fray a little but after a couple more circuits of industrial Genoa we are there. (Sometime later) Having ordered beds, sofas, wardrobes, tables and a myriad variety of other items, we linger a little longer to enjoy a hot Ikean beverage. Idly I peruse the rather lengthy receipt. It doesn’t take even me long to realise that the young assistant, (Italian perfect, English rubbish), has got significant elements of our order wrong. As the entire order is to be delivered to the house in our absence in a month’s time, can you imagine the drama of getting the wrong items replaced when we do turn up? Well can you? We track down the assistant and point out the error of his ways.
A day or two later it’s time to go home. But now we have two homes. We’ve enjoyed strolling round our Italian property. We’ve arranged for the Italy-based estate agent to ensure safe delivery of the Ikea order and to let us know when it happens. Then we can plan our first stay under our own roof. The journey back is uneventful and we even manage to achieve some non-motorway driving. By 10 pm the next day we’re home, warmly greeted by cat, post, telephone messages and email. Our Golf has done us proud and there’s a total of nearly 2,800 extra miles on the clock.
Does the furniture arrive? Are we informed? When will son get a proper mention? Didn’t I tell you not to mention ivy? Tune in again next week? No. We’re off to Italy!
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