So it has become winter here in the Languedoc, suddenly, in two weeks, the temperatures have dropped by about 10 degrees and they are predicting a fall of snow on Saturday.
Difficult to believe I know!
So, in the space of about 10 days I have to have a total wardrobe weather realignment and change my normal flip-flops for shoes and socks, my shorts for longers, my tee- shirts for long sleeved shirts, find vests and gilets (I have foreswarn jumpers, but that is another story). Rooting about in the wardrobe I find just a very small selection of winter shirts so I announce to Sile that I must get on the internet and order some more in. She then informs me that she had put all my winter stuff away last March (when I donned the summer wardrobe) and she then produced a suitcase of clothes suitable for the winter. As soon as she produced these old friends, flannel shirts I have worn for years, corderoy trousers shaped with my knees over decades I instantly recognised them but could have not named one until the suitcase was opened.
Then of course I had to iron the lot of them, about 15 shirts and several pairs of trousers.
Now as is my wont when I iron I close myself into the office/laundry room and play loudly something from my youth. This time I picked Leonard Cohen’s Songs from a Room from the rack, an LP which I had worn out in the sixties but had recently replaced with a CD. As I played this while ironing I found myself singing along just as loudly with each song- and discovered I knew all the words- I was even word perfect in The Partisan the moment I heard the intro.
So what is it about the aging brain that it can store song lyrics in impeccible order for 50 years but cannot remember what I covered my body with a mere 8 months ago ?

“An old woman gave me shelter
Kept me hidden in the garret
Then the soldiers came
She died without a whisper.”

As our terrace faces due south there are only about three weeks on either side of the winter solstice when, if the night is clear enough, we can watch the sun set.

Tonight was such a golden opportunity.

See youse tonight lads.

While we were in Bagnone we visited the nearby town of Pontetremelo (The bridge which trembles.) In the church there we were surprised to see a really Irish looking statue, and sure enough it was of St. Columbanus.

Next to it was a copy of a much older image of the same saint (with another one on board it seems)going by boat, leaving behind the lush green hills of Ireland en route for Bobbio which he converted.
Sure we never lost it !

Our first week in Tuscany was spent in Lunigiana high in the hills. Our house was about a 10 minute climb from Bagnone, behind the castle right over the town.

The first morning we were there we went exploring and found another, medieval but occupied, village behind the castle with a mossy slippery and very unused steps leading down to the village proper.

It was worth the slither, at the bottom we found that we were looking at the backs of all the houses, unchanged over the years, overlooking the torrent and a wonderful Roman footbridge led us through an underground passage into the village.

It is comforting when your personal saints come on holiday with you.
Here, in the church of St. Michele in Lucca I found my Patron, St Roch (here better known as Rocco)- the man from Montpellier with a penchant for showing his leg- in a painting by Lippi (not Fra Lippi but his son Fillipino Lippi) a work rated as a Tuscan Masterpiece.

One of the essentials of our visit to the Lunigiana in Tuscany was to visit the Fortezza de Brunella in Aulla. This was owned by the Waterfield family until the early seventies when it was compulsarily purchased by the Italian government. Several great books have been written about this family in Italy, best I think A Tuscan Childhood* by Kinta Beevor (father of historian Anthony and Aunt of my friend and ex-boss Michael Waterfield.) which is all about this fortress.
After a long trudge up the rain destroyed avenue we were disappointed to find it closed but took some shots of the outside anyway. On the way back down we met a determined young lady braving the avenue in a Fiat 500, she told us she could let us in.
The Italians had in their wisdom decided to destroy Aubery Waterfields renowned roof garden (much admired by Twain and DH Lawrence) and turn the place into a natural history museum full of motheaten fauna. Still the essence of the place lived on and we were delighted with the chance to see the inside and the magnificent views down the valley of the Aulla and the river.

*The book is a charming period piece and well worth getting your hands on .

Sorry for the dearth of blogs, we are on holiday in Italy at the moment.
Here is a wee snippet from yesterday’s diary:

Today, a little burnt out from visiting museums, art galleries and churches we decided to head north of Fiesole, avoiding the Florence traffic, and see where the road would take us.

First stop was Scarperia, a little gem of a town with a strong tradition of making knives and with an impressive knife museum. It was 12 when we left there so we just decided to head north through the Appenines, through some spectacular roads, and stop wherever lunch time brought us.

This happened in a one horse town called Firenzuola which seemed uniquely involved in the producion of Pietra Serena,some sort of building stone, and was as modern as a new pin having been bombed out in 1945. The only eatery was a not madly inviting hotel, but, beggars and choosers that we were we went in.

Three faults were immediately evident, the place was cold, God knows how, it was quite mild outside, There were a loud couple with a dog in one corner and the lady of the house had a small child dogging her every step whom it was evident we were meant to oogle. (We did)

The food however wasn’t bad at all. Garlicy bruschetta of Tomato, and Tortelini filled with potato,sauced witha ragu Bolognaise (just a few miles up the road). The table next to us filled up with a business meeting of four men and women. The elder (in his forties) was a regular and greeted with much joy by the patronne with cries of Michele !

As we finished we asked Madame for the bill, and she, looking slightly wounded at us not taking coffee or desserts, arrived back shortly with two slices of a strudle type cake for us. As she passed the table she asked Michele to tell her how to say “Complimentary” to us. “Tell them it is on the House” he said. And yes, we could hear a faint touch of Ireland in his English !

” Where are you from ” he immediately asked us. His delight when we said Ireland was palpable. “My Mother was born in Limerick ” he said. “What on Earth brings you to Firenzuola ?”.

I wish I could say that we then ended up chewing the fat and exchanging stories for an hour but he was after all at a meeting! As we passed out though I dropped him a card for Le Le Presbytère, Chambre et Table d’Hôte. He looked delighted, I have a funny feeling somehow we may see him again, and maybe learn the story of the family.

At the back of the kitchen sink are some old tiles which Clive and I found in a Brocante in Beziers and Clive stuck on the wall.

I know nothing about tiles but feel that these must have been around for a while.
Often while I wash up (as I often do!) I find myself studying them- they were all individually painted, not one is identical to an other although there are certain similarities, these, , one imagines,the work of one hand.

They are pleasant individual works of art to study while one mindlessly washes up.

I first blogged this in May of 2005, eight years ago.
It is one of my favourites so I think that it merits a repeat..

I love this story because I think it typifies the combination of tolerance and iconoclasm that are an integral part of the Cork character.

My brother-in- law Milo Lynch, originally from Cork, lived in London for some years. During one of his trips home to Cork he took the Blackrock bus into town.

You must remember that at this time the rule was that one could smoke upstairs but not downstairs in a double decker suburban bus.

Milo sat down stairs and, as he did, three ladies, sitting near him, lit up cigarettes.
Whereby Milo drew himself up to his full height and summoned the conductor.
“Is it now permitted” he said in his most authoritative voice “ to smoke down stairs in the bus”
The reply was a classic:
“Yerra shmoke away boy!