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