Mists of time …

I’m writing this on Remembrance Day, November 11th. It’s misty and a little melancholy outside. The mountains are veiled, the peaks snagged with clouds. It reminds me of a local saying:

“ Quando l’Alpe mette ‘l cappello, vende le capre e compra ‘l mantello.”

Time (when the mountain puts on its hat) for the shepherds and herdsmen to sell their goats and buy a cloak for the ten-day walk down to the coastal plain. I wrote about this in A Tuscan Memory but the shepherds used to leave at the end of September, not November. They are long gone, not only because the practice died down in the 1950s. There are not many shepherds left in our mountains. Too many wolves and youngsters are not enamoured with the harsh working conditions of the past.

It’s drawing close to our departure from Tuscany as well. This year has been a little strange for everyone – the epidemic still clinging on, and there’s been a temptation to console myself with, ‘Let’s hope it will be better next year.’

But a lot of joyful events have happened during our shorter stay here this summer. And it’s wrong to wish life away. I think all of us should live in the now. “Don’t count the days, make each day count.”

October with the children

 We had three of our grandchildren to stay and the sound of laughter and young voices echoed down the river. They were drawn to the water like magnets and all three managed to get completely wet within five minutes of nearing it: fishing and jumping from stone to stone. They enjoyed old fashioned games that dragged them away from the screen. We visited an ancient castle high on the hill and they found a fascination in the torture implements. Boys will be boys…

There was a Roman project for school to complete and we took Luca to Sestino, an important Roman stopover in the mountains nearby. House building is constantly held up in this tiny town because of Roman artefacts being unearthed. I will gift a copy of one of my books to the first person who can tell me the story behind the photograph below. What was this pot used for in Roman times? (Winner has to live in UK).

Guess the use of this Roman pot.

It was a joy too this autumn to meet up with a history professor from Urbino university. He knew my husband’s grandfather really well. What a shame that our relatives did not share much about their war experiences with us. It’s understandable when you dig deeper and discover what they went through.

Maurice at the foot of the torricini of Urbino, beloved birth-place of his mother

Maurice had inherited a box of old documents kept meticulously by his Nonno over the years and dating back to the 1930s. Professor Torrico has pored over them over the past weeks and this weekend we shall enjoy a lunch here with him and his family while he explains better. He was able to reveal more about Nonno’s courage during the war. A fervent socialist all his life, Nonno hated having to sign up to the Fascist party and neglected to do so for as long as possible. The Resistance persuaded him to stay on: he would be more use to them if he remained (ostensibly) within the party. Nonno’s story has inspired me to write another World War Two book. I hope I can do his story justice. Wish me luck.

Within the next few days we shall say goodbye to the autumn mountains as they start to shed their fiery leaves. It has been breath taking to walk in the forests. Another positive to be taken from the negative, as we are not usually here at this time of year.

The third photo shows a tree used by the partisans to occasionally shelter overnight

A presto! Speak soon – the next time, from Blighty.