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...