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.

It is in the evenings and early mornings that you realise Italy is just not geared up for cold weather – though the periods of warmth and cold are of a similar length in Tuscany. Whereas in Britain we have developed homes to cope with the inclement, grey, wet and cold weather by introducing wall to wall carpets, thick rugs, central heating and insulation in an attempt to keep the cold at bay in Italy they have used every building material and construction technique to keep the houses cool. This is all well and good in the summer, but the summer only last three months which leaves a further nine months of coping with stone floors that act as refrigerators, cantinas that allow cold air to permeate the building above it and central heating that is too expensive to run. It does however go some way to explaining why so many of the markets in Tuscany have stalls selling thick colourful jumpers even in the height of summer.

One place in which I have been warm is the office of the Questura in Lucca, an office I have had cause to visit several times over the last few weeks; an office that I never care to see again. We had to get our ‘Permesso Di Soggiorno Per Stranieri’, a document that entitles you to work and stay in the country. This requires you to take every document that proves you exist and are not an illegal immigrant, terrorist, undesirable, malingerer, or state scrounge to a little window, in a tiny office, that is surrounded by everyone else screaming and shouting for the same document.
We had geared ourselves up for this visit knowing that it would cause tempers to rise and nostrils to flare. We had read all the scare stories and asked every ones advice (all of which was either out of date information, had no bearing on reality or was just plain lies). We knew this would be hard work but we were prepared.

The first two trips to the Questura were abject failures as the office was closed, even though the opening times were visible on the outside and we had the correct day and time. When a police officer was found and was asked ‘why it was closed’ the answer was a simple, ‘it just is’. We spoke to the Commune in Barga in the hope they would help as we could not apply for our ‘Resident Status’ until we had the ‘Permesso’. They stated that the office in Lucca could not close; it was impossible and so rang on our behalf. They found out that the office was closed but would reopen next week. We were to go on Monday and try again.

Our third attempt was more successful but the most gruelling and demoralising visit. The office was open and we made it inside. People had formed an orderly rugby scrum in the small office and laid siege to the five unmanned windows. As there were no signs to tell you where to queue, we decided to split up and attack separate windows to see who could gain the most information. I chose window five and using an old flanking technique I had seen on a war documentary I applied elbows and knees until after an hour I had managed to work my way to the front of the rabble. Once at the window the officer on duty did his best to ignore me for a further half an hour until he decided I had blocked his view of the desperate hordes for too long and bellowed at me in Italian before lapsing into a sulky silence. Twenty minutes later when I had managed to translate what he had said I left the window. It seemed I had been at the window for reservations only.

Helen had managed to work her way into the middle of the pack that were crushed around window three. I threw myself into the fray, dodged a low kick to the groin, rolled between the legs of a desperate old couple and leap frogged a Japanese student before I made it to Helen’s side. Two hours later we managed to stagger the last three feet and made it to the window. We were then ignored as this police officer took several personal mobile calls and chatted with a friend. Eventually after banging on the bullet proof glass, jumping up and down and gesticulating wildly she noticed that someone was in front of her; she told us to go away and try window five.

We started to advance on window five feeling demoralised and frustrated. Around us people pleaded, screamed, attempted to bribe or offered their children as human sacrifices, anything to get the required bit of paper work. An officer stuck her head around a door and looked at us.
“Are you English?”
We nodded dumbly, in case it was a feverish trick to get us to queue at window four instead.
“You need to come back tomorrow”.
“When and at what time?” We screamed as the desperate men and women spotted their prey out from behind the glass wall and launched an attack. She answered before disappearing under the advancing army.

The final visit was quick and painless. We arrived early and joined the scrum by the main doors which were unlocked late at 9.15am. We rushed to window five and made it to the front. We were surrounded by UK nationals who formed an orderly queue and started up a little light banter to past the time. Half an hour later our documents had been examined and we held in our hands a copy of our Permesso (the actual document will not be complete for a further three months). It is a pathetic, badly photocopied A4 sheet that contains details you can get from our passports and a couple of official stamps, but right now it is my prized possession.

Our summer in Barga has now come to an end. Autumn is nearly upon us and the larder is bare, therefore it is time to move to warmer climes and start work.

I will miss this town perched on the side of a mountain, the local people who smile at my poor Italian and reply in flawless Scottish, the music and the art, the views across the hills carpeted in thick set chestnut trees and the sound of the Duomo striking the hour; but the good thing about leaving is that you can always return.

Next Month: Savona calling…

Adam J. Shardlow is a writer now living in Barga