Wednesday 22 April 2009

We leave early for the airport in Rome, making sure we’ll have enough time to relax before the flight. The journey seems to take forever; Smart car’s not being the most comfortable mode of transport. We see very little traffic en route this early in the morning, and I take several snaps of us travelling through the many tunnels that are carved into the mountains. We pass the sign that reads Abruzzo with a diagonal line through it, and our hearts fall as we leave the region and enter into Lazio and onwards towards Roma. The journey is marred by the fact that the final 4 km into Rome take an hour, with inconsiderate drives weaving in and out of lanes at random only to merge back into the one they came from originally.

We are processed fairly quickly at the airport, my treasured cargo takes our case over the allotted 15kg to 16.9, the girl behind the desk smiles and I say “Olive oil”, she smiles back, a knowing curl of the mouth and sends the suitcase on its way through without a word. We join the throng of travellers all queuing like cattle ready to be disrobed and de-belted and scanned. My tray of odds and ends is x rayed without cause for concern, however my hand luggage is passed through again then searched, the offending item being a round of pecorino cheese, which is placed back inside and passed without concern. We eat some sandwiches we’d prepared earlier and have a look around the shops. Ciampino airport doesn’t have a plethora of shops to waste… sorry pass the time in so before long we’re sat at gate number two waiting as fellow travellers join us. I find myself unable to stop looking at a girl sat opposite who has a very big face but small features, giving the impression that there’s a lot of visage surplus to requirements. Her friend on the other hand has an enormous mouth, so large that if she laughed I’m sure she’d have a flip top head. I switch on my iPod to distract me; Kate Nash pops up singing ‘Dickhead’, as I watch one in the distance annoying his girlfriend by waving his boarding pass in her face, over and over again. I start to play my counting game, which I play quite often as I walk around Tesco when I’m doing the shopping. The objective of the game is to count how many people that you see that you’d sleep with, I’m up to seven when a short man wearing built up shoes sits next to me, I become distracted and hear myself thinking, ‘I didn’t think they still made those for short arses’.

Boarding begins and people who have stood for an hour in hope of being the first on the plane are suddenly caught up in the stampede as the mass of people who have been sat down jump to their feet and push into the queue. We are ferried to the blue and yellow aeroplane and are held up by a man who can’t seem to fit his case into the overhead locker. The stewardess sighs noticeably and takes the case and stows it away six rows back from the man, who now looks visibly distressed to be separated from his luggage. We take off and the seat belt sign pings telling me it’s now okay to switch on the pod, the disembodied sound of an electronic drum machine announces ‘Pink Orange Red’ by the Cocteau Twins, Elizabeth Fraser’s vocals hover above the jangle of guitars, perfect as we float above the clouds too. Before long we’re landing and people begin to clap, almost as if they didn’t really expect the pilot to get us down and in one piece. This clapping on aeroplanes annoys the hell out me, when did the local bus driver get a round of applause for delivering a load of pensioners into the town centre?

Back home, the oil is released from it’s confines and the washer filled with laundry as two excited Jack Russell’s bounce around welcoming us home, and a steaming cup of Yorkshire tea is being stirred.

Tuesday 21 April 2009

06.50. The rain has been continuous all night, earlier the drops were sporadic, tapping against the windows like fingers, now however these fingers have become fists that beat against the glass like some beast seeking salvation from the deluge. The guttering bravely attempts to deal with the torrent and spills it’s cargo nosily as it rushes down to earth. We suddenly realise that the rain has managed to find its way into the bedroom, and pools of water sit upon the tiled floor. (Thank goodness we’re not back in the UK with our carpeted bedrooms). It looks like the main entry point is beneath the balcony doors; I look out and the rain is coming down at an unusual angle, more horizontal than vertical. The main body of water is easily brushed back out through the doors and over the edge of the balcony, sloshing upon the tarpaulin covering a parked piaggio. There’s a small river that has travelled from under the window frame, there’s no obvious entry point and the wall remains dry, this trickle of water has flowed around the room, clinging to the walls until it has come to rest under the bed. We move the bed and place old newspapers down to soak up the excess, before retiring downstairs for a welcome cup of tea.

08.15. The day is hushed, no birds can be heard, and even the workmen in the valley who have been noisy in the endeavours all week are silent, the rain putting an end to their toil. The only sound being the chug chug of water spilling out of drainpipes, creating rivers that meander through the streets. The downpour has now dissipated and we have that fine veil of rain that clings to everything, soaking into the surrounding houses like thin soup into a crouton, turning the ochre coloured bricks brown. The exposed side of the house has borne the brunt of the storm, its stucco in places changed from a pale grey to a malevolent black. As water boils upon the stove for another cup of tea, Morrissey laments in the kitchen about how we hate it when our friends become successful. The breakfast dishes are cleared away to the Spear of Destiny’s, ‘Never take Me Alive’ as the sun begins to show its face. Several solitary fat raindrops fall down the chimney plopping lazily into the empty fireplace. I pack the suitcase in readiness for tomorrows departure, making sure my 5 litres of ‘Fonte Monache’ extra virgin olive oil is sandwiched between jeans, socks and shirts; packaged safely to withstand both Ciampino and East Midlands package handlers. We spend an hour taking a drive to the coast, a completely pointless exercise on such a miserable day; a gloomy coastline does nothing to stir the spirit. On the way back we stop off at a supermarket where I buy a vac-pack of fat green Italian olives, and contemplate purchasing a t-shirt with the logo ‘BAZ’ emblazoned across the chest; I decide not to bother.

Back home, within seconds the olives are ripped open and several disappear with relish. A homemade mushroom soup simmers on the hob; Ida Maria finishes singing ‘Morning Light’, making way for Stevie Nicks to ask us to stop draggin’ her heart around. Lunch is the soup with chunks of bread and slices of mortadella and the delicious fat olives. I’ve made far too much soup for just two people, but today who cares about excess, as the rain continues outside the soup inside is good for the soul? Echo and the Bunnymen perpetuate the sombre mood with 'No Dark Things'; I think it may be time for a walk, perhaps a trip to the cemetery will liven things up? Deciding against a walk I spend the afternoon reading, Italian Neighbours by Tim Park, I find it amusing and at times informative but sadly in some parts quite dated.

Dinner over, we double check everything is as it should be, the rain has come in under the balcony door again, nothing too serious and it’s easily dealt with. I block the gap with a large yellow towel, hoping that Helen wont mind when she finds it; still I’m sure a smelly towel is better than a wet bedroom. As we have an early start tomorrow, I put our suitcase in the back of the car, meaning one less task in the early hours. I walk back to the house and I can hear the melodious tones of Toyah as ‘Out Of The Blue’ from the Dreamland album, (re-issued as The Phoenix) drifts out into the evening, floating through the piazza like a whisper, I smile knowing this is how I will remember leaving Ari. With just the recycling to sort out the Montepulciano is cracked open.

Monday 20 April 2009

Despite waking several times in the night I rise feeling quite refreshed; Maybe it’s my body getting used to this pace of life. I shower, shave and the other ‘sh’ word then head off to buy some chicken from the supermarket. Earphones inserted, I stride off into the distance as Funkadelic play ‘Icka prick’. The girl behind the meat counter deftly slices the chicken breast for me, turning it into paper-thin slices; I purchase a courgette to go with the chicken for tonight’s dinner, and with Roxette singing ‘It Must have Been Love’ I head off back to the house. It’s another damp day, with a sky full of lazy clouds that refuse to move obscuring the sun, who must be waiting for a breeze to release her from this fluffy prison. We entertain ourselves with a drive to Pescara to visit the hypermarket, ‘Auchan’. We spend a couple of hours there: ‘Avin a good nose rind’ as we’d say back home ‘int potteries’. We compare the prices here with the ones back home in Tesco and Auchan wins, not just on price but also on the larger amount of produce 'way'd buy hayer tha way conna get back at wom’ (Not sure why this pottery dialect has popped up today?) I deliberate over some steaks for tomorrow evening’s dinner, I want to try the filleted horsemeat, however that idea is shot down as soon as I mention it, and we opt (or rather OH opts for beef steak). ‘Thay shoulda kept thee trap shut’ I hear my little Stokie conscience say.

We pack our shopping into the meagre space that Pamela Pram affords us and head off to the Zona Commerciale, (shopping centre) and with hot panino con porchetta purchased earlier we sit in the car park eating as the sun finally breaks through. I don’t know if it’s the produce or the pace of life, but I tend to eat so much better when I’m in Italy. Back in the UK my fruit consumption is virtually nil, however here I eat loads of it. Maybe I just feel it’s better for me as it’s odd shaped and natural looking, rather than the uniformed EU shape restricted produce back home. I purchase a handful of gifts for people back home, then we set off back to Ari via Francavilla, or as I now affectionately call it, ‘shit hole.’ Back home and as Janet Jackson sings ‘Let’s Wait A While’ I enjoy a cup of tea, it’s Lipton’s not Yorkshire, but it’ll do. I spend an hour sat on the roof terrace enjoying a gin and tonic and just looking out over the landscape, it may sound silly, but it would really take a lot to get bored with the views in Abruzzo. X-Ray Spex belt out ‘Let’s Submerge’ as I get everything ready for dinner, it looks like I’m all set up in a TV studio with everything laid out precisely, all we need is a camera crew. “Ciao e benvenuto al mio italiano di cucina.” ‘Pack it in thee daft apath, thee wunna shut up will thee.” Maybe that gin and tonic wasn’t such a good idea, I’m now getting told off by my own conscience. Dinner is chicken stuffed with cream cheese and courgette with pasta. I sit back as OH does the dishes and sink another large G and T. Post dinner is a stroll around the Palazzo Baronale Nolli into the piazza, Alice Martineau sings ‘The Sunlight Song’, her voice a lost treasure to the music industry, Alice was born with cystic fibrosis and died in 2003 at the age of just 30. Her one album, ‘Daydreams’ a wonderful legacy to leave behind. Ironically as Alice sings of sunlight: ‘So baby lets fly into the sunlight’, we watch as mist falls all around us, it descends upon the town rapidly, quite un-nerving, wrapping its arms around everything, holding it in a grey embrace. Walking in the mist is quite an ethereal experience; the air hangs like tiny droplets of suspended water and visibility is reduced to just a few metres. A breeze catches the flag in the piazza and the slapping of damp fabric against the flagpole can be heard; disjointed and unseen. A white Fiat 500 drives up, barely discernable, its headlights peering into the gloom as it passes by and descends down the slope before driving up into town, its red tail lights glaring like a malevolent beast. A car in the distance sounds its horn, indicating its presence to others that may be driving along the bends that in daylight can be heart stopping. Echoing the horn is the morose howl of a cat cutting through the shadows

This small Italian town could at this moment be the perfect set for a horror movie, a car with just one headlight working turns into the square, it stops briefly before exiting, as a window upstairs in the palazzo is illuminated casting on orange glow onto the courtyard below. The Cyclops reappears, stopping briefly again before leaving, its one eye cutting through the grey.

Back at the house, leaving the creepiness locked outside I dance in the kitchen to The Selector hit, ‘On My Radio’; a little bit of Coventry based ska from 1979 is interrupted as another G and T is offered to me a way of saying, ‘I ‘ope thee onna gonna be dancin’ rind like a tit ow nayt?’

Sunday 19 April 2009

A damp start to the day, Ari has an eerie silence hanging over it, the morning mist reduces visibility as it shrouds the houses at the end of the street, making them invisible. Down below, the trees are almost hidden under a soft white blanket of fog. Water hangs in the air as church bells in the distance begin to toll. Italy on a Sunday can only be described, as ‘closed’ shops remain closed with the only doors open today belonging to the church. We drive into Pescara and take a nosey around the airport there, wondering how big it is. Answer: Not very. Steps explode onto the iPod attached to Pamela Pram, ‘Summer Of Love’; a cheery, cheesy tune to sing along to as we slosh our way through the lanes on the way home. We pull up outside La Baracca, a restaurant we’ve passed several times and look to see if there are any signs of life. Suddenly the door bursts open and a short guy of around 22 and dressed in a blue tracksuit shoots outside shouting, “Aperto, aperto”. I’m tempted to shout back “Calm down, calm down”, a la Harry Enfield, but think better of it as he may just be the chef.

The restaurant interior is a mish mash of colours and styles, panels of artex rub shoulders with rag rolled walls and stencilling, peaches and lilacs clash with pinks and greens, it looks like an interior designers nightmare. I order a first course of gnocchi with ragu, sadly it’s not homemade but it tastes good none the less, second course is a mixed salad with arrosticini, an Abruzzo speciality of lamb skewers. Lunch is followed by coffee and although basic fare it was good food and good portion sizes too. Back home the likelihood of any sunshine brightening up the day is zero, this mood is echoed by the sound of Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry playing ‘Heaven’, the muted guitars and sombre vocals particularly suited to today’s weather. The sound of a cork being released from a bottle catches my attention and the sunshine returns in the shape of a glass of crisp white Trebbiano d’Abruzzo. A ten-minute power nap turns into a full on seventy-minute snooze, I open my eyes and am welcomed by the return of the rain, indigo skies threaten the land below and an ugly grey cloud sneers at us. I take the speakers into the kitchen and prepare dinner; Bow Wow Wow play ‘Don’t You Wanna Hold Me? Annabella Lwin’s voice cutting through the chopping of tomatoes and peppers as I sit at the kitchen table. I wonder where she is now? I remember Malcolm McLaren claimed to have discovered her singing in a dry cleaners shop in Kilburn. According to Annabella, one of McLaren’s assistants came into the shop and asked she fancied auditioning for a new band.

Dinner tonight is a foccacia with a vegetable and mozzarella frittata, washed down with the remainder of the Trebbiano d’Abruzzo. Dishes are washed and put away to Billy Joel singing, ‘She’s Always A Woman’, then it’s a stroll around town to work of dinner. The sindaco di Ari (the mayor), Renato D’Alessandro is proud of Ari and has had hundreds of terracotta bowls filled with geraniums placed around the town. We watch swallows tending to their young safe in nests attached to the eaves of the commune office, before returning home to watch ‘Comedy Blue’ and laughing at outrageous but filthy jokes on my iTouch.

Saturday 18 April 2009

Saturday brings us another warm and sunny morning, the view today is spectacular, there’s no mist to speak of and you can see the sea in the distance, the snow on top of the Gran Sasso looks like fondant icing as the light dances across it. We sit outside and eat eggs with yolks the same colour as the sun as Christina Aguilera sings ‘Beautiful’; a perfect compliment to the view. As I clear away the breakfast dishes the Pretenders begin to play ‘Tequila’, it’s barely a minute long but Chrissie Hynde’s voice is always good to hear, distinctive and comforting, I’ve had years of listening to it ever since they released ‘Stop Your Sobbing’ back in 1979 and it’s like an old friend. Today we are heading into Chieti for the first time, the Sugababes are singing ‘Girls’ (Dennis Christophe Mix) as the car bounces down the lane, we notice two houses with sale notices on them as we sail past and make a note to stop and take a look on the way back. The journey to Chieti seems to take forever, we haven’t bothered with the sat-nav and just follow signs as we see them, however we seem to be getting further away. We fill up with petrol at an automated station: why don’t we have these in the UK they’re so much better, just punch in the pump number and the amount of euros you want and it does the rest for you. We eventually arrive in town and park up outside the centre and decide to walk in the rest of the way. I say ‘walk in’, what I should really say is walk up, the climb up to the town centre requires you to be half human, half mountain goat. No wonder the people here live so long, they’re in a state of perpetual fitness, just from popping to the shops. We watch an elderly gentleman in front of us juggle a shopping bag and a flagon of wine as he slowly trudged onwards and upwards. We cross a bridge, something that I don’t handle very well suffering from vertigo, I have to stop three times just to steady my breathing and fight the desire to leap off.

Chieti, is quite a large town and we spend sometime just wandering around looking in the shops until we come upon the duomo, re-built by bishop Attone I in 1069, part of the original roman crypt still remains. After several earthquakes, the church was rebilt again in the late 17th and 18th centuries in Baroque style. We head off down Corso Marrucino following signs for museo archeologico nazionale d’Abruzzo on via Villa Comunale. The museum is located in the centre of parkland, here children ride bikes and roller-skate, fathers play football with sons and young lovers cuddle up on the benches. We enjoy the museum very much, the highlight being coming face to face with Guerriero di Capestrano. (Warrior of Capestrano).

We use the sat-nav to get home taking half the time it took to get here, including a stop at the supermarket, Iper to stock up on provisions. (For provisions, read red wine). I find a copy of the new Gianna Nannini album, which is a bonus. Back at the house I sit reading and enjoying the late afternoon sunshine with a bottle of Peroni, the only sounds being an occasional bird and the rattle of a Piaggio as it trundles through the narrow streets. Dinner tonight is a mixture of many mushroom varieties, (purchased earlier) cooked in white wine, with a béchamel sauce, with the remainder of the sausage from yesterday chopped up and the whole lot is mixed with pasta, rustic and hearty. Dessert is a long walk, to work off some of the calories as Snow Patrol sing ‘Warmer Climate’.

Friday 17 April 2009

I lie awake listening to the sounds of a town stirring, a van pulls up outside and a man collects the refuse, a male voice can be heard calling, ‘buon giorno’ a female voice reciprocates. We’ve had rain in the night, but as the day opens up blue skies appear, a promise of sunshine. I dress and take a stroll through town, Justin Timberlake shuffles to the fore and as I step into the piazza he starts to sing ‘LoveStoned’. The bar owner waves to me as I walk past as she opens up. I climb the steep steps up to the church and as I pass by en route to the supermarket Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds replace Justin with ‘The Curse Of Millhaven’. I purchase some provisions from the supermarket and exchange a few words with the girl behind the deli counter, who tells me her boyfriend works in London and her sister is studying in Northampton. A quick visit to the pharmacy to purchase some sun cream; factor 50, as my nose is as red as a raspberry; my skin and the sun are not welcome bedfellows. I stroll back with no sense of urgency, this time with Fleetwood Mac for company as they play ‘Tusk’.

We spend the morning sat on the terrace just enjoying the fine weather, and before long a large portion of the day has expired, once more we take a walk into the town, we stop to look into the little church on the cross roads before wandering around the cemetery. We potter about looking at the photographs that blankly gaze out from marble blocks; weak smiles and austere looks capture a moment in time long gone. I’m attracted to an image of a young soldier dressed in his uniform, his strong jaw line and thick mane of dark hair compliment his brooding black eyes, just twenty six when he died serving his country. I switch on my iPod as we leave the cemetery and Hazel O’Connor starts to sing ‘Aint It Funny’, how apt I think, a song about the futility of war. We wish our friends a safe journey back to the UK and promise to look after their house in their absence. Lunch is simple, bread, tomatoes and pecorino d’Abruzzo and a glass of red wine, well to be honest two glasses. The afternoon is very warm and the sun quite fierce with no clouds to mask her, so I choose to stay indoors listening to music as it shuffles to fill the room. Kylie Minogue, belts out ‘The World Still Turns’ followed by the Eagles, ‘One Of These Nights’. I look around the room admiring Helen’s artwork as Rolf Harris talks, his spoken introduction to the Kate Bush track, ‘An Architect’s Dream’. I sip at my glass of wine as the song takes over my thoughts and my eyes drink in the view through the balcony doors, enjoying it as much as my palate enjoys the wine. Dinner is a one pot rustic creation, tomatoes, peppers, mushrooms and courgette sautéed in olive oil then with these wonderful, slender pork sausages I got from a butchers in Francavilla, they’re about ten inches long and as red as claret, and taste amazing. Served with bruschetta we sit and eat as an early evening breeze drifts in through the kitchen window and Gianna Nannini sings a selection of her hits from the Giannabest album.

Thursday 16 April 2009

Another warm and sunny morning, this really is so much nicer than last year when we came here and it was bitterly cold even gave us two days of snow, mind you that said we were in L’Aquila, which is higher up in the mountains. We have breakfast with Cilla, fresh fruit salad with yoghurt, a selection of cheeses with fresh bread and homemade preserves. We pack the car and bid our friends Cilla and Bryan farewell and head of in the direction of Ari. We stop off in Francavilla al Mare, south of Pescara on the coast. It sounds lovely, sadly however it wasn’t. The beach was filthy, litter was everywhere, Italy has a love hate relationship with graffiti, however here it was brash and ugly. In Irsina, southern Italy I once saw what I think must be the ugliest house in Italy, however there’s one in Francavilla that gives it southern neighbour a run for its money.

We eat lunch sat on a concrete block on the beach, looking out to sea. It looks sombre, almost sad to be rolling up onto this beach. A woman passes by walking a haughty looking Pomeranian, the tiny dog stops briefly to sniff at a plastic bottle half embedded in the sand, before nose skyward it trots off behind its owner.

We leave the depressing coastal town behind and head off to meet our friends at their house in Ari. The signs into the town tell the visitor that it is a community of flowers, the sun is high and as we turn right, passing by a small chapel we are welcomed by the scent of geraniums. We park in the small piazza and are met by our friends Dave and Helen, who own a delightful three story house in the town, which has magnificent views of both the Gran Sasso and Majella mountains. We sit overlooking the town drinking cool beers and chatting, before we take a tour of the town and enjoy dinner.

Wednesday 15 April 2009

I wake well rested after the party last night and open the shutters to let in a blinding burst of Italian sunshine, the warm Abruzzi morning welcomes me and I sit on the step dressed only in underpants and a shirt (there’s an image) and lap up the view. I watch as a ball of mist bounces over the Teramo countryside before being dissolved by the sun. I look up at the small swollen buds on the fig tree; little green pregnant parcels of promise. I drink my tea looking out over the vastness of green that is dotted with the occasional farmhouse and olive grove. Straight ahead in the valley is the relatively new town of Castlenuovo, (new castle), it’s pastel coloured buildings standing out but not unpleasantly. My iPod plays in our bedroom, Marco Carta, a hairdresser from Cagliari who won an Italian TV talent show sings ‘Anima Di Nuvola’ his voice drifting out to join the landscape. After a leisurely breakfast including the best homemade marmalade I have ever tasted we begin a day of sightseeing. We drive through twisting lanes towards the town of Cellino Attanasio, sitting proudly overlooking Villa Collina. The roadside is strewn with swathes of yellow rape, unmoved in the stillness, until a car passes by stirring the acid yellow flowers into frenzied motion. From the town the view over the countryside is spectacular, you really feel as if you are on top of the world: To coin a phrase. Like many Italian towns it has graffiti and a mixture of ancient and modern but it’s beautiful none the less, a local inhabitant strolls over to enquire if we’re lost, when we explain that we intended to come here to see the town, she smiles and you can see the pride written across her ancient face. She bids us farewell as we climb back into the car and head off for Castelbasso, a town our friend Cilla has recommended we see. The car climbs up the almost vertical road, bends creep up on you and we continue upwards along this tarmac snake, occasionally the road falls away to the right, which can be heart-stopping at times. We arrive at Castelbasso and all we say is wow, the town is tiny and sitting high up somehow makes it appear smaller. The narrow streets offer some respite from the baking sun, as we meander through pockets of shade. It’s evident that a considerable amount of money has been spent on restoration, and at one point a portion of the town is off limits due to work being carried out. There’s a small bar in the town that sells hot shots of espresso, which we enjoy sitting outside looking over the Abruzzi vista laid out below us.

The weather today is wonderful and as we leave Castlebasso, we drive with the windows open, pod attached to the cars stereo system, ‘Somebody Told Me’ by the Killers pumps out as we weave our way downwards. We drive to Silvi and eat lunch sat on the beach looking out into the horizon. I can’t resist the temptation, the call of the sea is too strong to resist, so in true traditional British style I roll up my trouser legs and plunge my feet into the brine. It’s bloody cold, not yet warmed in readiness of the crowds that will be here within a few months. Photographs are taken as evidence of my paddle, and as I wait for my feet to dry in the sunshine I sketch out a picture of a Dodo in the sand, why? Because I can and I did.

We set off to visit the ancient Roman town of Atri, we wend our way up a single track following the instructions from the sat-nav, suddenly we see one of the immense bridges that we have travelled over. Looming over the land you can’t help but be impressed by the ingenuity of the builders, and also a little scared. When we arrive in Atri its streets are deserted and as we stroll through them it almost resembles a film set. It’s very clean and silent, almost like a model village in reverse; instead of silent miniature streets there are life size ones. Despite the tranquillity it’s easy to imagine it packed to the rafters with pedestrians during the height of the tourist season, we feel privileged to have it to ourselves almost. In Piazza Duomo stands Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta, it’s exterior almost white in the heat of the afternoon, opposite stands a magnificent theatre and there’s always time to drop into Duomo Caffe for an afternoon espresso. Atri is well worth a visit, it’s relatively flat and ideal for an afternoon stroll. The inside of the Palazzo del Comune with its vaulted ceilings is a refreshing break from the heat. We continue our walk until we come across the pretty little church, chiesa S. Nicola, with its large circular window surrounded by inset discs in green and blue. Just around the corner from the church you find yourself standing looking out over the side of the hill, as the town gives way to the picturesque landscape. Atri is famous for the Calanchi that cut through the sides of the hills like large angry scars, magnificent in their rage.

Back at the Villa, we relax with a glass of red wine, I sit looking at the view, I think you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who could get sick of seeing it. Music again tumbles out of the window; Judy Garland sings ‘When You’re Smiling’, her warm chocolate tones lifting the heart. How can you not smile, sat looking out at olive groves, pondering over Italian meadows that come in every shade of green that nature has in her colour chart. A warm April breeze kisses me tentatively, then like a fickle lover is gone as quickly as it came. Secondo, the black cat strolls over for a stroke. Here time passes by slowly, every second brings something new to savour, a new delight to feed the senses. A sweet floral scent floats by as a dozen swifts dance in the air, black dots against the blue sky. Ducking and diving for insects, looking like ticks in a studious scholars exercise book. A new song plays out, ‘Halleluiah’, this time sung by k.d. Lang. I refuse to be drawn into any debate about produced the best version of this song, let’s just say Cohen wrote a bloody good tune, and leave it at that. Friends call over and in tandem the seven of us head off for dinner, we visit a recommended agriturismo , where most of the food and drink is produced in house and all the vegetables are home grown. The menu is superb starting with a typical selection of cheese and meats, pickled veg then joins these and dishes of hot courgettes with egg, beans with tiny little meatballs, then come peas and mushrooms and a delicious diced liver in a tomato sauce. Gnocchi arrives followed by three bowls of pasta; one a spinach and ricotta ravioli. The meat course follows with pork and lamb, then a selection of seasonal fruit. The conversation flows as liquid as the wine, that seems to keep appearing as soon as the carafe is empty. Dinner over and seven, yes seven litres of delicious homemade red wine later, we have lemoncello a popular Italian ‘digestivo’ and the local Abruzzi one genziana, which someone remarks on, as tasting ‘a bit like earwax’. Satiated, and bursting at the gills we wend our merry, (must be the wine) way home, grazie Italia.

Tuesday 14 April 2009

We drive from Montesilvano to the town of Loreto Aprutino, and with the sun high in the sky we take a leisurely stroll around this very pretty town, I buy some fruit and the local pecorino cheese, which is very good indeed. We make friends with a scruffy little dog that follows us around, or maybe it’s the anticipation of a morsel of the cheese that makes him our travelling companion. An hour and half later we are driving towards Penne, the only effects of the earthquake here, we’re told is a burst pipe and the tragic loss of one young man, 24 year old Alessio who was a student at L’Aquila. Every public notice board has messages of condolence printed and pasted upon them. We sit in a pretty piazza and eat our lunch, bread and the delicious cheese purchased earlier, then a short walk finds us inside Bar La Vestina on via Martiri Pennesi, standing at the bar we enjoy a coffee and a dolce. How decadent and all for just two euros each. The drive to Villa Collina is made joyous not just by the glorious landscapes of Abruzzo or the warm sunshine but by the sight of row upon row of classic Fiat 550’s outside a garage en route. Each of these little bubbles of machinery are in various states of disrepair, but I find it hard to contain my joy at seeing them and leap; or rather stumble out of Pamela Pram and begin photographing them. Villa Collina is a traditional Italian farmhouse, lovingly restored into a bed and breakfast, with spectacular 300-degree views over the Teramo countryside. We arrive and at once are warmly greeted, within minutes were sat sipping wine on the terrace in the sunshine, with a wonderful view of Calanchi, (natural erosion furrows) in the distance. The others feel a mild aftershock, however myself I feel nothing. The evening is taken up with a wonderful gathering of friends, good wine and great food. What could be better? Very little.

Monday 13 April 2009

Easter Monday has arrived and yesterday’s warm sunshine has changed places with drizzle, there’s a bleakness hanging in the air and the sea looks solemn today. Breakfast is typical of an Italian hotel; cappuccino with bread and jams, there’s also thick slices of Colomba pasquale, an aromatic yeasted cake, dusted with sugar and shaped like a dove: This traditional Easter cake goes down well with the hotel guests and I watch a woman opposite as she crumbles her slice into her coffee. The television in the corner belches out the daily news to no ones attention until a report from L’Aquila appears, suddenly the room is silent and every pair of eyes are fixed on the TV, the lady with the cake takes out her handkerchief and dabs at her eyes, the cake forgotten for the time being. It’s my turn to drive the hire car, initially I give the two-seater, that looks like some madman has lopped the back off with a chainsaw a spin around a car park. It’s an odd feeling sat inside such a tiny space, it feels quite claustrophobic, and I have to have my seat as far back as it will go, also I have to lower my head to see through the windscreen. Driving in Italy is an experience no driving school in the UK could prepare you for, cars seem to randomly stop, start and pull out with no indication or explanation, you really need your wits about you some days. It doesn’t help when the car I’m driving is slow to pull off at junctions; it’s rather like a slug with stabilisers. Pescara in the rain (I think there’s a song title in there somewhere) is wild, windy and woeful. The beach looks dull as white horses crash upon it under a slate grey sky. The streets are devoid of pedestrians, no shops are open and a solitary bar opens its doors. Trust me to come over at Easter, when everywhere is closed. Sadly the only establishment that we find open is that well know fast food restaurant (restaurant is that an oxymoron?) that reckons, ‘we’re lovin’ it’. Lunch over, I walk along the seafront, ‘Red Dress’ by the Sugababes puts a lift in my heel and before I know it I’m at my destination, the corner of viale Europa, where I’d earlier seen some interesting abstract shapes I want to recreate back home, in my kitchen cum art studio: It starts off as kitchen but after I’ve finished it’s splattered with acrylics and looks more like a studio. I take several photos of varying angles of a sculpture; Il Nuotatore (the swimmer) outside the farmacia on the corner of via U. Foscolo. Paul Simon is shuffled forward ‘Me And Julio Down By The Schoolyard’ bounces around my head as pear shaped raindrops begin to bounce on the pavement, I stop to photograph a concrete bench emblazoned with graffiti, the red white and green paint becoming emblematic. As the song finishes so does the rain. I stop the music as I navigate my way around some roadwork’s that take up half of the road and all of the pavement. I become amused by a stand off for right of way between a large orange autobus and a surly youth in a Fiat 500. No prizes for guessing who won this particular battle. I turn the music back on and U2 break into ‘New Years Day’; the Edge’s guitar echoes the crashing waves and Adam Clayton’s bass the bounce of my footsteps, I think about the people who have recently lost their homes and loved ones in the earthquake, and the lyrics begin to take on a new meaning. Hope. “I will be with you again”.

Il Nuotatore

I turn the corner and take the last few steps towards the hotel, Thin Lizzy announce my return with, “Guess who just got back in town?” My smile is short lived as I walk up to the main doors expecting them to open, nothing happens, people stand inside watching me as I stop just in time, inches before my nose comes in contact with the glass. To my right up a ladder is a squat man wielding a screwdriver; he nods his head to the left, indicating the sign that tells me to use the side entrance. I press to stop button and Phil and the rest of the band are silent once more.

Sunday 12 April 2009

The flight from East Midlands to Rome, Ciampino was mundane, after travelling many times the same route with same carrier you become conditioned to it. My iPod spewed out an assortment of songs throughout the two hours twenty-five minutes: To name a handful, ‘Universal’ by OMD. ‘Bootie Call’, All Saints and ‘Coma White’ by Marilyn Manson. There's an Indian gentleman sat next to me and I glance over as he scrolls through the menu on his iPod, he selects '19', the debut album from Adele (not one I have), mine begins to play 'Lullaby For Evan' by Hotel Persona. I watch as his daughter hands him her nano, she has the new Girls Aloud album playing on hers. Three different people in such close proximity with three different genres of music playing. We collect the last car available at the car hire desk this Easter, a two-seater ‘Smart’ car that we instantly nickname Pamela Pram. The drive out of Rome is hectic, as always, with cars constantly changing position and vying for space amongst the four lanes that take the traffic both north and south. Maybe all roads do lead to Rome?

'Pamela Pram'

As we cross the border that separates Lazio with Abruzzo, the roads become eerily quiet, occasionally an overhead sign will inform us that due to the recent earthquake in L’Aquila (06.04.09) there are restrictions in place on the A24. We are however heading down the A25 towards Pescara, by-passing the eagle, (L’Aquila). We arrive at our first destination, Hotel Duca Degli Abruzzi, a modern building on many floors. The first thing to hit us is the wall of sound as we enter the foyer; children are playing happily if not rather noisily. The lobby has figures wandering around it almost at random; people move from the restaurant, cross the reception area and enter the bar without any sense of purpose. We check in and the man behind the desk informs us that the hotel is providing temporary accommodation to people affected by the earthquake, and that the hotels remaining rooms have been taken over by the homeless L’Aquilani, hence the vast amount of people wandering around. Our room is basic but comfortable with a small balcony that overlooks the car park, which at present is being resurfaced, the electronic safe refuses to work and despite an earlier request for four pillows; there is only two on the bed. A large piece of abstract art dominates one wall, shouting at the top of its voice, an odd choice for a bedroom. Montesilvano, like many beach resorts out of season looks shabby and rather lacklustre, the readiness for the season is still a few weeks away. I grab my iPod and go for a walk along the sea front, it’s early evening and both the locals and visiting L’Aquilani are beginning their Passeggiata. An Italian ritual no act of nature can prevent. ‘Cars’ by Gary Numan enters my head, it’s synthesised choruses and electronic drum beats out of place with the strolling Italian gait. As it’s Easter, posters pronouncing Buona Pasqua are everywhere and children are carrying chocolate eggs wrapped in multi-coloured foil and tied with giant bows. Music blares out from a car park opposite our hotel, Michael Bublé croons into the temperate air as children dance with grandparents, teenagers do their best to hide their enjoyment, by adopting surly posture and mock defiance; pointless as everyone knows before the night is over they’ll all be dancing along to the music. I re-enter the hotel and switch off my iPod just as Fall Out Boy begin to sing ‘I'm Like a Lawyer with the Way I'm Always Trying to Get You Off (Me & You)’. I walk along the corridor to my room and notice an open door, I glance inside and sat upon the beds are a family huddled around the small television set, a young mother wrestles with two small children, her husband looks at the flickering screen, dark circles beneath his brooding eyes, Nonna sits in the corner neither part of this scene of domesticity or watching the television, a look of bewilderment across her face. It’s obvious they come from L’Aquila, I smile and wish them good night. At 9.30 I pad the bathroom towels beneath my pillow for added height before I fall onto the bed exhausted, as in the distance Michael Bublé does a ‘Moondance’.

Blasts From The Past

I have decided to add a few diary entries from last year at around this time of the year and shall be adding my recent entries over the next few days. I shall also be adding the whole of my New Zealand diary for people to look at at a later stage, but have to work out where to put it as its over 85,000 words.

A life on shuffle would not be possible without an iPod and here's a photo of mine.

My black classic is 160gb and at the moment (24.04.09 12.05) has various videos and comedy shows on it and a total of 14,291 songs. My pink shuffle goes everywhere with me as as back up and my iTouch houses all my music videos.

As I type this U2 are playing 'Love And Peace Or Else' (How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb)

Wednesday 2 April 2008

We arrive at check in with a few hours to spare, the girl behind the counter smiles; one of those corporate smiles that mean nothing, full of good intentions but no emotion. We make our way to the coffee bar, ‘Ritazza’, standing on the periphery of the coffee shop are two rather rotund girls necking lager, dressed in leggings and baggy t-shirts these two twenty something’s laugh like crows at each others jokes. I have something that is supposed to resemble tea; it’s hot but I’m sure there must be some body that one can complain to about false advertising or such like. I sit down with my cup of beige liquid and an insipid looking egg sandwich, as a group of males of various ages descend upon the coffee bar. Dressed in matching black shirts, the men range from early twenties through to mid forties, emblazoned across the shirtfronts is ‘RIGA 2008’; I assume the men are off to celebrate the impending marriage of one of the group, as this Latvian town has in recent years become a Mecca for men wanting to celebrate with ‘The Stag’. Each of them has something different embroidered across the shoulders, ‘DBD’, ‘Fat Al’ and ‘Skidmark’ to name a few. I watch as they begin to sink lager at an alarming rate; looking at my watch I note that at 05.20 the sun has many hours to go before it’s over that proverbial yardarm. Before long the two legging wearing girls are swallowed up by the men and become part of their party. A handsome man joins the queue for beverages, despite his informal attire and untamed mane of hair, the colour of polished chrome, it’s obvious he’s Italian; only an Italian can look the epitome of style and good grooming this early in the morning. Italy, home of the stylish, chaotic and cultured, has always held a special place in my heart, ever since my first visit back in the early eighties; big hair and shoulder pads met la dolce vita and never looked back. The reason for my trip is to view houses, and hopefully find one that will tempt me to climb that first rung on the holiday home ladder. As I shuffle along with my fellow passengers onto the plane, my head is filled with images of sitting drinking wine as an Italian sun sets over olive groves, I also make a mental note to book priority boarding in future. We are an eclectic mix of people, all sat inside the metal tube as it leaves the East Midlands en route to Rome. I’m sat next to a Russian gentleman that within minutes of take off falls asleep and snores like a train; thankfully I have my iPod and as usual it’s set to shuffle. With the earphones installed within my ears the aeroplane’s engines are reduced to a throbbing as the opening bars of ‘Chocolate’ by Snow Patrol build as I slip into my own world. Three hours later we are driving up the A24 towards the L’Aquila, the capital city of the Abruzzo region.

Abruzzo is a largely unknown region of Italy, but with its national parks and mountain ranges it is beautiful and unspoilt, and in my opinion gives Tuscany a run for its ‘euros’. Home of the Apennine mountain range and the dominant three peaked Gran Sasso; meaning ‘Great Stone’, Abruzzo is a haven for winter sports enthusiasts but this region has much more than just skiing and snow boarding to offer, with the beaches just forty five minutes drive away in Pescara and the magnificent Parco Nazionale with its wild boar and bears on your doorstep, what more could you need to keep you occupied on those lazy summer afternoons? And what could be nicer than enjoying a winter’s evening warm and cosy with a glass of wine as the howl of an Apennine wolf carries on the wind. I check into the Hotel Duomo on Via Dragonetti, and as I look out over the vast Piazza beneath my window, I sigh: A contented sigh that indicates I am at peace: Italy always has the ability to make me feel calm and stress free; even the frenetic driving doesn’t phase me. My iPod is set up on its portable speaker dock and the room is filled with Carol Decker’s voice, ‘Only The Lonely’ from T’Pau’s second album ‘Rage’ plays as I unpack, before taking a stroll along Corso Federico. I enjoy an espresso as the town goes about it’s daily routine. L’Aquila, meaning ‘The Eagle’ has a market every day except Sunday in the Piazza Duomo, where traders sell fresh produce, household items and clothing; and for those in need of a snack, I can recommend the panino con porchetta sold outside the Duomo. The day closes with a final stroll around the town and a few glasses of a delicious dark red Montepulciano.