As Time Goes By.....

You MUST remember this......

December 12th, 1984.  Your mum and Joy came up with you by train from Bristol.  Dad took a little time off for lunch and then drove us over to Hemel Hempstead Registry Office....

You remember?

This was you, Amanda, when you were little....  Way before I knew you.  Cheeky thing!

And still those cheeky eyes, years later.  Where was this one taken?  Ponza?  Giglio?  Even I don't remember where this was.....

But I remember this one.  Almost our first meeting.  I think it may have been your birthday.  So March 5th, 1979, or 1980, perhaps?  In the garden of your little flat in Via Livenza, in Rome?  And look, there's Effie and Nicola, and Chris Warde-Jones in the background.....

And then we went for a Christmas holiday to Greece, staying on Syros, but stopping for a while in Athens.....  At least I think this was Athens.  I recognise your jacket.  Do you remember my cords?

Then we really got together, and moved out to Trevignano Romano, to the van Kessels' villa, in Il Quadrifoglio, and bought our first little car, a red Renault 4.....

And drank lovely Tuscan wine, from Vincenzo at Val di Cava, Montalcino, and laughed so!

And looked after the cats, with Bear, and Monks.....

And in the summer we swam in the pool, or in Lake Bracciano, and sat in the garden by the palm tree in the sun.....

You must remember this 

A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh. 

The fundamental things apply 

As time goes by.

And then, in those long summer holidays, we tootled about France with our tent, feasting on tinned cassoulet and baguettes.....

And then what happened?  We tied the knot!  That's what happened next....

And when two lovers woo 

They still say, "I love you." 

On that you can rely 

No matter what the future brings 

As time goes by.

And flew off to darkest Peru, to Lima, and Machu Picchu, for our funnymoon. moneymoon....honeyspoons......  What larks!

Moonlight and love songs 

Never out of date. 

Hearts full of passion 

Jealousy and hate. 

Woman needs man 

And man must have his mate 

That no one can deny.

And then, in the wink of an eye, we were three, then four, and now look at our girls!  Hannah, and Sarah.  Where did the time go?

And do you remember this?  May 19th, earlier this year?  A really lovely day!  When Hannah got married to Cameron?

And then this morning, a bright December morning, with frost on the ground, we walked out on Nomansland Common.  You must remember this....?

Look at us now!  Look how we've matured?  Is that the right word?  Like wine, we've aged.....  (Though maybe I am corked?)

It's still the same old story 

A fight for love and glory 

A case of do or die. 

The world will always welcome lovers 

As time goes by.

Fond memories.....

Happy Anniversary, little one!

As Time Goes By......

(music and words by Herman Hupfeld)

In support of 

https://www.alzheimers.org.uk/

Road Trip 1 - Escape!

The road to the sun.....

Dark storm clouds pile over Bracciano Castle though the evening sun still slants through and shimmers on the lake.  I step onto the rocks by the Trevignano promenade to get a better shot.  Then, gravity fails, and I miss my footing, falling back heavily on the angular blocks.  For a crazy moment my thoughts swirl around protecting the camera, the fact that my umbrella is bent and the annoyance that I hit my left elbow in breaking my fall.

A few minutes later I remove my jacket and cool water from a drinking fountain washes away the blood, and helps reduce the ugly swelling that has appeared.  I bind the wound with my handkerchief, replace my jacket, and gingerly proceed. 

We are due to meet our 104-year-old friend, Truman, and indeed we join him for his habitual Jack Daniels #7, but, despite his invitation to dinner, I am too shaken to accept and we sadly retreat to our accommodation.  What irony that it is my frailty, and not the centenarian’s, that intervenes?

I think, in retrospect, that I would have been less concerned had I not just driven 1,500 miles to our erstwhile home in Italy, and that consequently there was a long road home…….  A damaged arm does not fit well with days at the wheel……

However, it had all started well, with a smooth run down to Dover, the lounge aboard the P & O Ferry providing champagne, and then a clear motorway out of Calais (not looking so good on the way in – police vans all over the place, great gashes in the razor fences, and two massive hauliers blocking the incoming traffic).  Irony sometimes comes in bundles, and I muddle over the facts that thousands are camping here, desperate to enter Britain, while we are speeding away, confused by Brexit, wishing it wouldn’t happen, cursing the misleaders and faced with at least 10% if not much more on the cost of this fugue because of the fallen pound.  Not that we aren’t excited.  The road south, the road to the sun.  Term time, and we are free! 

However, it is a theme of this trip that we pass through six countries and everywhere, when asked where we are from, we feel shame in saying England, shame because we are now seen to be ungrateful for Europe - arrogant, selfish Brexiteers (whichever way we personally voted makes no odds to the people we appear to shun).  I want to apologise; to say it is all a dream, a mistake, and that we love being in Europe and that we strongly believe that unity is right.  But it is won’t work.  The damage is done.  I fell and my arm hurts; no wishing my stupidity hadn’t happened makes a difference.

Anyway, the road south.  Into the sun.  We spend the first night on a farm near Soissons, chosen so we could see the ruins of the eleventh century Abbey of St Jean des Vignes, one of the richest abbeys of medieval France. The two unequal towers of the west front still leap seventy metres heavenwards, despite the destruction of much of the rest of the complex under Napoleon I. 

In the morning, we leave the village, passing a shaded war cemetery, reminding us that peace was gained the hard way.  We then follow the Chemin des Dames, passing the site where 12,000 died on March 7^th 1814 when Napoleon underestimated his Russian adversary.  

In March 1914, to commemorate the centenary of the Battle of Craonne a memorial was unveiled near Hurtebise Farm.  Only months later, this was destroyed during fierce fighting.  

A little further along the 30 km ridge we stop at the Monument des Basques, which was raised in 1928 to commemorate the losses of young men from the south-west of France, members of the 36^th Infantry Division, who died here in a number of conflicts between 1914 and 1918.

Our second night is spent in the Jura.  My plan had been to limit the driving to about four hours or so a day, and to explore places we had not visited before.  

Here we are in walking country, and an excursion to where the river Lison issues from a massive limestone cliff does not disappoint. 

The village of Nans-sous-Ste-Anne is quiet, save for the clonking of cattle bells and the purring of cats, and our accommodation aside the chateau is beautiful, with stone flags on the ground floor and waxed wood upstairs.  

Our hosts are wonderful, and the other guests most polite, though I sense a delicate touch of disapproval…. (Brexit again?) Despite that, delightfully, there is a rather good restaurant nearby…..

And the cats don't seem to mind us as we walk back in the dusk....

Day three and we cross the Alps.  At first our roads are clear and rural, but then we pass through Switzerland, by Lausanne and Montreux whereabouts we pick up some traffic.  As we begin to rise towards the Great St Bernard Pass the road deteriorates, and at times is only single carriageway.  

We decide against the tunnel, and wind up the old pass (at 2,469 metres above sea level) to take a break at the hospice.  

Fluffy toy St Bernards crowd round us, but we stick to fresh air, beer and a sandwich.  

A kindly nun expertly takes our picture with the mountains in the background, 

and then we plunge into Italy, winding down and round towards the Valley of Aosta and our third night on the road, an agriturismo remotely situated some way above Biella.

We have reached the promised land, and we walk among the chestnut trees, looking down across the country.  In the Santuario Mariano Madonna della Brughiere, just below our lodging, the priests have blown out the candles....

and it is time to repair to Il Castagneto for an early pizza, a glass of wine, and all things Italian. This was our homeland for more than twenty years, and it is great to be back again, though some things may never be the same…..

So far, so good, though.  Brexit seems a long way away, and the sun is ahead of us….

I love St Bernards, and not just because of the barrel: our butcher in Drayton (Portsmouth) had one when I was small.  I remember he (the dog, not the butcher....) used to pad across the sawdust strewn floor of the shop, as big as a horse to little me....  And I remember my mother handing over the ration book (to the butcher, not the dog.....)  

I wonder if the dog had rations?

More postcards from Italy (2015)

Nessun Dorma!

Dusk gathers on the Tuscan coast.....

 

Marina di Torre del Lago is quiet. Some years ago this was a very popular gay resort, but, for some reason, it has fallen from grace, and some of the once-teeming karaoke bars and trendy eateries have closed. The days are busy, with the beaches full, but it seems more family now, and not everyone stays overnight....

Though there are those who like the evening cool,

And some who like to stay on as night falls,

And some who will frolic in the dark,

We wander the almost empty esplanade,

Check out the almost empty restaurants, 

Noting the number of establishments that have closed.  A sign of the times? Economic depression?  

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,

il nome mio nessun saprà

Tu pure, o Principessa,

nella tua fredda stanza

guardi le stelle che tremano 

d'amore e di speranza!

Next morning, life picks up again, with the papers and an aperitivo,

And we visit Giacomo Puccini's residence nearby, on the shore of Lago Massacuccioli, where we meet his granddaughter, Simona, and are gently nibbled by mosquitoes while we sift through the memorabilia of the Maestro.....

A monument to Toscano cigars

Then, driving south, we move across to the island of Giglio, 

Passing the site of the Costa Concordia disaster (see http://www.richardpgibbs.org/2013/08/isola-del-giglio-revisited.html for more on that....) where, although the wreck has been removed, work continues to remove the structures used in the salvage operation....

Docking in the picturesque harbour of Giglio Porto,

Snorkelling in the crystal clear, fish-filled, waters of Arenella, then climbing 405 metres from sea level to the village of Castello,

Where old cottages have become chic second homes,

And an ancient tower is an airy retaurant, Da Maria, where we drink Ansonica wine, and from whose terrace we enjoy the sunset over the Faraglioni......

Then, next morning, back across the strait to Porto Santo Stefano, mesmerised by the blues and whites of ship and sea,

From where we drive to the green-fringed tranquillity of Lago di Vico (see http://www.richardpgibbs.org/2012/08/tesserae-3.html)....

And then on to our old home village of Trevignano Romano (see http://www.richardpgibbs.org/2012/08/trevignano-romano.html) which hugs the shore of Lake Bracciano, below the volcanic cone of the Rocca Romana.....

Where we have a wonderful dinner in La Grotta Azzura (grazie Nazareno!) with our 102+ yr old friend Truman.....(see http://www.richardpgibbs.org/2012/09/tesserae-5.html for something about his 100th birthday)....

The following day the heat topples over itself, and a storm blows through the evening, sprinkling just enough rain to cause a rainbow to direct me to a pot of gold, not far from where we used to live.....

The wind stirs the lake to gusty violence, causing an evacuation that rivals the last days of Pompeii....

Then it calms again, heat wraps the earth in a blanket, and although perhaps the instruction Nessun Dorma! (Let no-one sleep!) works for me, it's not applicable to dogs. Lola, patronne of Il Poggio degli Ulivi, seems to like this position, day and night.....

And at breakfast time, there is the chorus of male Cicadas, almost deafening in the vibration of their tymbals, but above this rise the fluting calls of Golden Orioles, flitting between the nearby trees.... 

And in the bright Italian sun, tomatoes and basil just about sum up everything that is good,

Though the light can play tricks in the heat of the day, with average temperatures over 36 degrees Celsius....

So, when all is said and done, I like it when the sun begins to slip away towards the horizon, and the mountains rise in the evening light, cool showers heralding the stars.....

guardi le stelle che tremano

d'amore e di speranza!

The Mountains of the Moon (Dante) or the Apuan Alps...

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,

il nome mio nessun saprà

No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò,

quando la luce splenderà

Ed il mio bacio scioglierà

il silenzio che ti fa mia.