Saturday

A bright, sunny morning, and surprisingly quiet given the new occupancy level. Maybe the majority were up and away out before I woke. I was taking it easy after the long day on Friday to Rome, airport and back, but a big green poster had appeared on the window of the farmhouse "Reception". It was all in Italian, but easy enough to work out.

It was all about "Piantamaggio", plants and the month of May. On the Friday, there were events at several villages, and on Saturday at four-thirty a special one in Preci, Canta il Maggio, Maysinging. For the first time, I walked down the hill to the Borgo and then up into the high village, arriving shortly after start time. Naturally enough, it being Italy, nothing happened for about forty minutes, but there was a stage with PA system outside the Carabinieri headquarters and canned music playing.

Then the first singer came on. You hear about opera singers being able to break glass, but this one could have blown the windows out if she'd been indoors. No need for amplification. Not that it was unpleasant: just a powerful, primitive folk singing. A number of bands followed, mostly accordians and the odd guitar, with various percussion. One group in kind of "morris dancing" costumes, had a lead player who played laurel (I think) leaves in a piercing, kazoo fashion. Quite in tune though. At the end the compere asked him if they were special leaves and he replied that he'd just gone out and picked them off the tree before coming out.

It was a nice afternoon. A good crowd, but not too many, very few tourists among them, and good weather for it. The little piazza is almost like a terrace on the steep side of the hill, and the stage was backdropped by high mountains, including the one I had to climb to get back home. After a couple of hours and, I think eleven out of fourteen acts, it all began to sound the same, and I hit the road to climb down, down, down and up, up, up. It nearly killed me.

I arrived back at the apartment a little before seven. The green poster, and an identical leaflet I'd picked up at the concert, gave the next event as "a tasting of local produce", along with spontaneous music. When each band had performed, they had been presented with a "symbolic" salami and bottle of wine to represent local produce, so that seemed promising. It was scheduled for seven-thirty, but I wasn't going to walk back again. I decided to drive.

I know I could have stayed on until seven-thirty, (i.e. eight or eight-thirty, Italian time) but that would probably have meant coming home in the dark, and I had no torch and no warm coat. I drove down to arrive at about seven forty-five to find people already tucking in to local produce, which, sure enough, was salami, wine, bread and cheese. And large green bean pods. I had some wine and one of the last remaining salami sandwiches, and then another, and then had to try the beans. They were quite mild-tasting, unlike some beans I've had.

Spontaneous music was indeed going on, with jamming by the band members, and even the compere turned out to be a dab hand on the squeezebox. (Well, two hands.) I didn't quite catch what he said when he introduced a saltarella. I think he said it cures pig flu. Spontaneous dancing then ensued, led by the girl who had started procedings earlier in the day with her powerful singing voice. I didn't recognise her at first, since she'd been home and got changed and ditched the glasses and put her hair up a bit. Previously, she'd looked like a schoolteacher, which is a definite possibility, given the interest in folk music and the wild abandon after hours. She got up and sang on a couple of songs, to general acclaim.

I had to limit myself to two plastic cups of red wine, because of the driving; and the food was all gone. There was still a hard core crowd and still music being played, but I came home. Since I hadn't had a proper meal all day, I had some more bread and cheese. And wine.

Sunday

Sunday is a day of rest. Well, it was for me. For the weekenders, it was a day of travel. There were pictures of the traffic jams on the news. Sergio called to drop off a book (in English) he'd promised to lend me: Itineraries of Holiness, a joint publication by the Umbria bishops' conference and the regional tourist board. I know the title sounds disturbingly religious, but it's really just a tourist guide to the religious sites and sights in Umbria. Umbria has a large number of saints: they say it's due to the mystical nature of the place.

I have no religious beliefs, but I still like old architecture. Churches or castles; it's all the same to me. In fact, there's a major monastery very near here that at this point was still on my "to do" list, Sant'Eutizio. See later.

In my day of rest, I didn't do much or venture far, making this a very short diary entry. I watched a bit of Italian 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" and answered correctly up to €7000 but got the €10000 wrong. I made a tuna salad for lunch and a pasta and porcini for dinner. Actually, the latter was a miserable failure, my first since arriving. Most of it had to go in the bin; a pity given the cost of the mushrooms. Sometimes, it's lonely living alone, but sometimes I'm thankful that I'm not cooking for someone else.

Monday

As I expected, the last neighbours had left before I got up. Not that I was particularly slothful: I was on the road by ten thirty. I was going to visit Trevi, which is between Spoleto and Foligno, and then the nearby Fonti del Clitunno.

When I'd holidayed in Umbria in 2006, in that same general area, I'd thought that the imposing town on the hilltop must be Campello di Clitunno, since it seemed to be roughly above where the springs are. But I'd never got round to visiting. Two weeks just isn't enough. Anyway, I was wrong. Trevi is the hilltop town, while Campello is much smaller and spreads over a lower, less precipitous prominence.

Like a larger version of my own village, Preci, Trevi sticks out of the hill with no obvious means of access, and like Preci, the road sweeps up a series of curves behind the town and comes out on top at the back side. Trevi is known as the olive oil capital of Umbria, with a DOP to signify quality, like the DOCG on wines.

I came up the hill and out onto their large, flat Piazza Garibaldi, which seems to be a modern invention, with lots of car and bus parking, and construction work still going on. From there, the old town was all downhill, which is an excellent idea, and made it easy to explore. But, to be honest, it didn't take too long before I'd seen it all. Their museum doesn't open on Mondays, but I'm not that interested in museums anyway. I prefer real life to dead life.

But I like Trevi. I'd like to live there, it's a beautiful, untouched medieval town. And the views from the roadside walls down into the valley are breathtaking. You can see everything, including the sprawl of the modern part of Foligno to the North.

I bought a slice of foccacia and a tin of Fanta and had a picnic lunch on a bench at Piazza Garibaldi. The mountains tower above it all. After lunch, I took the zig-zag road down to Borgo Trevi on the plain. I'd happened to notice a second-hand musical instrument shop in the yellow pages. I had the address, but no map of the village, and I couldn't find it. I drove around a bit, then parked and walked around a bit, but no luck. Or maybe that was luck, because I might have recklessly bought something.

I got back in the car and drove to the Clitunno. First, I parked by the little "tempio", the early Christian church made out of salvaged Roman masonry. It used to be thought that the church was very early, perhaps Fourth Century, but the idea now is that it dates to the Longobard period about three hundred years later. It's interesting, but I had been there before, and probably wouldn't have gone back except that I couldn't remember where the springs are, and thought they were probably adjacent. They aren't. They're a kilometre further down the road.

When I saw the correct place it all came back to me. There's an extensive restaurant and bar, and a small shop where you buy a modestly-priced ticket to the park. It's not big, but I like it a lot. The water pours right out of the hillside at several spots, and forms a winding, shallow lake; clear, with the deeper parts a greeny-blue. Lots of ducks and a couple of swans.

The place is probably duck heaven, with water and shade, and even tourists with food. I saw some mother ducks with flotillas of ducklets. The biggest fleet was six. A little girl brought a bag of food, but didn't really like it when the swans came close. Big fellows. When I'd had enough of pond life, and believe me, it took a while, I went out and went to buy a beer in the bar.

The bar was having its coffee machine serviced, or repaired. A big, three-outlet machine, all chrome. For easily half an hour, I watched two expert (presumably) engineers work on the thing and try running test espressos. I noticed that the place is an Illy house. (The coffee company with a conscience. I buy Illy.) Every establishment, no matter how small or unpretentious, has one those big espresso machines. It must be strange for Italians abroad to walk into a bar and not find one. Ask for a coffee in a bar in Belfast and you'll get instant, or cafitière at best.

In the shop next to the park, I bought a half litre of the DOP olive oil. Twelve euros. That may sound extravagant, but last week, when I'd had dinner in my local, Il Castoro, I'd had Trevi olive oil on my bread, and it was far and away the nicest olive oil I've ever had. This one wasn't from the same producer, but I hoped it would be good too.

Since I was a very short distance from my brief home from 2006, I decided to go and have a look. I parked outside the walls, next to a police car, and entered by the adjacent gate. When I'd been there before, that wall had been under restoration and the gateway wasn't accessible, but it all looks chic now. I almost bumped into the driver of the police car as I entered the gate, and boy, was she hot. Tall, slim and with glasses. Dark hair. And the uniform. It's the uniform that gets me every time. Show me a woman in a peaked cap and I lose all sense of reason.

Anyway, Castel San Giovanni looked familiar enough. My holiday apartment now seemed to be a permanent family home. Or at least, there was a full load of washing on the drying rack outside. And voices inside. Given that it was one reception plus one bedroom; quite compact for any size of family. I like the area. It's all flat and agricultural, but with the mounatins lining the horizon on either side. A much better prospect for living long-term than mountainous Preci. Yes, if there was a house for sale, I'd buy it.

When I got back to the farmhouse, nobody was there. It felt good to have the whole place to myself again. Call me a grumpy loner. I don't care.

Tuesday

This was nominally an at-home day, but I needed to stock up on the shopping. Faccio la spesa. My regular location has been the Co-op in Norcia and I whimsically decided to go the long way. The short way goes over a high pass, and then winds down the mountain side into Norcia. It's quite scenic, but seems longer than the 20km on the clock. The long way is to the junction outside Cerreto de Spoleto and then across the valley on spindly concrete legs and through the mountain to the valley that Norcia lies in. It is almost fifty percent longer, but would be the way to go if you had a large vehicle, or were afraid of heights.

Part way through the journey, it started to rain, and by the time I reached Norcia, it was pouring so hard that I didn't even want to get out of the car to run to the Co-op doorway. When I did, I found that the afternoon opening hours are from four-thirty until eight, and it was only three o'clock. I dashed back to the car and drove to the other supermarket I'd seen, on the industrial edge of town. It was closed too, opening at four.

I drove back to the centre and waited for the rain to stop. When it did, I took a wander around the old town, including a little residential bit I hadn't been in before. All the ancient houses have sloping first-floor walls and look very serious and solid. At about four, I returned to the early bird supermarket, but didn't get enough to satisfy me, so had to go on to the Co-op. There was some kind of young monk doing his shopping. Blue hooded tunic, sandals, pathetic wispy beard. Must be a supermarket-friendly order.

The rain petered out by the time I got home and it was quite a pleasant evening. When I finished dinner, I turned on the television and 'Colorado' was on. I can't help watching the programme, even though I don't understand very much, and I think if I did, I'd realise that it's dreadful. Basically a variety show with a series of regular characters doing stand-up or sketches, to the standard of the average amateur show, or worse. Big studio audience pretending to enjoy it. Beautiful hostess in absurd heels (and I mean absurd for Italian television where 12cm is obligatory). Dancers in skimpy costumes.

Look, the latter means nothing to me. No honestly. I'm just bemused by the whole thing. Anyway, there was a chat show on last night with the dancers from a show twenty years ago, in which they climaxed the main routine by taking their tops off. The absence of topless variety shows must be a sign of progress, I suppose. Incidentally, all five girls who came back to talk about the programme looked better today than in their topless days, while the male presenter had embarrassingly gone to seed. That may be justice.

The other programme that I can't help watching is 'Squadra Antimafia -- Palermo Oggi' which in its own way is equally ridiculous. A small police unit (six or seven people, I think, including the girl who cuts her own fringe) against the Sicilian underworld. Forensics, stake-outs, undercover, armed response: they do it all themselves. On the real news, they show real anti-mafia operations with hundreds of officers in body armour and helmets.

The programmes conflict on a Tuesday evening, so I can only catch part of each. No matter.

Wednesday

It was dry and warm, although intermittently overcast. The pergola where I'd often sat on my first arrival had since acquired many hanging blossoms and a strong perfume. I didn't know what the flowers were. Pale purple, many flowers to a head, not unlike lupins. Dangling lupins. Look, I'm not a botanist and I didn't even have access to the Internet to look them up. (Wisteria, I was told later.)

Big black bees were taking full advantage of the flowers, making the pergola fairly unwelcoming for humans. Not that the BBBs are dangerous, but they fill the air and buzz very loudly and blunder off your face. From somewhere my brain produced the name "carpenter bees", and when I checked on Wikipedia, that seemed to be the correct identification. I know I said I had no Intenet, but my phone can be made to browse, although entering web addresses is a painfully awkward process.

Incidentally, Italian doesn't suffer the cumbersome "dubble-yah dubble-yah dubble-yah" that English does when you have to read out an address. In Italian, it's a snappier "vo-vo-vo" and usually ends "punto eet".

I have my doubts that my Italian is improving much. I seem to be at the stage where I just know enough to be overwhelmed by the amount that I don't know. I didn't bring my big Italian-English dictionary with me because it would have exceeded my baggage allowance on its own, but I bought a little pocket-sized one when I was at the airport last week, and it's proving very useful.

I also have a small grammar book, which is good, although if I read it too long I start to read blank verse stories into the exercises.

I took them I tell you.

As well as the BBBs and sundry other buzzing things, and the odd colourful butterfly, there are, of course, the lizards. I've seen one near the house with no tail at all, and I harbour a hope that he's the one I had my accident with, and he's survived and thrived. Having less than the usual length of tail seems no handicap to them at all, and I think they're able to regrow as well. Although I've seen none with a tail that looks new or partially-restored.

As far as I can tell, they're all the same species, but their colouring and pattern varies a lot. When I was up at Clitunno the other day, the local fashion seemed to be a vivid green and black leopard print that was very stylish. I wonder sometimes why I think these reptiles are "cute" while I'd look on a mammal that size with suspicion.

I had a very idle day. Warmth and sunshine just brings out the lizard behaviour in me: I bask. My visitor had left an English airport novel behind, unread, because it's so dreadful. Susanna Gregory, you're a hopeless hack. Although for some reason you get your books published.

The wine I had with dinner is local and certified organic, and Colli Altotiberini DOC. It's called Polidori, which was the name of Lord Byron's companion and personal physician at the time the travelling party was housebound by weather and took to writing horror stories. Mary Shelly's Frankenstein became a classic and Polidori's The Vampyre became a footnote. Such is life.

Thursday

Up at the crack of ten and on the road before eleven to Assisi. This was the start of three days of mock medieval festivities called Calendimaggio. I had a schedule and knew that nothing was due to happen until the afternoon, but I thought I'd get there early, have a sandwich or something and see what was going on before it all started.

It was a blazing hot day. Not a cloud in the sky. At first, it was cool in the shade, but later the shade temperature must have been in the high twenties. Even at noon, there were already people in costume on the streets, or more comically, partly in costume, such as girls in medieval hair and twenty-first century clothes, or the guy on a scooter in complete medieval tabard and tights. And a full-face crash helmet. Also adding to the surreal was Jesus, with red heart, striking a pose in a blind archway. (You know those figures who make a living from tourists by posing as statues, mummies, and so on? Well, this was Jesus.)

I have been unable to discover what the situation is with birthday cards in Italy. Do they exist? And if so, where do you buy them? Not in a cartoleria, nor in a libreria, and not even with articolo de regalo (gifts). My sister's birthday was coming up, so I had to compromise by buying a nice tourist print card that came with an envelope, and writing 'Happy Birthday' on it. I didn't have a pen with me, so faced the dilemma of buying a horrible touristy bit of plastic tat for two euros, or using sleight of hand to steal an ordinary disposable biro from the cash desk in the shop. Guess which I did.

You buy stamps in a tobacconist's. I knew that. (Because tobacco has always been a government monopoly and the licenced shops took on stamps when they were invented. Actually, some older shops still have the sign that says they're licenced to sell salt and tobacco. You see tobacco is a dangerous substance that may kill you, while salt... Well, anyway.)

The first tobacconist with official sign looked in horror at my envelope and said, no, they couldn't cope with that. I'd have to go to the Post Office. Unfortunately, that was near to the place where I'd started before hiking uphill for ten minutes to get there. But OK, back to the Poste. What the tobacconist hadn't told me was that it was one-forty when he sent me away, and the post office closes at one-thirty. For good. No afternoon opening. Also, the last post collection is midday. Not a totally successful experience.

By the time I returned to the Piazza del Comune, the focus of all the action and the centre of the town, organisation had begun. I should have put a capital 'O' on that. Big time Organisation. One side of the square was filled with temporary terraced seating, and there was a stage outside Minerva's temple. A band were soundchecking. A medieval band, of course. Not guitar, bass and drums, but harp, hurdy-gurdy and lute. They weren't in costume yet. In fact, several members seemed to be moonlighting from the on-duty emergency services, since they were in the high-vis orange overalls.

The guys in black 'Sicurezza' waistcoats swung into action, and cleared everyone from the square. That was when I began to realise that there was a problem. Everyone was being moved beyond the barriers, and from those positions, you wouldn't be able to see anything. That's my major complaint about Calendimaggio: no provision for visitors. You got onto the terraces if you had a ticket, but there was no information about whether you could get a ticket or where. There was nowhere for tourists or non-locals to stand and see the events. Moving the barriers in a bit from the end of the square would have been enough. If you were in costume, you could congregate around the fountain. I wish I'd thought of it.

The one public location with some visibility was a fenced-off section in front of two bars. I had to make a wide looping detour around many winding streets and alleys to sneak in there, but I made it. There was even the option of some shade from the blistering sun. And an ice-cream.

The start of the festivities was flag-juggling. I've seen it in several Italian affairs, and it can be impressive; obviously, the teams work hard to perfect their routines, and it's all colour and spectacle. Although an hour and a half of it is perhaps -- just a little -- too much. I was genuinely considering whether to give up and hit the road when they finished at last. Then the two Partes began their parade into the piazza.

The "upper" half of town is the Nobilissima Parte de Sopra, and they came first, from their own ceremony in the cathedral of San Rufino. And afterward, in the "lower" corner, we had the Magnifica Parte de Sotto, fresh from San Francesco's basilica. Last week, at the previews, I'd been more impressed by Sotto, but this time, Sopra had more and different parts to their parade. I think I'd still look better in Sotto's red shirt though. It's all about the Guelfs and Ghibellines: one lot supported the Pope and one the Holy Roman Emperor, but I'm not sure who's who. I'd have been for citizen independence anyway.

I got a good view by placing myself behind three very short nuns. (Real ones, not re-enactors.) Easy to sight my camera over their heads. Although, it was a very hot afternoon, and eventually the nuns decided they'd go inside, probably for a lemonade or ice-cream. It sounds like a joke: three nuns walk into a bar. To my surprise, Jesus came out almost immediately. There is definitely a joke there. I'm working on it.

One of the old, distinguished and overweight costumed characters from Sopra was going back up the hill after the end of their parade and collapsed, probably from the heat and his ornate heavy clothing. A crowd rushed him into shade. I looked around and Jesus was watching, but he didn't go and offer any cure.

General dispersal started once both parades had completed. It was after six by this time, and although there was more programmed for the evening, I was tired and wanted to go home. So I did.

Friday

There was more festivity at Assisi, but one day was enough. Home day. Since I'd failed to post my birthday card, I did have to attempt that task again, even though it would almost certainly be late now. Blame Poste Italiane.

I looked in Yellow Pages (Pagine Gialli) to find my nearest post office and was surprised that there was one in Preci. I'd never noticed one, and it's not a big place. The address was given, unhelpfully as "loc. Preci Alta". Somewhere in the upper village then. I drove down and parked at the middle level and went in past the bar and shop, obviously the upper village commercial centre. No post office though. I climbed up higher, all the way to the hotel, but no PT signs.

There was nothing for it, I'd have to ask someone. At that moment, the guy who'd served me in the hotel restaurant (and whom I suspected of being the owner or manager) was just arriving, so I asked him and through pidgin Italian established that the post office was next to the town hall. Good. I remembered where the town hall was.

Sitting in a piazza, all on its lonesome is where it was. No sign of a post office or any other adjacent building. A group of people were standing gossipping just one level below, so I approached and asked them. Right-hand side of the town hall, within pointing distance. So I went up to the door, and there it was, actually in the Comune building, but with no identification outside. Still, the logo was on the glass door, and even more importantly, it obviously looked like a post office inside. The girl at the desk had to look up the postage to the UK (65c), suggesting that they don't get much international business in Preci.

It was quite a busy morning in the village. I must have seen at least ten people in total, which apart from the Spring festival, was probably a record. Although before eleven in the morning, it was a scorching hot day, particularly if you'd been searching vertical villages. I drove back to the farmhouse and spent the morning finishing the appalling Susanna Gregory in the shade.

In the early afternoon, I vaccuumed the floor, did a load of washing, and washed the car. I tell you this so that you know I'm not such a lazy bum. Then I returned to idling. Oh, I almost forgot. There was a scorpion in the laundry room. Quite a big fellow: total reach across his claws about two centimetres. I seem to remember that the ones you get in Europe are "false scorpions", but I don't know the technical difference.

In the mid-afternoon, a new couple of tenants arrived, and had the same experience that I did: they arrived at the right place at the right time and expected to be met. I put them right about the necessity of telephoning to confirm that they really, really wanted an apartment; and Sergio came up in his Range Rover in a few minutes. I had guessed that the people were Dutch -- well, OK, no Sherlock Holmes was needed when I heard them speak to each other -- but, in fact I was wrong. They said they're from Curaçao in the Carribean. That's clearly something to do with the Netherlands, but I'm not sure of the exact status. Anyway, they spoke good English. They seemed like an "outdoorsy" couple, probably intent on tramping the mountains.

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