The Fairy Woods

    Everyone must have fond memories of private places from their childhood. Places that inspired the imagination to flesh out an adventure or a make-believe shelter. Places that felt safe and secure from the real world. On one of my early walks through the woodland of LeCoste I entered an ugly dump site where the rubbish of maintaining 20-odd rural houses was deposited and occasionally burned. Piles of charred mattresses, broken wardrobes, masonry, roof tiles, old sinks, even grave stones. The dump was oddly located near the top of a lovely, grassy hill, nearly the highest point on the estate. Other people's rubbish can be interesting and after helping myself to a couple of old tiles, I wandered to the top of the hill and into the most remarkable stand of young trees.

    I can't identify the trees but they remind me of the california live oak. Pinnate leaves, smooth young bark, dark and knarly, the trunks only 4 to 6 inches in diameter. Throughout the rest of the LeCoste woodland, one must struggle through tough underbrush somtimes spiney and thorny, but this wood had a clear floor covered only in leaves and a dense canopy keeping it clean, cool and dark. Looking carefully, a pattern to the planting revealed itself. Rank and file, the trees were obviously planted on purpose. Among the trees stood two tiny brick cottages with broken roofs and battered doors but enough detail to reveal wonderful, old construction. Even more curious was a strange brickworks looking like an old foundation. It took the form of a narrow trench leading away from one of the cottages to a square in the ground and then beyond to peter-out among the leaves. The bricks were old and the trench too small to be a fortification and too improbable to be an aqueduct.

    I took the first opportunity to bring the kids to my newly discovered land and they fell in love with it just as easily as I did. It became a favorite destination for them, their friends and their toys. "Fairy Woods" became the new name and everyone on the estate soon knew of it.
    Two days ago, I walked up to the Fairy Woods and found it destroyed by chainsaws. Harvested for firewood. LeCoste has been selling its woodland as fuel, sacrificing its magic for a little bit of money. My memories of the wood and the impression it left are so strong, I find myself preferring my imagination to what's left of the actual place.

marzo e pazzo

     March is crazy. It's the second of March and it's a momentous occasion. A month ago we awoke to what turned out to be almost a month of snowbound isolation. Today I was forced to remove my long johns. This isn't something I do casually or often. I sleep in the damn things. Sometimes I wake in the night, sweating, and shove them down to my ankles; but they only come off for special occasions. They normally go on in November and come off in April. Really. This year I'm very thankful to my brother Matt for lending me two pairs of his best so now I'm able to change them every month or so. I know, I know, you're thinking I'm a complete grub; but actually it's not that bad. I'm a clean person, but the need for warmth can overcome a few other needs.
    I'd send you a picture, but my camera battery charger is broken. Sorry.
   Anyway, today I was forced to remove my long johns. It was that hot. Richie and I continue to work indoors where it's cold, but I was still overheating. Alex and her mother worked outside sifting fine sand for our plaster mixes and I found myself checking on their progress fairly often. They, predictably, were complaining from under their huge sun hats. We had spread the sand out on large wooden panels to allow the sun to dry the sand, making it easier to sift. The old camper van was loaded and the sand circulated by wheelbarrow from van to drying panel to sifting screen to storage vessel to mixing tub to builder's bucket to, finally, the wall. Mixing, spreading and finishing the plaster takes effort and concentration. After a few hours the chill of the morning wore off, the hot tea kicked in, the solar panels began their work, and before you knew it, one is sweltering in on's long johns. Around about  noon or so, I glanced over to Alex and cocked my head in question. Sure enough, she had removed her long johns as well.
   We're working on the middle floor corridor and it's northwest bedroom. Both areas are getting proper electrics, new wall plaster, cleaned ceilings and beams, and the bedroom is getting an old door fitted properly. Richie is dedicated to old buildings and has brought a passion and knowledge to the project. I admire his dedication to the old materials and find myself protecting him from the consensus for a rapid conclusion to this renovation. He and I agree on everything concerning the proper materials for restoration. If anything, he is more willing to take the more painstaking, authentic approach. His work is a masterful mix of perfection and correctness. It's inspiring since I thought I was alone in my zeal for authenticity. We are using hydrated lime and sifted sand for our final plaster and it takes a lot more work to prepare than the bags of pre-mix available at the local yard; but the result is very similar to the original work we are repairing.
     We are working here because one month ago the plaster wouldn't set on the floor below. It was below freezing. Now, one month later, I'm removing my long johns before the job, or winter, is finished. But, like the job, winter isn't finished. Marzo e pazzo.

european cold

     I grew up in snow. I was born in October in Wisconsin and by November it was certainly freezing. I seem to remember, although it's probably just a recollection of photographs, being bundled stiff and lashed to skis and tumbled down a snowy hill, head over heels, crying. I suffered fairly serious frostbite in elementary school, trying to compact a snowball with snow too cold to stick together. I took my gloves off to try and melt the snow so it would compact better. Big mistake. I learned from experience just how much heat is needed to change water from solid to liquid.
    On the 1st of February, a heavy, wet snow blanketed the roads and countryside; breaking trees and making driving very dangerous. Italy doesn't have a lot of snow removal equipment nor does it have a big stockpile of salted grit to distribute on the roads. When the snow on the roads is compacted by traffic, it quickly turns to ice. With a forecast of freezing weather, we had to clear the snow from our steep driveway or we'd soon be skating down a ski jump. All garden spades and hand trowels to the job. The LeCoste tractor plowed our road but it drags a blade, compacting the snow before it scrapes it flat. Driving out was impossible, so we hunkered down and blessed Alex for her vast food reserves.
    On the 5th of February the water stopped flowing through our faucets. It had happened before due to exposed pipes in our house and we had taken steps over the years to avoid frozen pipes, but this time it wasn't our fault. Supply to the entire neighborhood was frozen. Some time ago, a section of the supply line had been found to be leaking and ten meters of temporary line was spliced in but lying on the surface. When the big snow hit us, this exposed portion of the pipe didn't take long to freeze.  Six people in our house and no water. Richie had driven down from England to help us building and within one week of arriving in sunny Italy, we found ourselves without water to mix mortars and temperatures so low, no mortar would set properly. The good news was we had a good supply of firewood and a foot of snow on the ground.
When water freezes, it expands. When it freezes from water vapor, it forms lovely snowflakes that are largely empty space. When these snowflakes are melted, you get the equivalent of water that was originally water vapor. Not much. And it takes a lot of calories. Bathing was out. Drinking it was a gamble. Running the cement mixer was out. So was flushing the loo.
     On the 11th of February another foot of snow buried us alive. They had managed to open the school for two days since the 1st and the kids had walked out to get a lift to school but now everything was locked down hard. Grocery stores weren't getting supplies, many stores and facilities closed. Miraculously, electrical power went brown but not out. We struggled to clear our drive once again as well as our solar panels. By now our little apartment resembled a ski cabin with heaps of steaming wet clothing surrounding the hot wood stove. Big pasta boilers crammed the stove top filled with warming slush and plastic buckets surrounded the stove filled with powdery snow. Ironically, the hot water solar panels kept the hot water tank at a tantalizing temperature but the lack of flowing water kept us from bathing, laundering or even washing dishes in a normal way. During the big freeze, Richie and I shifted our work area to his bedroom. He moved into one of the apartment bedrooms, we moved everything out of his old bedroom and began hacking the old plaster off the walls. At night, our bedroom windows froze on the inside. The kids got actually bored with toboggan adventures.
     On Valentine's day, school bravely opened again. Many teachers couldn't get in. The roads were still dangerous and it was illegal to be found driving without chains. We couldn't get out and many very able 4-wheel drive vehicles had to be dragged out of LeCoste roadsides. One RangeRover was found nose-first over a bank in the woods. The girls hitched a ride with Julian in his LandRover although he had to be rescued once after plowing uncontrollably into the woods.
    15th of February, Thomasina's 12th birthday. She had a wonderful party with four guests able to make it. We still couldn't negotiate the roads since we had no chains for our 'new' car, but two sets of parents managed to get in.
    On the 16th of Feb, water flowed again. Ten days without running water.
    On the 18th Feb, the road through LeCoste was clear enough to allow us to drive out. We were snowbound for 17 days and with no water for 10.
    Italy is a civilized country. It has hosted major civilizations for numerous centuries. It's climate hasn't changed too much over the years. Italian people are clever. They are credited with numerous discoveries and advancements. Italy is one of the Group 8 nations. It's historically a rich country. For a time after the second World War, Italy's economy exceeded that of Great Britain. Despite all this, if you find yourself in a not-so-old Italian rural house in winter, you had better be prepared for serious winter discomfort. The houses are cold. European cold.
    I grew up in snow. The squealing of the girls at the first sight in the morning reminded me of my love of it despite the cold, the damage, the discomforts. I love the odd, steamy warmth of the down parka while shoveling. The blinding white where there was once brown, dead garden. I love the various forms, how it changes from volumes of airy powder to blocks of dry styrofoam. I hadn't seen snow like this in maybe 40 years. Lovely stuff and now I miss it.

Snow photos of Trasimeno basin

Busy here with the winter weather. School out for a week. We are very fortunate to be spending our winter in the littl e apartment although we are all still sleeping upstairs in the drafty bedrooms. Click here for some photos of the area under snow.

befana

To most of the english-speaking world, La Befana means absolutely nothing. According to Google Translate it means The Epiphany. According to Wikipedia it refers to an old lady, perhaps a witch. When Alex took the girls to the indoor pool this morning, she found nothing open. Except the streets. You see, this is the Epiphany: the 6th of January when Jesus is recognized as God the Son, a human child; the day when, traditionally, the children of Italy awake to a mountain of presents under the...  Befana tree?  Maybe not, but nevertheless, they do awake to a mountain of presents left by a wayward old lady who has passed up the chance to accompany the three wise men and spends the rest of her haunted soul's existence dropping gifts at the feet of any child she bumps into.  Just in case they may be the actual Jesus of whom it has been spoken. Can you imagine the effect, when every child considers itself a god-like creature? How disappointing it must be to grow up. 


But La Befana presents a remarkable resemblance to our regular hero. Or rather a blend, or perhaps a prototype of, Santa Clause and the Halloween witch. "She is usually portrayed as an old lady riding a broomstick through the air wearing a black shawl and is covered in soot because she enters the children's houses through the chimney. She is often smiling and carries a bag or hamper filled with candy, gifts, or both." (Wikipedia).


What is remarkable to me is that Italians have incorporated Santa Claus (Babo Natale or Father Christmas) into their holiday tradition. An Italian child today can expect a mountain of gifts on Christmas day from Babo Natale as well as a second lot on the Epiphany from La Befana. How have I missed out all these years?


Anyway, you can rest assured our kids got nothing today. Yet mama, La Alex, received a fancy mop bucket, complete with a mop squeezer, to help encourage her Befana-like habits of compulsive house cleanliness. Ho Ho Ho!

sempre stranieri

Always foreigners. It's been stated by authors who should know. Not the pollyanna ones who write things I can't read, but those who tell it like it is. After Hannibal comes to mind by Barry Unsworth.

On the first day of the Christmas holiday, Thomasina stepped off the school bus in an obviously quiet

mood. At home she waited until we were alone before losing her composure and crying in my arms. Her school friend of many years had avoided her, preferring Italian friends on her 'smart phone' and fruitless boyfriend strategies. Thomasina confessed to not being able to keep  up with the slang, the dialect, of the locals and their fast-track chatter about TV shows, local cinema, immediate society, and current fashion. We have restricted  her cell phone, TV (absolutely non-existent), movies, and most social life. Instead we have insisted on homework, tennis lessons, sailing lessons, swimming lessons, and housework. She and Isolde have lived as a pair of friends in a foreign land. Every adult we know praises our kids as the most polite, the most informed, and the most well adjusted of any they know; but I worry. Any kid who is not accepted by her friends is in for a hard time, in my opinion.

Yesterday, Alex told me we had not been invited to the New Years Eve party of a couple we thought were friends or ours. We passed a nice holiday with numerous visits beginning with Thanksgiving and I felt a bit exhausted by it all, not to mention the frustration of obligatory gift shopping, when faced with the self-imposed schedule of making daily progress on this infinite pile of work I've set out for myself. But, if pressed, I have to confess, I don't have many friends here. When a potential acquaintance, let alone friend, holds a New Year's Eve party and forgets to invite me... well that's fairly obvious. When I learned of the snub I shrugged it off, but it's been haunting me for the whole week. Now I know what it feels like, Thomasina.

All vacation long, we've been thrown together in our small, snug apartment. We've made the best of Christmas with our olive tree and Jaquetta's cooking and inspirations, but it's been a very private season. We all work most of the day, including Christmas Day (cooking, etc.), the girls do their homework, Thomasina does some guitar practice, Isolde reads endless books until she is forced to re-read those she read last week. They practice their bridge (card game), swimming, and tennis. And the girls seem happy to play with each other at loads of make-believe games.

We are currently watching the weather report for signs of snow at the local ski area, but time is running out. School starts on monday and tonight it's raining.

push-button heat

    For the past 10 years or so, everybody we know has enjoyed some form of warmth during the winter months at the touch of a button. Many of our Italian neighbors are facing $1000 per month heating bills if they live in a house like ours and push the button, but then some people seem able to burn that kind of money. Especially for warmth.  After food and clothing it's shelter, after all. For the past 10 years we've been warm in winter only if we are prepared to cut, split, haul, and dress in lots of layers. With windows glazed in picture frame glass and casements with half inch tolerances, a cold and windy night requires some shivering upper lip. But after 9 years or so (one in England, one in South Umbria, and 7 here in West Umbria) we've actually hardened to the task: order in 35 quintale of lumberyard scraps, let it age for three years, get Bob Henry to saw and split it, and then keep warm hauling it up two flights of stairs to the one warm room in our quarters.
     Then, two winters ago, we noticed a wonderful change. Our kitchen was being heated by more than the occasional sunny day. It was Elda downstairs living in our finished guest apartment and keeping it toasty warm with her own wood fire. Our kitchen floor was her sitting room ceiling. This was a new level of luxury for us. So much so that we hardly noticed when our own fire began to ease to embers. All that survival instinct panic was slipping away and winter seemed not so serious.
      Well, this winter things have changed again. We still have the wood stove, and Bob Henry sawed and split a mountain of fuel; but Elda and her fire are gone. She, Martina and Marco moved into their own place on the other side of the estate and took their wood stove with them. I wanted to move into the apartment; but the cold, vacant rooms required us to wrestle our own wood stove into the apartment along with a new stove pipe. Tough decision since it would leave us stoveless upstairs and the apartment already has underfloor heating (that is, there are pipes buried under the paving stones, but there's still no heat source). Further, the clean and bare rooms are ready for a summer vacation rental or two if we could keep our greasy mitts off.
      We moved our stove in. We moved a few kitchen utensiles, but we decided to continue to sleep upstairs. And we committed a travesty. We bored holes in our lovely ancient walls and installed a modern heat pump to take advantage of our solar electricity. It looks like a big, white air-conditioner mounted on white, metal supports 10 feet up the back wall. It's decorated by white insulated pipes unsuccessfully hidden in white plastic conduits. When the sun shines, we push a button and it pumps hot air into the apartment. In summer it will pump cool air into the apartment. If we watch our meters, the heat is free and there's still some left over for the world. But it's the ugliest thing you've ever seen.