writing, not drowning

'You may have the universe, if I may have Italy'

Who am I to disagree with Giuseppe Verdi? I am, in fact, in total agreement and have been for, oh, more than half a century. And every year, usually in spring, I long to be there. These days, however, I don't manage to visit as often as I would like so have to settle for spending some time with my nose in a book, or books, about Italy. This year, the Italy-yearning surfaced in late September and certain books in the waiting-to-be-read pile beckoned . . .

The first, a novel set mainly in Rome and which had garnered enthusiastic reviews, was somewhat disappointing, with characters whose dialogue I never found wholly convincing. I won't name it, not least because I do appreciate the effort that goes into writing a novel and then actually having it published, although you may be able to work out the title from the 'Read 2015' list on the right.  

So I moved swiftly on to Elena Ferrante, for whom I had been saving myself - and I was holding my breath. There had been so much publicity and speculation about the reclusive author and so much praise heaped upon her novels that I could hardly bear the thought of a second disappointment. My relief, as soon as I started to read My Brilliant Friend was palpable. I loved it and have ordered the second, third and fourth of the Neapolitan novels from my local library; Ferrante, I feel sure, will carry me through an English winter.

I did have one or two qualms about the occasional Americanism in Ann Goldstein's translation but, having read this interview with her on Lizzy's Literary Life blog, I now appreciate the challenges she faced in translating Ferrante.

My Brilliant Friend is a wonderful evocation of adolescence - and adolescent friendships - in post-war Naples. Some of its themes are particular to the time and the place; others are universal and I can understand, completely, how Ferrante's work has suddenly captured the imagination of so many readers beyond Italy. 

Although I try to avoid too much self-referential thinking when reading, the setting for some of the most significant moments in the narrative - the shoeshop owned by Lila's father - took me straight back to a particular time in my own post-war adolescence. It was 1961, I was 14, staying in Liguria in northern Italy, and made friends with a girl of my age called Marisa. Her family owned a shoeshop in a narrow street in the centre of the town and I had visited the shop with my mother to buy some sandals. Marisa served us and we embarked on a  fractured conversation, she in her limited English and I my limited Italian. But the spark of friendship was there and I was soon spending every spare moment that I could with Marisa, initially at the shop, and then with some of her friends and family, including Alfredo, who worked at a nearby hotel and, a cousin, Giacomo, who was a student at the University of Turin. We went to an open-air cinema and although I can't remember what film we saw - and my Italian certainly wasn't up to the task of following the dialogue - it was all very heady romantic stuff for a impressionable young teenager from the west London suburbs . . . and it left an indelible mark.

I had grown up listening to fragments of Italian; my father had been a prisoner of war in Italy during WWII. He and his sergeant had escaped after bribing a guard, then lived a hand-to-mouth existence in the mountains, moving from safe house to safe house, sheltered by partisans for four months - until they sought shelter in a house that turned out not to be safe. (They ended up in another prisoner-of-war camp, this time in Germany.) It's amazing how proficient one can become in a foreign language when it is a matter of life or death.  

So, I was already familiar with a cluster of familiar words and phrases, although 'we're exhausted'; 'is there somewhere we can sleep?'; 'we are very, very hungry'; 'can you spare something to eat?', and 'we have nothing' were not going to get me very far on the Italian Riviera in 1961 . . .*

I learned more with Marisa and, at 16, I had the opportunity to study Italian O-level and A-level at school. If it is possible to fall in love with a language, I did; I'd already enjoyed studying French and Spanish but Italian was something else. It became a passion. Something similar happened to my daughter a couple of decades later when she spent a summer as an au pair in Florence and took Italian language classes; she went on to read Italian at university.

I try not to let my Italian turn to rust and, despite Ann Goldstein's mention of the challenges of Ferrante's language and sentence construction, I'd like, some day, to attempt to read Elena Ferrante in the original. 

Reading about Lila and her family and the calzature made me wonder what had happened to Marisa; we stayed in touch for a while, via postcards but, by the time my Italian was up to letter-writing standard, we had lost contact. However. . . it seems that the family still has a shoeshop in the same town but it is larger, grander and in a more fashionable location. A very smart sign hangs above the entrance to the shop. 

+++++++++++

*Although I was aware of the bare bones of my father's escape from the prisoner of war camp, I knew few of the details, and I certainly did not appreciate how gruelling those four months hiding out in the mountains would have been. Not until, that is, I read Iris Origo's War in Val d'Orcia: An Italian War Diary 1943-1944 a few years ago. I realised that I had had no idea but, by then, it was too late to ask the questions . . .

 

What next?

Amazing how two weeks can disappear, just like that, and I'm wondering what I've been doing. Nothing remotely Christmassy; it's been a year of such major upheavals that I'm having a break from it all and - apologies to those of you who have been tearing around busily buying, cooking and decorating and generally wearing yourselves to a frazzle - I have to admit, I'm rather enjoying not being caught up in the whirlwind of seasonal bustle. Which has been going on since October, for heaven's sake. (I can't tell you what a relief it will be when the very last email bearing a high priority message about absolutely final Christmas ordering dates has arrived and been consigned to the Great Email Junkyard in the Sky.)

I'd say it was an age thing but the very best Christmas I ever had was exactly 20 years ago, when I travelled to Venice to join my student daughter for a week. There was demonstrably less emphasis on getting, spending and eating in Venice and I rather liked that. (Correction: I liked that very much indeed.)

We went to a Christmas Day mass at the Frari Chapel, where we looked up at Titian's Assumption and then visited the chapel's sacristy, so that I could indulge my love of Bellini and could gaze in wonder at this, the Madonna and Child with Saints Peter, Benedict, Nicholas and Mark. Painted in 1488, it is still in its original frame:

 

In the evening, we walked to the Zattere, to a small trattoria that was open for dinner, and had a meal that was about as far removed from what everyone would be tucking into at home as could be imagined. But fine for us because - and, again, apologies to all of you who are cooking for England over the next few days - neither of us eat turkey and we don't like sprouts or mince pies or Christmas pudding or Christmas cake . . . yes, the ultimate nightmare Christmas guests. 

* * *

I recently spent a day with my oldest friend and after a long walk with our dogs, we had lunch in a restaurant that looked out over an almost deserted bay and toasted 50 years of friendship. The labradors snored contentedly at our feet and, at that moment, I don't think either of us would have wanted to be anywhere else. We're a good deal quieter and calmer that we were all those years ago, when the only thing we wanted to do was to kick against the traces. I'm certain that neither of those rebellious 1960s teenagers could ever have imagined themselves as 60-somethings, who couldn't be doing with noise and fuss. When we were young, there was nothing that we liked better than a party, the louder and more riotous the better. In these, our reduced-hearing days, our greatest dread is being invited to the nightmare that is the seasonal drinks party or any drinks party, come to that, where you have to make polite conversation with people you barely know, about things in which you have little or no interest. (Although parties where you know and like every single guest are absolutely fine.)

All of which, probably makes us sound like a couple of miserable old bats, which we're not, honestly. Laughter still forms the major part of the glue that holds our friendship together. But one of the best things about getting older is that one doesn't feel the need to keep up any sort of front or pretence. About anything. And it is rather liberating.

We talked about Christmases past - the good, the bad and the indifferent - and how, these days, we think that less is definitely more and minimal is definitely good. Like me, she is doing Christmas-lite this year, out of the house and not cooking on the day itself. Her husband has already calculated that, with luck, they can be back home by 6 o'clock.

But back to the lost last fortnight; I can fill in some of the gaps. I have written and posted letters and cards; I've made a lot of soup and soda bread; I've read a good deal; I've put everything together for the last financial year and sent an enormous package to my long-suffering accountant; I've quite enjoyed being cut off while our hillside village has been ice-bound and accessible only to the bravest and strongest or just to the foolhardy (have just looked outside and the Kingdom of Ice is still there); I've put out industrial-sized quantities of food for the birds and local wildlife. And I've thought about the blog.

I've been going through one of those periodic bouts of 'why am I writing this?', 'who is it for?', 'what is it for?'. Come February, 60 going on 16 will be celebrating its fourth blog-birthday, so there has been some cyber-navel-gazing. I know that several of my favourite bloggers have been going through much the same process recently - because blogging isn't simply a matter of whipping up a daily or even a regular post. (The best writing is never forced and, after all, who wants to become stale and repetitive? Same old catch-phrases; same old jokes . . .)  It's also about being out and about in the blogosphere and going blog-visiting, which all takes time. For me, it means less time for other writing and there's the rub. It's a very big rub indeed and something has to give.  So, there might be shorter posts or fewer posts - or combination of same - next year; I'm still not sure. But apart from all this, 60 going on 16 needs a good overhaul, layout-wise. Something simpler, less chock-a-block, although I am ridiculously attached to my Bohemian Masala banner for purely sentimental reasons . . . it's going to be like decluttering the house all over again.

But between now and the New Year, I hope to write the odd post. Just in case anyone is at a loose end and has nothing better to do at the height of the festive season than turn on their computer. 

As if . . .

Walking back to Italy . . .

I take my dogs out twice a day but yesterday morning's walk came to an abrupt halt when one of the local farmers decided to release a herd of cows into the field we were crossing, without first checking. So it was a rapid exit stage left, pursued by . . .

But it was such a glorious spring day here in Devon that the Dear Daughter and I decided to take the Edinburgh Boy out for a proper, longer walk in the afternoon sun.  We headed off to Burridge Woods, above Dulverton and Exmoor National Park. The footpath rises high above the town:

These cows kept their distance:

It's a good time of year to walk, with far-reaching views, before the trees are in full leaf:

All very English and pastoral:

A recent landslide meant that we had to change our route back to the car.  We crossed the River Barle at Marsh Bridge, alongside which is one of the many old stone bridges that are scattered across Exmoor:

The Barle flows southwards from deep in the moor before it joins the River Exe a few miles below Dulverton:

Just as well that this shop was shut; their cakes are irresistible:

The (very narrow) road back into Dulverton skirts the river. It's lined with the smallest of cottages that have names like Poacher's Pocket. This one is Salmon Leap.

My daughter said that it reminded her of a walk we had taken several summers ago, above Lake Levico in the foothills of the Dolomites. 

We weren't such seasoned walkers then and were more or less on our knees after five hours up and down hill. We almost needed pulleys and tackles to hoist ourselves onto the bus that would take us back to the lakeside town where we were staying. But we agreed that we wouldn't have missed that walk for anything. 

It was our last holiday together before she married and we had a rather indulgent, girlie time staying here, 

having all sorts of blissful spa treatments, as well as travelling up into the high Dolomites 

and taking hundreds of photos.

It was a package deal and incredibly good value; the sort of hotel for which - had it been in England - we'd have needed a bank loan or a second mortgage if we'd wanted to stay there.

So, yesterday, walking in the woods above Dulverton, we also found ourselves reminiscing and missing Italy, the country we both love above almost any other. And thinking what a pleasure it would be to go back to Levico Terme once more. . .

(Message to self: must sell house ASAP.)

Let me outta here

I'm not very good at coping with constant rain. I'm not very good at coping with summers without sunshine. And here, in Devon, we are having the second summer running - and one of all too many similar summers since I moved here ten years ago - that is more constant deluge than deckchair weather. So, today, the Edinburgh Boy and I headed up the M5 (in torrential rain)and across the Severn Bridge to visit my brother, who lives in Wales, and to see if the weather was any better there. Not much sign of the sun but at least it was dry and just about clear enough to see across to the Brecon Beacons, and the Black Mountains beyond, from his fields.

The return journey was, if anything, even worse than this morning's - the sort of heavy rain that you have to peer through and everyone driving with their headlights on at 6.00pm. Not exactly weather, or a summer, to lift the spirits. And, even though the back of my house looks out onto a hillside vineyard (not mine, I hasten to add), to be honest, I'd rather be here:

This is Alassio on Italy's Ligurian coast. My brother, who's a good many years older than me (he won't thank me for saying how many), took me there for my first foreign holiday when I was eleven years old, fifty years ago. In fact, almost anywhere in Italy would do. I fell in love with the country, the language, and the food on that first visit and the music and the art on subsequent visits. I've remained in love ever since and I miss it. Rather too much.

"Open my heart and you will see

'Graved inside of it, 'Italy'."

Robert Browning

Off to la Serenissima with Commissario Brunetti

After dealing with yesterday's timewasters, the Few Sandwiches Short of a Picnic Club, I was desperate for a little escapism come the evening. And, thanks to my dear friend, the only other blonde in the village, I am currently escaping with a rather gorgeous Italian - or Venetian to be precise.

I've not read many crime writers, apart from Ruth Rendell and P D James, but my friend recently gave me two of Donna Leon's Commissario Brunetti books. I am hooked. Set in Venice, the central character is a thoughtful detective - Commissario Brunetti - who finds himself dealing with murder cases that lead him through complex labyrinths involving art, history, literature, ecology and much more. Brunetti's thoroughly modern marriage to university lecturer, Paola, provides a continuing and revealing counterpoint to the main plot of each book.

A couple of hours in the company of Commissario Brunetti was just what I needed. The only problem is that Venice is my favourite city in the whole world and I am feeling withdrawal symptoms even as I write this. It is far too long since I was last there.

So, on a dark, damp, gloomy Devon morning, I am cheering myself up with this picture of my favourite Venetian painting: a sacra conversazione by Giovanni Bellini in the Church of San Zaccaria. It is a depiction of the Virgin and Child accompanied by saints, in this case Peter, Catherine, Lucy and Jerome. I was introduced to this painting by an art history lecturer from Naples, whom I met when I was doing my Open University degree. He was so passionate about this work that, when I first visited Venice with my daughter a few years later, we were off to San Zaccaria almost as soon as we arrived. We immediately understood just what it was about this painting that the lecturer loved.

If you find yourself in Venice and have a few moments to spare, take the short walk from St Mark's Square to San Zaccaria, switch on the light beside the painting and prepare to be amazed. You will not be disappointed. And you might want to take Commissario Brunetti with you too.