 It
was February and cold with an icy wind that ripped
your coat violently open and made the teeth at
the back of your mouth ache. Helen and Nicola
huddled by the track at Pisa Aeroporto as Nick
rang backwards and forward trying to confirm that
the train in front of us was going to Florence.
I gave him an encouraging nod as he attempted
to make sense of a time table that looked many
years out of date. Finally convinced that this
was the only train and that it was indeed going
to our destination we clambered aboard.
The rest of this article is here
 We
were depressed. We had found a beautiful small
house that was perfect in a location that suited
us. It was neither too small nor too large. It
needed some work but nothing that could not be
put right without a modicum of hard work and a
bit of paint. It was ‘ready for immediate
occupation’ as the web site enticingly hinted.
We could move in tomorrow if it was but for one
thing - money. I hate money. I hate the way it
limits your dreams and clouds issues. I hate the
fact that it worms its way into nearly every important
decision I have to make – forcing me down
one avenue when the other always seem more enticing.
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Four
weeks before the move – I have a calendar
on my PC at work where I have been marking off
the passing weeks and months. Over the last year
it has slowly changed to an ocean of blue lines
each indicating that time is getting short. It
is now almost completely one shade and the little
Italian flag on the final page is close.
Helen and I have started to ramp up our activities
in preparation for the big move. We have made
arrangements with a freight company to come and
pick up our boxes two days before we leave on
a flight for Pisa
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The
rain pummelled the roof of the car and covered
the road in a blanket of water that reflected
the head lamps back at us. The window wipers were
almost useless against the heavy splashes and
merely helped to obscure the view. Lightening
flashed behind the mountain giving us a brief
glimpse of the territory before all returned to
darkness. The tail lights of the car in front
disappeared behind the outcrop of rock leaving
me nothing to follow before reappearing around
the next bend, highlighting the course of the
careering road.
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A
strange, strange thing has happened..... the part
five of Moving Mountains by Adam J. Shardlow
has gone missing ... AWOL... nobody
knows where it is
The rest of this article is not
here
It
is not until you travel through Italy that you
realise what a diverse and complex country this
is. In truth it is not a country at all but a
collection of sovereign states that had little
choice but to unite after Napoleon’s successful
invasion of the land. The north still represent
the rich and fertile soil that gave the country
its name (Italia was in use by 500BC and derives
from the tribal word for ‘calf’) while
the south still feels it has had the rough end
of the deal.
Having finished a week of parties, hellos and
goodbyes for friends and family, we were able
to breathe a collective sigh and embark on our
Honeymoon.
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September
has been a tempestuous month. The weather has
slowly cooled and while on most days it is still
warm and sunny, in the evening there is a stiff
breeze that helps to drop the temperature. When
the sun is not shining it means it is raining.
Dark clouds come in from the coast and congregate
over the mountains like sullen teenagers skulking
around a park bench. Slowly they edge towards
us, encouraging each other onwards, taunting the
town until Barga is engulfed. The rain is heavy,
large droplets splash onto the terracotta tiles
playing out a staccato drum beat. What begins
as a slow waltz soon develops into a battle of
the bands as a deluge is released from the sky.
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