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.

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.

'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.