Goose pimples

Gratuitous Colin Firth

So goose pimple moments for you

Pisa

So before we came home, and I got buried in infinite edits, Hugo and I went off on a bus ride to Pisa. The plan was to ‘do’ some museums but we only got as far as Piazza dei Miracoli. Gorgeous, too early in the year for it to be heaving, blue, blue skies with distant snow capped mountains.

Now, I worship at the altar of all things Roman, and in Rome my very favourite place is the Pantheon. I was lucky enough to see this first in the early hours of the morning in moonlight, deserted, just the sound of the fountain, in the company of ghosts (and a new friend that we won’t dwell on). Just wonderful. I always brace myself for Rome, I know that it will hit me below the ribs with longing and nostalgia that even a Teflon jacket could not protect me from.

I have never been into the baptistry in Pisa. But I walked in, and the space immediately whacked me as being reminiscent of the Pantheon, but without the opportunity to prepare for the impact first. Whack. Arrested to a stop. Whack. A thousand happy memories of Rome incoming. Whack.

And then, because why not, this chap started a duet with the echo. Honestly the hairs stood up on my neck and goose pimples shivered down my arms.

More exploring revealed an amphora sitting atop a column in the Duomo. Turned out it was from the wedding at Cana where Jesus converted water to wine - who knew? Hugo stared at it with intense longing, wondering whether it still worked.

Plus enough skulls and bones playing macrabre peepo in reliquaries to send Tim Burton into raptures of inspiration.

Somewhat cultured out we found the best ever café with the most incredible view and later, hark the herald angels, just behind the bus stop a fabulous bar- great vibe and lots of recently graduated students with laurel wreaths on their heads accompanied by proud parents.

I don’t give up my secrets readily but if you are about to visit Pisa, I will whisper the location of the café and bar to subscribers. (You may even find us there)

Visit to Jane Austen’s house

Back in Blighty for 3 weeks we had two days sunshine (I chewed up 3/4s of the lawn with the mower before I got fed up). I was thinking it was approaching Pimm’s o’clock but then it was back to howling winds and rains. I have been absolutely buried in edits for my tome Shiksa but Hugo and I thought we would head out to somewhere I had always wanted to visit, but never quite made it to- Jane Austen’s house.

It was that or Birdworld. But we basically live in bird world. I take credit for feeding the birds, that is lobbing rock hard sour dough loaves from the backdoor like an Olympian shot-putter. They have blunted the teeth of the local foxes but after a few downpours I assume the sharpened beak can make an indent. The blue tits have dug a hole in the bathroom eves (and slam against the window), the starlings are in the corner in our bedroom (I no longer leave the bedroom window open after one made a navigational error and ended up on the wardrobe. I didn’t realise for two days) and the crows have levered out a tile next to the chimney above my daughter’s room. Having pushed out a cement roof tile, and bent back the lead flashing they are currently taking logs up to make a nest the size of a beaver lodge. The neighbour drew our attention to the crows nest. There was the crow standing on one leg (why?) with a construction sized beam in its beak. I understand that cranes are making a comeback (two meter wingspan). It is only a matter of time.

The avian determination and industry has shamed the Thames Water ‘workmen’ who have barricaded our lane for a month. We live in peace compared to the neighbouring skinny roads which are now compressed rat runs with irate drivers shimmying past parked cars. The hallowed ‘workmen’ arrive in immaculate untarnished orange high vis. They then take a heavy plant machine each and sleep. All day. Everyday. It’s rather ironic. I sit in my PJs and dressing gown slaving over edits, they arrive in their orange and do absolutely nothing. We have taken to tiptoeing in the garden lest we wake them. I digress.

We arrived half an hour early for our appointment at Jane Austen’ s house. (more fairly Cassandra’s house, given that she lived there so much longer) There was a moment of great jeopardy as opposite is a pub and a quaint teashop. Pubs are Hugo’s natural habitat and to try and walk past one is to defy gravity. I jostled Hugo into the teashop like an all black rugby player. Mrs Teashop, who is not mad keen on customers, HATES Jane Austen with a vengeance. She prides herself on NEVER having been to her house, but does a remarkably good chicken and avocado baguette.

Jane Austen’s home was a rambling cottage in a truly unspoilt village. You sense that she has barely left- they have carefully curated the cottage, and even pipe the sound effects of steam trains subtly through the garden.

We went into the breakfast room where apparently Jane was tasked with making breakfast (tea and toast, coffee for special occasions) and there in the corner was this tiny table (‘wine table’ said Hugo) where she wrote her books. I was already having an attack of the goosies when Hugo, reading the exhibits on the wall said,

‘This wall paper is called ‘Dead Nettles’ it’s not ‘Crushing Nettles’ but it’s close’

That was the full fat goose pimples moment- the debut which I am just about to query is entitled Crushing Nettles.

I quite like Jane Austen. The PSTD symptoms of studying her at school forty years ago have begun to abate thanks to the intervention of Colin Firth. Plus I have to admit that I struggle with (presumed) virgins writing about ‘love’ when it is societal commentary (is that wrong?)

But I admire Jane Austen, her works and her resilience and empathised with rudeness of ‘declined by return of first post’ .To be in Jane Austen’s, a great writer’s house, looking at her wall paper and discover its name, well, for me it was oddly inspirational, a kinship reaching across the centuries, a Dr Who moment. Goose pimples indeed.

'Very nice’ was Hugo’s verdict, ‘But not exactly Blenheim palace’

Gate crashers

We are about to return to Italy, in the meantime we got this.

You’ve guessed it- goose pimples. Because nothing says luxury holiday in the Tuscan hill like partying snakes gate crashing the hot tub.