Taking our rubbish on tour

The getting rid of rubbish is one of those things that one takes for granted.

One certainly doesn't expect to have to take one's rubbish for a considerable drive in the country every week.

Living close to nature, we try very hard to be environmentally responsible. We buy groceries that have minimal packaging and we compost everything that will break down (apparently garlic and onion skins don't break down so this is the only organic matter that we don't compost). We even have a small-sized rubbish bin in an attempt to limit our waste.

We have a private road up to our house that is about 1 kilometre long. The rubbish truck does not travel on private roads so we need to drive our rubbish to the corner where the private road meets the public road or drop our rubbish off ourselves at local skips that are provided by the Canelli Comune.

For our first five months here our rubbish system worked well.

We purchased strong plastic bags for our bin and at the end of each week, we would remove the bag, seal it properly, then drive it to the closest skip and drop it off.

That is, it was all going smoothly until a few weeks ago.

One morning we set off with our rubbish only to find that the skip had been removed.

Not easily put off, we drove our rubbish around Canelli until we found another skip and dropped it off.

This new system worked well for a week.

One morning we set off with our rubbish only to find that all the skips had been removed within the boundaries of Canelli.

We stood beside the now absent skip and looked at each other. We were clearly lost without a skip.

Not easily outdone and always practical, we put our rubbish back into our car and set off to find a skip outside the boundaries of Canelli.

After several hours, our rubbish was still in the back of the car and there was nought for us to do except drive it back home.

In the safety of our home we talked long and hard about the missing skip situation. We decided to ask Renzo what we should do with our rubbish.

But by the time Renzo came out to the valley again our pile of rubbish bags had grown. We were now too embarrassed to even ask Renzo!

So we did what all desperate people do in Italy. We went to the Canelli Commune. The two ladies in charge of 'rifuiti' were in place behind the sliding windows in one of the hundreds of offices in the maze that is the Canelli Comune.

Unfortunately, because I was so eager to dispose of our rubbish as soon as possible, I hadn't prepared for the conversation I would have with them. When I reached the window, I realised that I didn't know the Italian word for skip. I had planned to explain to her that the skip had disappeared and then ask here to tell us what to do with our rubbish.

Instead, I found myself telling her we had a problem with our rubbish and that there used to be a big (what?) that we put it into. In order to explain the concept of a skip, I gesticulated wildly and created an enormous shape with my arms. The ladies looked askance. They told us to turn right at the horse cart. Like I said, my Italian goes to pot when I'm under pressure...

We thanked them and left the office.

Afterwards I told Stu that the poor ladies probably thought we had a mountain of rubbish to get rid of. On high alert for potential outbreaks of the plague, they were probably redirecting us to the health department!

After this traumatic episode, we sought the shelter of our valley.

But every time we went outside the rustico, our beautiful green view seemed to be obstructed by our growing piles of rubbish.

(Please note this is a mild exaggeration. Suffice to say that we were personally very aware of our rubbish and our lack of apparent options)

Over the last few days we've been observing what other people do. It appears that some have wheelie bins while others use bags. From the overflowing wheelie bins that lined the streets, it seemed that rubbish collection day was Monday.

So on Monday we decided to drive to the end of our private road with our ageing rubbish in the trailer and drop it off at the corner where the private road meets the public road.

Having positioned our rubbish carefully in order to optimise its chances of being seen by any rubbish truck that happened to pass by, we spent a happy morning confident in the knowledge that we were no longer responsible for our rubbish.

Unfortunately, when we went to our Italian lesson later that day, our rubbish was lying in wait for us.

Worried that dogs, pigs or rats might rip the bags open and spread our secrets all over the town of Canelli, we stopped, picked up our rubbish and put it in the back of the car. Perhaps we'd got the day wrong? We'd try again tomorrow.

The following morning was cold. After dressing warmly, we walked out to the car eager to handle our first priority for the day. When we opened the doors to get in, our old rubbish rushed out at us. We could barely get near the car for the thickness of the stench that emanated from it.

One smell I remember particularly strongly is 3-week old garlic and onion skins.

Anyway, once we realised just how 'on the nose' our rubbish had become, we decided not to risk trying the street again. We needed an immediate outcome.

So that's how we came to be travelling around with our rubbish this morning. A full and comprehensive tour of the surrounding comunes was required before we finally found a skip near Asti and offloaded our burden.

As I write this, I still don't know what to do with our rubbish next week...

Is it haunted?

We've spooked ourselves.

Yes, in our efforts to freak each other out, we've actually managed to convince ourselves that our house is haunted.

I cleaned the windows the other day but when I looked through them at dusk all I could see were cobwebs hanging thickly from corners and fireplaces.

When I went into the house the other day alone I felt a 'presence'. Strange noises and groans seemed to ooze from the walls. Ghosts of past owners perhaps...

Every so often, Stu launches out of the front door as if he's being pursued. When I question him, he says there's an old woman after him. A witch, to be sure.

So all ye who may partake of our hospitality in the dark nights be warned: When the light from yonder is gone and all is in darkness, strange spirits lurk...

Did I mention the doors that were banging last night...?

A 'Real Man' does not work in the 'Giardino'

I refer to my Blog posting dated 6th April 2010 ('Tomatoes Anyone?')

It is with great horror that I share with you that Stu has planted 10 rows of potatoes. There are 7 potato plants in each row. That makes 70 potato plants.

Assuming that each plant will give us about 10 potatoes, our total yield is expected to be 700 potatoes!

Does anyone know any good recipes that combine tomatoes AND potatoes???

Still on the subject of gardening, yesterday we attended our second Italian lesson.

The connection, you ask?

Well, up until yesterday, I used to tell our neighbours and occasional contractors that Stu had been working in the 'giardino'. This is not only because I am proud of him but also because I know the words!

So yesterday when we arrived at our Italian lesson, I told the teacher that Stu had been working in the garden.

She looked slightly askance before enquiring exactly what he was doing.

I thought the question a little strange (what does one normally do in a garden and why is anyone else interested in such detail?)

Luckily, my gardening-related words extended further so I was able to explain that he had planted potatoes.

She laughed.

I looked askance. Stu turned red.

What was so funny about digging for hours to plant potatoes?

She then explained that 'giardino' refers to a flower garden, while 'orto' refers to a vegetable garden.

Fancy! I've been telling everyone that Stu has been playing with flowers!

I hope I haven't ruined his reputation completely...

Never Act in Undue Haste

For those of you keenly interested in whether or not I had to expose my chest to the Polizia (see previous post), read on...

On Monday, I arrived at the Questura at the appointed time.

A very robust looking police woman took my resident permit paperwork and my (spotty) photos, then gave me a form and directed me to their 'criminal scientific lab'.

I followed their directions, which involved walking through a door to a bright light which I soon realised was outside. I then had to walk across an internal quadrangle to a yellow door. When I entered the yellow door, I found men in white coats peering into microscopes.

I wondered about their expectations. Did they have serious concerns about my spots? Would they attempt a blood test? Or even a biopsy?

One of the men came to take my paperwork.

He looked carefully at me. I was tempted to expose my chest immediately but I resisted.

He checked my height and my hair colour (under his interrogation, I confirmed that the colour was natural...why would anyone PAY to get the combination of brown and grey that I have!?)

Then he checked my eye colour. Blue I had said. He leaned forward and looked deeply into them as if he'd never seen blue eyes before. Or was it that he was assessing me with some new lie-detector test? I felt sure that my spots had been noted and that my honesty was being tested. Was now the right time to expose?

Then he pulled on surgical rubber gloves! I panicked. This was it. My fingers were already undoing my buttons when he took one of my hands in his.

One by one he pressed each of my fingertips onto the screen of a scanner. I was being fingerprinted!

He made fingerprints of every finger of both hands, then a 'group' portrait of all of the fingers of each hand, then another 'group' portrait of the palms of each hand!

Then he smiled and explained that my residents permit would be posted to the Canelli Comune and that I could collect it in approximately 1 month.

I left, relieved that I had not acted in undue haste and stood partly naked before an innocent fingerprinter.

Spots

On Monday, I go to the Questura (state police) for the next step in my quest (pardon the pun) for a Permesso di Soggiorno (residential permit).

I have been really excited ever since I made my appointment 2 weeks ago.

That is, I was excited until I went to the local Kodak shop to have my required 4 passport-sized photos taken.

I'd brushed, primped, dampened and moussed my hair until it no longer looked like I'd slept on it.

Then I'd put a respectable amount of make-up on. A little of everything.

I'd even dragged a 'new' shirt out of my cupboard. These days, it isn't difficult for me to find an 'new' (i.e. recently unworn) shirt. I seem to wear the same things for days on end!

So I was feeling beautiful and confident when Stu dropped me off outside the Kodak shop then drove away to find a parking space.

I still felt beautiful and confident when I walked into the shop and asked for some passport photos.

I felt truly beautiful and hugely confident when I sat on the little stool, looked at the camera and arranged my expression.

It was only when she showed me the photos she'd taken that my confidence fell on the floor, rolled away and hid in the corner.

It seemed that my face was even only in its lopsidedness! My eyes were on different levels. My eyebrows were shaped differently. My lips were full at one end and narrow at the other. And on one side, they followed a wrinkle that ran down between my chin and my jowel. I was completely and utterly crooked.

She must have seen the same sad signs of ageing because she offered to take more photos.

I settled again on the stool, this time arranging my face so that it FELT crooked. I assumed a surprised expression on the right hand side of my face in order to even up my eyes. I puffed out my lips on the side where they appeared too narrow. I squinted on one side so that the cheek would lift and flatten the wrinkle and thereby raise my sagging lip. To top it all off, I then attempted a very subtle smile. I felt like I'd just had a Botox treatment.

She showed me the new photos.

Unfortunately I was still crooked but now in a different direction. And all my efforts to improve on the earlier photos had simply made me look severely retarded.

Not wanting her to think me too vain, I chose one of them, then waited for her to process 4 copies for me.

Stu walked into the shop while I was waiting.

'How did it go?', he asked.

'I'm the ugliest person in the world', I replied.

He ignored me.

Shortly after, the woman came out with 4 photos in a little plastic pocket. She opened the pocket and invited me to view the final result but I didn't dwell too long. Probably a total of 1.25 seconds. I just wanted to get out of the shop before she realised how ugly I was.

Out on the street, I stopped to have a better look.

It was then that I saw it. I looked away. I brought the pocket closer to my face. I re-focused. It was then that I was sure.

I had a red spotty rash on my neck and chest!

'What the hell is THAT!?', I yelled at Stu.

He brought the photo up to his face and squinted.

'Ha ha! The resolution must be wrong or else that woman's got some pretty low quality processing equipment!', he said, 'It looks like you've got some terrible disease! I wonder if the Italian authorities will let you in looking like THAT!?'.

He was hysterical.

If the police at the Questura look the least bit doubtful about my 'disease', I have determined to bare my chest to them...

Giant Rats

Yesterday we were walking through town and stopped on a bridge in the centre of Canelli to look down on the birds along the river.

We were watching the ducks and seagulls sunning themselves when suddenly Stu went quiet.

I assumed he was in a state of bliss, the sun warm on his back and the river flowing gently below him.

Oblivious, I continued to rant on about the ducks. I wondered which ones had been to visit us in our valley recently. I wondered where they went in winter. I wondered at their laziness and simplicity.

Then I heard Stu gasp.

I looked over at him, wondering now why he would gasp at my rantings.

'What's wrong?', I asked.

'Can't you see THOSE things?', he said, pointing to the banks of the river.

I followed his finger.

Now it was my turn to make a noise.

There playing gleefully in the river was a pack of giant rats!

These things were very long and massively fat. They had webbed feet and rats tails. They looked like giant wombats. Call us sheltered or ignorant Australians but we'd never seen anything like them before.

We were about 80% through the 'freaking' stage and 50% through the 'preparing to sell' stage when I became so desperate that I accosted a lady who was passing on a pushbike. I blurted my demand : What WAS this animal?

She confirmed that it was from the rat family. She kept talking, clearly telling us everything about this creature. Unfortunately, my knowledge of Italian didn't stretch far enough to understand much of what she said. So in the end I simply asked her if it was 'good or not good'. She shrugged her shoulders and dropped the sides of her mouth in thought (the way Italians do) then announced that it was 'good'.

Stu and I thanked her then walked back to the car in silence. Why would she say they were 'good'. Surely no rat, especially one that big, could be good. Hadn't they had giant rats in Europe in the middle ages? Hadn't these rats been responsible for the plague?

We had visions of these rodents invading our valley, perhaps even our septic, bringing the plague to us.

We rushed home, dashed upstairs, fell onto our PCs and signed onto internet.

Neither of us spoke. We would occasionally glance out the window lest we missed the hoards of giant rats that would soon penetrate our valley.

Stu looked up 'giant rat' while I looked up '*rat*water*webbed feet*Europe*'.

My search took me to sites that told me way too much about the various rat families. Did you know that there are 5 Suborders, 4 Superfamilies, 2 Infraorders, 1 Parvorder and a total of 34 Families of the little blighters!?

Anyway, I eventually got to the rat family 'Myocastoridae' and there I found our giant rat!

It turns out that our horrible man-rotting sewer-dwelling animal is actually a Nutria, which is a sort of otter or beaver that has historically been slaughtered for its fur. It lives in burrows along waterways and feeds on plants.

'Good', I guess...

Time will tell...

They say time heals everything.

Well, I hope time heals grapevines.

After hours of erratic wielding of knives, daggers and machetes (read 'hedge-trimmers, shears and secaturs'), our grapes have now been completely and utterly mutilated (read 'pruned').

Yes, I pruned our grapevines today, approximately 2 months after every half decent winemaker in the region did theirs.

Stu also worked in the vineyard, installing new posts and wire to support them. Ever the optimist, he honestly believes that a profuse amount of foliage will burst forth from my twigs.

Sadly, the vineyard is a little 'patchy'. Several of the vines were rotten so had to be pulled out, while others had been laying on the ground for so long that they'd rooted in all the wrong places.

The ones that are left have 1 or 2 weird looking 'canes' that stick out at not exactly the right angles from their 'stocks'.

Oh well...if I'd been neglected for 30 years I probably wouldn't look too good either!

Only time will tell...

Tomatoes anyone?

Last week, we proudly announced to our neighbour that we'd planted a lemon tree and a lettuce patch.

Our neighbour's response was to go quiet so we naturally assumed he was jealous of our progress. Perhaps he was even concerned that our garden would be better than his?

But after a 'hum' he suggested it might be too early to plant, as the valley tends to get late frosts right through to May!

A trite embarrassed, we have been eyeing the weather report every night for fear that we make fools of ourselves.

So far, the temperature has been above zero. Except for one night when a non-forecasted snow storm in Switzerland sent our temperatures plummeting!

I wasn't really sure what damage a frost would do, so I crept out in the whiteness the following morning to inspect our lemon tree and lettuces. Amazingly, they all seemed to have survived.

So it was difficult to convince Stuart NOT to buy tomato plants when he spied them his morning at the market.

He purchased 8 plants.

Our 8 little babies are now installed and Stuart has enthusiastically announced that the yield is expected to be 70kg!

Since this announcement, I've been pacing up and down the driveway trying to think of what to do with them (pasta sauces, pizza sauce, bolognese sauce, tomato relish, tomato jam). Any ideas would be much appreciated...

In the meantime, tonight I watched fondly as Stuart 'put his tomatoes to bed'.

He gently folded a temporary plastic cover over them to warn off any stray icy fingers that might choose to come this way tonight...

Obsessed with all things septic

As you know from my postings late last year, we've had our fair share of sewerage problems since we arrived here...

We've also had our fair share of freezing temperatures. December caused some panic as we learned (the hard way) how much wood we would need in order to keep our hearts pumping throughout an entire winter.

In order to store a larger amount of firewood, we have made some adjustments to our garden design.

We have decided to move the woodpile from a location against the fienale to a location at the end of our vegetable garden. This would make the wood accessible from both sides. This would also allow our woodpile to be 1 metre wide x 8 metres long (almost double what it currently is!).

Unfortunately, the new position was but a dream until we could determine exactly where our septic tank was.

So today Stu started digging again.

Luckily, within half an hour he was tapping on cement and shortly thereafter had uncovered our tank! There was great rejoicing as we peered into our tank, alive and pumping and 'aromatic' as it was!

So it seems that we can now confirm the new position for our extended woodpile.

It also seems that next winter will be a cosy one...

We now have ducks!

Today we discovered 3 ducks in our creek!

They normally live along the main creek in Canelli but the melting snows and the recent rains have swollen our little creek and they appear to have migrated up our little valley!

Mind you, if I was a duck, I'd head up this valley too. It's quiet and peaceful and pure.

Of course, when the creek runs dry in Summer, they'll have to go back to Canelli in search of water.

But in the meantime, we'll marvel at their pretty faces and their glossy green feathers...

Without Guilt

Okay, I'm over my little tantrum (see posting dated 26th March 2010) and ready to write again.
This is partly due to the fact that today was the first day since October that we've had something resembling a 'Siesta'!

Siesta forces me to stop, relax, read and write.

Without Siesta, I feel guilty if I don't work like a convict.

So today I had a nice break in the middle of the day, sat on our beautiful terrace and let my exposed toes soak up the sun.

And I wrote.

Without guilt.

I am SO sore

I am SO completely and utterly sore today that I can't even type.

We have been clearing some heavy duty weeds, vines and dead trees out of an overgrown section near the house. Pulling and dragging vegetation has taken all of the strength from my forearms and fingers.

I've also been thinning out our plum grove in the hope that the little trees there will be able to fruit this year. Sawing off the in-between seedlings has taken all of the strength from my shoulders and wrists.

So sorry...a longer story to be posted tomorrow...

You know you've got problems when DHL can't find your address!

I just spent 1.5 hours writing a really brilliant blog entry about my 'lost' study materials (hence the title of this posting).

Despite the fact that I saved it every few minutes during that time, I now can't 'find' it.

I'm really jacked off.

It's times like these when writing is a mug's game.

My entry visa trauma...

When we moved to Italy in October 2009, Stuart entered on his EU passport which meant that he could stay as long as he wanted to. Since I had an Australian or New Zealand passport, I could stay a maximum of 90 days only on a tourist visa. After that period, I needed to leave Italy for 3 months during which time I had to find out how to legally stay in Italy longer than 3 months at a time.

We made our first trip to the Italian Consulate in Brisbane immediately after Christmas 2009. The Consulate explained that a longterm stay in Italy would be easy for me. Since Stuart has an EU passport, I could enter Italy as his 'wife'!

All we needed was a marriage certificate.

And therein lay the problem: We were not married!

However, we thanked the Consulate and smiled sweetly at him before making an embarrassed escape.

At a local coffee shop, we sought refuge in a dark corner. We sweated profusely at the prospect of an urgent marriage proposal being made in the very near future.

We agreed that these were not the best circumstances under which to pledge undying love for each other.

So it was back to the Consulate to explain our lack of a marriage certificate.

No problems, the Consulate said. There was another alternative. I could apply for a longterm visa. This visa would depend on my health insurance and would therefore expire on the same day as my insurance. Since we had only 6 months insurance, he suggested that we try to extend it to 12 months. We told him we would try and return as soon as possible.

However, first we had to go on a 4 week camping trip.

In hindsight, our trip seems extravagant given the criticality of the longterm visa. On returning from our trip, we would have only 2 weeks before we were to fly back to Italy. But the Consulate had promised that my application could be processed quickly so we weren't unduly worried.

While we were away, our insurance company had advised that our insurance couldn't be extended because the premiums for 2010-2011 hadn't been established.

This was a hiccup but we still weren't worried. We would simply proceed with a 6 month longterm visa instead.

So back to the Consulate we went, only to be told that the Consulate had gone to Italy on compassionate leave! His offsider had utterly no idea what to do with our application. We realised this when he disappeared behind closed doors for 2 hours before emerging with several folders of legislation and a strange nervous tick.

We were doomed.

He told us between twitches that the Consulate would be back 3 days before our flights. We asked him if he thought we should re-schedule our flights. He ticked.

We were on our own. We decided to take the risk.

On the third last day, we were the first customers at the office. We sat shaking in our waiting room seats, desperately straining to view a glimpse of the Consulate.

Finally, with joy beyond description, we saw him!

Within minutes he and his ticking offsider were processing our application.

They told us that the visa 'may' be ready on the day of our flight. We asked them if they thought we should re-schedule our flights. The consulate shrugged. His offsider ticked.

We were on our own. We decided to take the risk.

On the last day, we made the first phone call into the office. Frustration levels were at an alltime high and the tension was unbearable. We waited while the receptionist checked the status of our application.

'Yes, Catherine, your visa is ready', were the sacred words I heard.

We were away. Emotionally exhausted but on our way.

Aah...the pleasure of a smoke-free environment...

I am pleased to announce that we have a smoke-free environment once again.

Some considerable effort was needed to achieve our new pollution-free air. All of our brooms, buckets and shovels are now black. Not to mention the floors and walls.

Our skin was also black but this has since been corrected.

All in a good cause.

All for a deep breath of pure unadulterated oxygen.

Where there's smoke there's fire...

Since moving to Italy, it would be reasonable to say that we've had more than our fair share of challenges. Each challenge has called on us to become 'experts' in various ways. We have been plumbers, electricians, stone masons, brick layers, tile layers, water technicians, drain layers, landscapers and gardeners.

You would think by now that there were no more 'experts' that we could be...

I love our log fire. In fact I wouldn't be alive now if it wasn't for our log fire. The nights before Christmas were some of the coldest I had ever experienced, where even 5 layers of clothing and a down sleeping bag weren't enough to keep me warm.

My relationship with our log fire had progressed to such an extent that I have lately been lighting it with only 1 match (as opposed to the 8 matches that I used to need!)

So you can imagine my confusion when the Afghan biscuits I baked this morning didn't seem to fill the kitchen with their sweet aroma like they normally did.

Instead, there was another more insidious stink pervading the air.

'The rustico smells of smoke!', I cried out to Stuart.

Stuart dropped his gardening tools and rushed inside, where he sniffed the air and announced that it was all in my imagination.

I wondered fleetingly about my own sanity before opening the doors and windows to allow the smoke to clear. Maybe there was too much ash in the fire...I would clean it out before lighting tonight's fire...

But that evening, just as we were enjoying a meal of chilli con carne, we were again surrounded by smoke.

'There's smoke everywhere!', I cried to Stuart.

Stuart must have considered the distraught woman before him long enough to realise that a little tact was necessary. He suggested that the wood might be damp.

'I'm telling you! I can't breathe!', I yelled as I grabbed the torch and shone it at the flue where great swatches of smoke were escaping through every nook and cranny.

After realising the gravity of the situation, Stuart launched himself at the flue, prodding and pushing its 9 different sections in an attempt to tighten the gaps.

Unfortunately, there was little improvement and smoke continued to ooze into the room.

I guess this means that there's one more 'expert' that we will need to be tomorrow...

Chimney Sweeps.

My Mind Works in Mysterious Ways

It was raining today, that thick misty rain that doesn't seem to make a noise but soaks you right through to your bones.

So there was nothing for it but to cook!

I cooked a perfect sugo sauce with 30 cherry tomatoes, then creamy honey and date muffins.

And then I realised that I always listen to ABBA when I'm descending in a plane.

Yes, I know that these activities/thoughts may not appear to be connected...but I just thought I'd share with you a typical deranged movement of my brain...

It's better for me if he's ignorant!

The thing that has surprised me most of all about our return to Italy is just how comfortable Stuart is in this country.

Except for (very) occasionally listening to an Italian language course on his ipod, he doesn't make any attempt to practice the language.

On our first day back, he drove on the 'right' hand side of the road instantly and was even seen to go to the 'wrong' side of the road to park! (For those of you who don't understand this, Italians park in any direction regardless of the flow of traffic).

Today, we ventured to the market. Stuart looked so comfortable with all the locals yapping in Italian around him. On the contrary, I looked to be under severe mental strain as I prepared the words I would use to order the various foods.

So you can imagine my surprise when, as all the necessary words relating to cheese were buzzing around in my head, I heard a giggle next to me.

I turned to find Stuart apparently enjoying a joke.

I must have looked a little confused (dismayed?) because he quickly explained.

'See that lady beside you?', he said.

'The one about my age? Yes', I replied.

'The shopkeeper called her Signorina (young woman) and you Signora (old woman)!', he laughed.

'Ha ha', I grunted.

Where and when had he learned this!?

When your man knows that you've been classified as an 'old woman' instead of a 'young woman' it's time he 'lost' his ipod...

Conflict

After spending a heavenly three months with family in Australia, one's can't help but pose a question to the universe: 'Is it right that I live so far away from family and country?'

Panic regarding our return to Italy had only set in during the last few days of our holiday. We started to doubt our ability to 'brave' the unknowns in a country where we had no support structure. We started to believe that we would never learn Italian. We started to believe that all of our improvements that we'd done to date had collapsed or failed and that all of our services and utilities had been cut off!

We panicked even more after our long flight to Italy...

We'd hired a small car at the Milan airport in order to get our embarrassingly heavy suitcases home without slipping any vertabrae (the lure of second hand book shops in Australia had been too much of a temptation and we were laden with literature).

About ten kilometres from Canelli, we found snow laying on the hills!

Now, while I am normally gleeful about snow, it did pose a particular concern yesterday. The 2 kilometre drive into our small valley is dotted with sections that never see the sun so it was reasonable for us to assume that the snow may have made it impassable.

Fortunately, 'someone' was looking after us. While there were a few patches of snow on the road, the thickest snow was to be found in our lower paddocks only.

So after three months in hot humid weather, where I frequently found myself in a state of panic regarding over-heating, it was with immense pleasure that I alighted from the car to the fresh intensity of 7 degrees, the tranquillity of our valley, the first of our Spring bulbs and the reawakening of our birdlife.

I like to think that nature and fate was sending me a message: 'Living overseas is the right thing to do at the moment'. We're simply meant to be here for a while longer.

Or at least until all of the family have had their Italian holiday experience!

Snow - Why Now???

OK. Enough's enough.

I am completely and utterly freezing.

I seem unable to lift my core body temperature. In fact, those medical types who say that the core body temperature is 37.5 degrees are all wrong.

My body is functioning on 17 degrees (albeit a little poorly and not in the best of moods).

If my temperature gets any lower, I'll be hibernating like the dormice in our walls.

But hope looms tomorrow in the form of an aeroplane travelling to warmer climes.

Tomorrow this little dormouse will be WARM, WARM, WARM!

And NOTHING is going to stop me from getting on that plane.

That is, nothing except the forecasted snow...

Actually, not even that.

If there are any problems, I will take action akin to that which occurs on The Sopranos.