A couple of pre-dinner drinks

Ah, the changing seasons of life. Once an aperitif was four pints of London Pride and two bags of KP Nuts.

The Upside of a Drought

 For the first time EVER the seriously dry weather this year has meant that I have been able to get the three vegetable plots ploughed before the winter kicks in. The soil here is very heavy so once the rain (when oh when?) comes it is pretty unworkable until the spring and it dries out.

Anyhoo, my mate Alessandro pitched up with his trusty Fiat and a single share plough and got stuck in. An hour saw the job finished. I shall dress the plots with some serious manure in the spring and then harrow and Robert will be my father's brother. I vow that there will not be a repeat of this year's tomato nightmare.

Some Culture. For a Change.

Up to the pleasing bi-lingual town of Trento to sing a Mass at the Duomo with the choir. It's a good place to visit because it has the best of Italy (food, wine, architecture) and the best of Germany (people don't park on the pavements). On the Sunday we all went to the town's impressive castle, the (literally) Good Advice Castle. There was an exhibition on the trading and cultural relationship between the Med and the Alps, which wasn't as mind-numbingly dull as one might expect. At the entrance there was this chap, sorry it's a bit blurred. Now, that's a tummy!

On show were some wonderful pieces like this beautiful terracotta bust from the third century BC.

 And this exquisitely fine gold crown, made for a Gallic princess's funeral in the 4th century BC. She had three in her tomb near Ancona apparently, but the other two were lost. There are myrtleberries, flowers and leaves, all worked together. 

 And then just to reassure you lot that I haven't taken complete leave of my senses, this is a wonderful white wine that Bruno and I discovered in a bar in a small town on the way back home. Custoza is a blend of local whites from near Verona, there's usually some Trebbiano and Garganega along with whatever else they have to hand. Lip-smackingly good. Doubt if you'd find it in Blighty. The joy of Italy!

All Bunched Up

 As I may have posted before (and can't be bothered to check), grape picking is not some bucolic, idyllic pastime. It is backbreaking, hot, uncomfortable and seemingly without end. There are wasps and mosquitoes, the constant threat of the picker on the other side of the row of vines clipping off one of your pinkies with his/her secateurs as you both go for the same stem, bunches of grapes that don't hang down temptingly but have grown around one of the many training wires. And the heat, oh the bloody heat and the sweat.

 Anyhoo, we stopped for a a couple of rolls at lunchtime, our motley crew, Albanians, Italians and one extremely red-faced Brit. I ate one roll with salami and another with Parma ham and drank about a litre of sparkling water.

Bruna had the right idea 'though, perched in the shade of the tractor cab.
As you might imagine your correspondent will be paid in kind, not in cash.

Up in Them Hills

 Up to the mountains towards Austria, in the Trentino region, for another wine-fuelled choir party. Above is the hotel where Bruno and I stayed. Interesting place, the weather vane features a beer tankard.

 I don't know if you can see but the clock in the hotel bar shows 9.15 (in the morning of course) and there are already some hearty local types who have downed a couple of glasses of red wine to get the day off on the right foot. I feel almost ashamed to say that I had a coffee. Honest.

 At the party itself this demijohn holds 54 litres of Teroldego, a very quaffable local red. Bruno and I gave it our best shot. The pottery pitchers were a nice touch.

In this rather dramatic picture, the lady is firing up a small cigar. Brava!

The Joy of Travel

Sensible, relaxed Italy where one can still have a pleasing glass of Merlot at a motorway service station. Or a beer. Or a Grappa.
Maybe that's why Italy has some really sensational, extravagant multi-vehicle accidents on its autostrade.

Hubris

I cannot remember a summer like this, in terms of the weather, which has been uniformly awful. But, remarkably, awful without a drop or rain. It's been dry with some serious gales which often saw the garden furniture sailing merrily over the fence. The tomato plants took a real hammering in a particularly bad rain-free tempest about six weeks ago and they've never really recovered. Once Italians used to compliment me on the size and abundance of my tomatoes. Now little groups of horribly-inbred wall-eyed locals stand just outside the gates, pointing at me and cackling with cruel humour at my discomfiture. I try and chase them away with comments like "Hey Benito, that's a nice tooth you've got" but they soon re-assemble and carry on with their gurning and grinning.