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.
We had been delayed by several hours due to British
air traffic control going down for the morning
and should already have been in Barga, perhaps
sitting down to well earned pasta and vino. My
stomach growled to remind me I hadn’t eaten
since lunch and that if we did not make good
time the restaurants would all be closed, leaving
us nothing to eat apart from some warm cereal
bars until breakfast.
The plane had touched down in sun and warmth,
but as we drove north the sun became obscured
by clouds and as darkness set in there was an
ominous rumble of thunder. Now driving along
the floor of the valley, following the River
Serchio we were in the thick of it, driving tired
and almost blind.
Finally we reach the turn off for Barga and ascend
the road as it twists up the mountain. The rains
ease off, and as we approach the final bend the
clouds part. Around the corner we motor and there,
lit by the lights of the town is the Duomo with
Barga old town stretching below it.
We drive into town, snake past the tightly built
houses, their shutters closed against the bad
weather. We cross the bridge that spans the small
gorge that separates Barga old from Barga new
and squeeze our car up our road that was designed
before the motor car had been designed.
Parking outside the house we dash in and drop
off our luggage before quickly inspecting the
work which was completed by the builders. It
appears to be of a very good standard. We have
a fully working bathroom at last which is proved
by my aching bladder. Satisfied that the house
is in a good state of repair we ditch the car
and run up to the old town desperate for food.
The following day we wake late. I ache from
carrying the bags and suitcases and feel cold
as the only bed linen we had packed was one thin
sheet. I get up and stretch before moving to
the front bedroom and opening the shutters. It
is not so much a re-enactment of ‘A Room
with a View’ as the desperate and excited
fumbling of a half awake romantic. I hurt my
thumb on the shutter opening and curse. Finally
I pull them open as they protest on squeaky hinges
and scrape along the dusty floor.
Light creeps into the room, before me stretches
Barga with the green mountains in the background.
The sun is out but large clouds scud across the
sky. I look out on the view, sigh and then quickly
close the window as I’m only wearing shorts
and it’s cold.
In the daylight we get to inspect everything
and though the work has cost us an arm and a
leg the house appears better for it. We now have
a proper bathroom (as apposed to a toilet with
a shower head above it – though you could
take care of all your toilet habits in one previously),
central heating (we still have to see if this
works) and running water in the kitchen (though
this quickly breaks down and spills water all
over the kitchen floor).
The builders have been a little over zealous
with the concrete they use in the house and seem
to have decided that grey concrete splashes are
just what we require splashed up our walls and
over the ceilings.
We spend the next week sanding down walls and
then giving them a coat of white paint. The paint
is more like the stuff used in poster painting
and has to be thinned down before it can be applied
to the walls. This means that instead of one
thick coat you have to apply several thin ones
which lengthens the time it takes to complete
a room. You spend hours working your way around
the four walls only to step back and admire the
dark cement marks left by the builders. On your
second trip round the same walls you are painting
blind, white on white, you can no longer remember
if you have already given one part of the wall
a second coat or not. Eventually tired and emotional
you finish the room as the sun drops behind the
hills. Stepping back you your eyes dart to the
unmistakable grey builders’ marks and you
feel like crying. Only on the third trip round
do you almost obliterate the marks but by then
you are too tired to care.
The following morning you descend the stairs
and open the shutters. The sun shines in on your
newly white-washed room and apart from the odd
touch up you realise that though the walls are
uneven and pitted with old cement there is something
beautiful about them. They are old, and no straight
line can be found in the whole house but they
are your walls and to be honest you don’t
mind.
There is a low drone humming as an insect flies
into the room to inspect my DIY skills.
Helen gasps. “Look at that”, she
cries in disgust.
I look up from screwing yet more bits of wood
together and at first don’t see what she
is pointing at.
“What is it?”
She looks at me astounded by my lack of eye sight.
“That”, pointing again as she backs
away.
I look closely as the insect backs off the wooden
window frame that had been concealing it. It’s
a hornet, similar in design to the ones in the
UK; all except for the size. It’s huge,
at least two inches in length with a wing span
almost double. It buzzes ominously as I back
away.
“Do you see it?” Helen asks as she
moves herself away from the beast.
Yes I see it, and I hope it travels alone; for
if you were to come across a nest of these things
the only thing I could suggest would be to run.
It was like a creature from the props department
of a monster movie.
Its wings hummed as it took off, forcing both
of us to back away quickly before it turns and
leaves by the open window.
We continue with our furniture building with
a healthy respect for the creatures out in the
Tuscan countryside and more than a little wary
of entering the woodland that surrounds us.
After frequent trips to the ‘fai da te’ (DIY
store) we manage to half paint the house in time
for the arrival of our boxes from the UK. Surprisingly
they never turn up. We ring the UK based company
who explains there was a problem at the port
and that the boxes will be delivered in two days
time. Three days later we still have no boxes.
Another phone call to the company lets us know
that they have been shipped but we now need to
speak to the Italian company. We are given a
number to ring and a person to speak to. Helen
rings only to find out that the person has left
for the weekend and we will need to ring back
on Monday. We ring back first thing Monday to
be told they will be delivered first thing tomorrow
morning. They never arrive. Another phone call
to the Italian end of the business and they now
claim they could not get up the street as we
were in the old town. We explained that we were
not in the old town but in the new town and we
only wanted the van to get as close as it could
and we would worry about getting the boxes into
the house. They finally arrived the following
day (10 days late). During that time we had travelled
to Florence and visited IKEA, picked enough furniture
to equip the house and had the whole lot delivered
on time (Swedish efficiency).
After three weeks of painting, decorating and
building furniture we are tired and fed up. I
have a cold and sore throat and Helen curses
under her breath every time she sees a pot of
white paint. However, we have a bedroom with
a wrought iron bed and wardrobe space so we can
put away clean clothes. We have a kitchen with
an oven that works and running water. We have
a bathroom with all modern conveniences and a
living room in which we can relax in the evening.
The weather has stayed cool allowing us to work
and though there are still many little jobs to
do around the house it feels like a home.
Hopefully we can now start to enjoy our time
in Barga. Summer is starting to put in an appearance
much to the delight of our Italian neighbours
and festivals and parties are beginning in the
villages and towns.
It is time to explore.
Next month: Festa!… Adam J.
Shardlow is a writer now living in Barga
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