Like
an opera there's a cast of thousands, most working behind
the scenes. Narrow streets flanked by three-storey terraced
houses coloured ochre and rust, aged white and bleached
blonde. Sit in a bar while people are tuning guitars, the
church
bell sounds from up on the hill, close your eyes and
you're almost back in the National Opera House in London,
waiting for the evening to begin.
There
are many reasons why I came here. Mainly, I'm supposed to
be writing a book - the classic excuse of the wistful journalist.
I'm also here to discover my father, who retired to Barga
in 2001 to 'relax'. There are numerous subsidiary reasons,
such as learning another language (my German is terrible,
my French no more than passable in an emergency), but none
of these cut any ice back in London. There everyone thinks
I'm either on an extended holiday (which I suppose is closer
to the truth than I'd like to admit) or have gone quietly
mad in my years as a computer hack (ditto).
I've been here nearly three weeks and in that time have
picked up the following:
- An undesirable nickname
- A worrying penchant for grappa
- A propensity for talking to lawnmowers
- A walking stick which apparently I must keep forever
- A mild ankle injury
- A tripod for my camera
- A fear of large insects
- A determination to learn Italian no matter how long
it takes
- That the word 'Boh' can mean almost anything and is
extremely useful
Several things are still unknown to me:
Precisely when one can or even should order a cappuccino
Vaguely when one should switch from buongiorno to buonasera
Why my flat has a shower but no shower curtain
What people really do between the hours of 1300 and 1600
Now, I'm guessing here but I reckon the last two are connected
in some way.
As
this is inevitably going to be a journey around my father
I ought to tell you that, though he came here to retire,
he has decided that he needs something to keep him occupied.
Most people at his 'mature' stage in life take up bridge
or making model houses from matchsticks but father, whom
we shall from now on call Babbo for reasons I will attempt
to explain shortly, has instead decided that a vineyard
is his calling. How he has survived the workload up until
now is frankly beyond me.
The word babbo is an informal, affectionate word meaning
'Dad'. It feels a very silly word to be saying in the street,
rather like calling for a small dog. But we'll use it from
now on, because it's fun.
Several
days a week I wander through the Parco Kennedy, under
the aqueduct which connects the walled town of Old Barga
to its later sister, Giardino,
down a frantically narrow road lined with houses and out
into the hills surrounding the town. This is the way to
Babbo's house.
There is much to be done, tending these vines. For the
first few weeks Babbo was happy to let me use the smaller
mower, and if I was very lucky I would be allowed to graduate
up to the larger, self-propelling model, given time. Strimming,
crop-spraying and other more complex tasks were mere dreams
and entirely the preserve of il padrone (the master of the
house).
There
is a good reason for this: mowing is far less likely to
result in Vine Damage, something that could well be punishable
by death. I have not yet been unlucky enough to find out
what would happen if I were to accidentally strim a vine.
No doubt it would be unpleasant.
Since then Babbo has relented, a situation not partially
caused by the failure of the smaller mower. I have also
used the strimmer, although not actually near his vines,
and have even been allowed to spray the crops using a back-mounted
gunk-thrower.
My experience on the blower was sadly brief, however - although
Babbo looked approving while I was using it he seemed strangely
desperate to regain control of his machine. I relinquished
command after only a few rows, after which he recovered
his normal measure of jollity.
Tying vines and clipping back leaves and stalks is something
that I may one day be granted permission to do, though I
feel it may require slipping something into Babbo's customary
lunchtime beer. "You learn the knife last."
One
thing so far stands out from the crowd of experiences: mushroom
hunting. On a Monday morning at six o'clock (an hour I didn't
know existed until then) myself, Babbo, his wife (la Padrona),
and two people I have met since my arrival met at a café
to embark on a hunt for Porcini mushrooms in the mountains.
This involved a drive out to the hills and a very long climb,
a climb suddenly made worth every step by a mountain stream
jetting from a piece of old pipe placed there in the distant
past. I have never tasted water so good. Clear as glass,
cold as ice, as welcome as sleep.
We
found the mushrooms, I gained a walking stick (thank you,
Mario)
and on the walk back to the cars we pulled cherries from
a tree and ate them. Bright red juice sprayed down my T-shirt,
but I kept packing them into my mouth like a child.
Once I knew I was coming here I knew I had to learn some
rudimentary Italian. But true to the edict that 'a man's
reach should always exceed his grasp', my grasp of lingua
d'italiano falls very short. I wish I could say this was
by design or laziness but sadly this not the case. I spent
the afternoon of Mushroom Day eating and speaking terrible
Italian. The lunchtime discussion ended up revolving around
Dante, something that's not easy in a foreign language.
That
evening we drove back to the hills, to Mario's mother's
house, to eat the mushrooms sitting high in the mountains,
looking out over the valleys as the sun set and the full
moon rose. Mario's wife Giulia
turned the mushrooms into manna, Babbo and Mario played
guitar, la Padrona laughed while the children rolled
on the grass, and the wine flowed.
Like I said, it's a bit like an opera.
And they're just tuning up.
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