With old friends in Tuscany

The Abomination Tour

When we left the villa in late May, the weather was balanced on the cusp of summer. In the six weeks we have been away Tuscany has quivered in extreme heat. The bathroom display of orchids of which I was so proud are gone. I didn’t even have twigs to revive but came back to an empty vase. The potted geraniums dangle twigs with shrivelled leaves. Even the cacti are turning to dust.

The villa has been working hard with summer guests -themselves grumpy with the insufferable heat. We arrived with the last days of extreme heat. Now the dial is turning down. We can have the villa back, treat the old lady that is the villa not as a work horse to be flogged but with the tenderness and love she deserves, coax her back into the glory we left her in.

The first thing I did was get out the fireman’s hose and drench everything. Next we played the usual game of hide and seek. Last year the guests had moved all the plugs to one bathroom, a bed into the study, glasses to the shed and we can only assume they were playing Frisby with the toilet seats on the lawn. This year they hid all the chopping boards and the tea towels.

We love having the villa back as we can populate it with old friends. Eight were arriving whom we had met when we were members of the Foxhills country club. (https://www.foxhills.co.uk) Sadly, in the years since we have moved house, we haven’t settled to a new gym and whilst they have remained svelte and fit, we have piled on the kilos. I now have the physique of a spinning top.

The plan was to toast around the pool, take them to our favourite little restaurants, play tennis, and cycle and, over a few nights kick back and catch up over infusions of local wine.

On Sunday they began to arrive most coming by late flights so first stop was pizza at our favourite new haunt Il Circolino in Avane,( https://www.facebook.com/CIRC0LIN0/) a spot tucked away in a tiny village near us. By the time we got home and luggage had been clinked to their rooms, drinks on the terrace were late. The crickets were rasping, the air warm, the drinks cool and strong. Everyone was excited at our holibobs. Eleven o’clock came and went and with it the music had to be turned down (mandatory hours for quiet in Italy are 11pm-7am and 1pm-5pm) The appearance of a banksyesque hanging man on the convent wall came as a surprise.

At that time we realised that there was a hornets nest in the chimney. Pillows had already been stuffed up the chimney from below following the sight of a chunk of collapsed nest and two dead hornets. I was adamant that we should like a fire and smoke them out.

I abandoned our guests at 1.30am (Hugo says I am a dormouse that sleeps in a teapot) but fuelled by limoncello the laughter and loud hushes continued outside.

The next morning everyone was up early for a planned trip to my favourite place- tiny, picturesque fishing village Tellaro. We didn’t get far before things began to unravel- the garage doors are so temperamental that they are electric in name only. There is a bit of a knack to shutting them as they slot together. I pulled to slam them shut. The doors took offence bounced back and attempted to sever my thumb in the hinge. I was hopping around like a demented imp on hot coals clutching my blackening thumb when I realised I was beside gentle giant Mike. Mike had a new hip and then cycled from Land’s end to John O’Groats so I had to pretend it didn’t hurt at all (but I did complain incessantly for the next few days)

First coffee in Vecchiano to wait for Hugo to complete his residency but he forgot his photos so back tomorrow. Then with teeth gritted and a throbbing thumb we set off in convoy destination Tellaro. We made it to the motorway and joined the ‘re-entro coda’ i.e. the post holiday re entry tailback which lasted three days. We endured three hours of near stationary movement, and then with the shimmering mountains above Tellaro in sight were obliged to fly the white flag and go back.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my pest control credential were being shredded as our chef’s heroic husband advised against smoking the hornets out by lighting the fire suggesting their nest would explode, causing a chimney fire that will set fire to the house. Instead he went out onto the four story high roof, shimmied over to the hornet’s nest, tied a bin liner around the chimney and squirted four cans of killer inside.

Not to be undone by his manly endeavours the boys were racing inflatable chairs in the pool and practicing reverse dives.

It was dinner at home night, so with everyone basking by the pool our lovely local chef arrived to prepare Death by Bruschetta, followed by melon stuffed with cheesy rice and the tenderest steaks ever. Cristina does medieval feast portions and by the early morning (the last courses came out after midnight) we were groaning like foie-gras geese and the fridge was rammed to bursting with leftovers.

We weren’t the only ones being fed, as the mossies had selected their victim and one of our guests was starting to look like a plague victim from Game of Thrones and washing down histamines with limoncelli. Sounding somewhat unintentionally smug and cruelly strategic, I was saying that its best to stay covered up until they have selected their victim and that I didn’t have a bite on me as my bete noir is not mosquitoes but bastard horse flies. Given the amount of homemade local wine, beer and limoncelli in everyones blood stream I am amazed the mossies could fly at all.

The next morning, my waistline inflated to full girth, I was determined to make amends. No cornetti breakfast for me. Instead I shoehorned myself into obscenely tight cycling shorts, carefully put on my cycling gloves, and despite it being in the high 20’s declared defiantly that I was cycling to Vecchiano. Hugo and I had both brought mountain bikes over this time but happily for him, his had got bent in transit so he was excused. After a moments stunned silence heroic Fi-Fi, former tennis partner and bestie volunteered to come with me.

A good host/friend would have insisted that she ride my just imported stump-jumper mountain bike but rotter that I am it was Fi-fi that got my old sit up, no gears but now with brakes, bike.

(This bike starred in an earlier blog. https://www.whitmartlet.com/p/idyllic-cycling-in-the-tuscan-hills?r=2fieve&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=fals)

I made it slightly further than the garage this time, but not much. It turned out that no, my bike could not vault over the chain barrier to the church. I hit the deck.

Then I got us lost which was a problem as the heat was building. I led us confidently over a field, had a change of heart and decided to turn the bike around on a lush patch of grass realising only at the last second that it was not a patch of grass but a ditch and I couldn’t vault ditches either. Splat on the ground… Again.

By now, dented, bruised, covered in dust and regretting not having a coffee before we left, we arrived in Vecchiano and limped to our usual coffee bar. Luckily Hugo was in Vecchiano to give the council his photographs tracking our progress on google maps. With the bikes safely disassembled in the boot, he drove us home.

Having been thwarted in Tellaro, the call of the sea was still strong so we headed for our local beach Marina di Vecchiano for a sunset swim.

It was idyllic, wine, beers and crisps on the sand. Everyone swimming as the sun began to dip. Us all waving from the sea as if in the midst of a mass drowning.

Afterwards it was over to the beach bar; fairy lights, lit up octopus balloons, leis and 80s anthems for a birthday, the smell of fish and chips divine! But we were headed to another of our favourite restaurants, nicknamed the Cello restaurant on account of the complimentary limoncelli selection which follows dinner.

Hugo loves tuna. Pink. The menu was complicated as they offered two types of tuna, one with balsamic vinegar, one not. Fi-fi ordered the sauce on the side. Hugo did not. Hugo does not like anything soupy unless it is actual soup.

A while later Fi-fi’s tuna arrived- all fine, Hugo’s tuna arrived, a sloppy grey puddle sloshing over hidden tuna. There was silence. His bottom lip trembled. He struggled but was overcome.

‘It’s an- ABOMINATION!’

In that moment the Group whatapp name became The Abomindation Tour, the tuna was replaced and we forfeited our trays of limoncello. But no worries as we had a freezer full of limoncelli at home…

The next day the weather was capricious. If summer arrives carried aloft on a wave of wild flowers, jasmine scented nights and fire flies summer leaves to a chorus of rasping crickets and the rolling timpani of thunder and pelting rain. I love the end of summer storms, there is nothing so ferocious or fast as an Italian end of summer storm. But it was not ideal weather for a shopping expedition to Lucca.

The skies blackened. Clouds burst and our shoppers returned home drenched and cold. The hot tub beckoned even though Tom said I made it so hot it was boiling his danglies.

There was however a dark black cloud, spots of rain landed on my skin, and the pool began to ripple in tiny wavelets. Like a toothless soothsayer I warned against it, you could see the clouds racing towards them. As I went to take a photograph of the lads in the hot tub so there was a flash of white, the hot tub motor flinched and almost immediately a low growl of thunder reverberated. The lads hopped out. Hugo thought maybe he should put the umbrella down.

The next minute an a half was high drama as it went from spotting to full squall and back again.

That night we went to dinner at Las Vegas a nearby rustic restaurant. The hills were black, the night black occasionally split by forks of lighting or frequent flashes. Meanwhile in the kitchen there were fights and shouting as if Punch and Judy were the cooks. Our orders came out all wrong, but no one died.

I have long thought that I could cycle to the sea. Take the strada bianca to the lake then turn left, through the pine forests and then El dorado, the golden tops waves of the deep blue Ligurian sea The next day, I set out alone but with my new helmet piping music into my head.

The first part was known and idyllic- wide, white car-free paths through fields of sunflowers against a backdrop of silvery olive groves and blue mountains. Then I turned west to the sea. I was all alone, so jacked up the volume to sing along. I was mid singing ‘Doctor Kiss-Kiss’ at top lung capacity when I was surprised to be overtaken by a cyclist. Thereafter he kept ahead of me but never so far that I was completely out of sight like one of those wild animals that wants you to follow them. I was happy to follow him, as I presumed he would know the way as between me and the waves of the sea were two motorways and a railway.

Still the sunflowers kept me company. Their heads were bowed with the weight of their fecundity and they had been battered and refreshed in equal parts by the storm. I meant to take photos but thought I would on the way back. Piles of discarded rubbish began to appear next to the sunflowers which illustrated the philosophical question of what people chose to see.

The first motorway was easy – a bridge. Then the road narrowed into a path with white gravel replaced by broken glass and old bottles. The second motorway I dismounted as I had to make a dash between lorries that honked in greeting.

Once on the other side it got rougher. At the side sitting on white plastic chairs African women sat patiently. I said ‘Good day’ as I cycled past, we are all prostitutes plying our wares to survive. It was no longer an idyllic pastoral Tuscan scene but I had that in the wrong place feeling. The cyclist stayed ahead, keeping me just in his line of sight.

I came to the raised stone levy of the railway track. By now the path was barely a footpath. It looked like one of those scenes from a second world war movie. I met Luigi, a man in a vest with two bikes, one with wheels, one without. After he had practiced his English politely enquiring about England and Italy he said that there wasn’t a tunnel or bridge but to cross at the yellow bollards.

At the graffitied yellow concret bollards I looked up over the railway. I didn’t think I’d get up the levy, didn’t trust whether or not there was a live rail and wasn’t sure I could carry my bike over anyway.

My guardian angle cyclist had already crossed. He spoke to three men, glanced back at me and started away. I faced two burly men and an African man who were looking at me square on as if I had landed from outer space.

‘Which is the way to the sea?’ I shouted. They jerked behind them on their side of the tracks

‘Is there was a tunnel or bridge?’

‘Is it safe to cross?’ The phrase ‘I don’t want to be run over by a train’ hasn’t cropped up in Duolingo.

They shouted back in accented Italian that I would say was possibly Romanian or Albanian which suggested to me that they might have a financial arrangement with the aforementioned ladies. However it would appear that they had misunderstood my reticence to cross and interpreted it as a call for assistance. As they strode confidently over the railway line, I baulked a little worried in case there might be a niche market for old broilers starved of HRT but luckily they picked up my bike and escorted me to the other side.

I set off in pursuit of my phantom escort. I had imagined the pine forests on the other side to be fragrant with butterflies and the odd glimpse of a porcupine or boar with humbug boarlets cavorting in dappled shade. Instead it was Indiana Jones with litter and broken glass on a bed of sand with intermittent puddles. Worse- it was infested with horseflies. Cloud upon cloud of horsefly attacked me- in my helmet, on any part of exposed skin. The only thing I could do was try to out cycle them. I got bitten to buggery.

I emerged the forest of hell just shy of Viareggio and stumbled dizzily into a bar where I wolfed two glasses of ice cold café latte and a cornetto. Hugo to the rescue.

Near home we pulled in the shack on the side of the road next to an orchard. The old farmer was sat in the shade. We bought from him sun ripened tomatoes the size of nectarines intense with flavour, and juicy nectarines the size of melons. A car honked in greeting, our local barber saying hello.

Our final night we manage to persuade the owner of Villa Corliano, Count Augustus Augustini of the silk, to let us have aperocena in the beautiful fairy light lit gardens of his romantic villa from 1448. https://www.villadicorliano.it/en/home-english/

The clouds burst so we enjoyed his cellars too. Then from the sublime to the ridiculous, it was back to Avane for a night of drunken karaoke. Manic Mondays will never be the same again.

The last morning we finally made it to the tennis courts and I wished we had done so every morning. Perfect blue skies, hint of a breeze and clay courts, the bells of St Quidditch and vespas, for breakfast or double breakfast in our case, at our favourite Bar Centrale in Quisea.

Wonderful!