Build me up, Buttercup

During my full apartment renovations and in between painting ceilings and walls, I fell into what I can only describe as the sequel of ‘Diplomacy’ that is hiring Italian builders and the myriad of ‘would you believe it’…. consequences.

Buying any kind of property here or anywhere else, usually means you find some hidden treats, that the previous owner kept out of sight and whoops failed to mention (and I’m whacking the sarcasm klaxon here). When I say treats, I mean bloody effing nightmares. Mine so far hasn’t quite reached the levels of incubus, but the bill has slowly been creeping up, along with some other unexpected joys.

Casting my mind back from the 43c heat of mid-June last summer, to January of this, and like a lot of the Northern hemisphere, it’s also freezing cold at night. I’m near the fourth largest lake in Italy, only a few buckets short of Lake Como, apparently; which does bring in fog and some icy gusts, although generally it can be a little milder than the surrounding mountains.

Umbrian Hill Town in a sea of fog

The builders started doing some of the outside work as it’s a quieter time of year for them and they could fit me in. They were repairing the underside of my entrance stairs. Water had got in around the guttering, and the mortar was spalling and cracking in places. There is also a lovely Heath Robinson special of old piping to take the runoff into a flower bed. Which is also. obviously leaking. Each day that the fog lingered it seemed that we uncovered extras and even though I had sensibly built a buffer into my budget, my eyebrow was already twitching.

Damn that leaky gutter

Then, I had been gradually meeting my neighbours, the men for some reason tend to show themselves a little later as they may be at work. The first one was my downstairs’ neighbours, worse half. He’s a miserable git and I occasionally hear him shouting at her through the floor (side note, I can also hear him taking a whizz due the acoustics of tiled flooring). But in complete male chauvinist style and … bearing in mind I’d at that point been here over 2 months, and he’s never so much as knocked on the door and said hello, but he deigned to tell the builder that my stair gutter had leaked onto his wall and caused some damp inside the house. He is correct, but he told the builder to fix it, without so much as mentioning any of this to me. The builder comes upstairs to discuss this with me; he looked sheepish and asked me what I wanted to do. I said, neighbour needs to speak to me not you, mumbled something which sounded remarkably like what a dick, and made him a coffee. Ten minutes later my buzzer went, dick… I mean neighbour was standing there looking shifty. I introduced myself and extended my hand. He looked ever increasingly awkward (busted more like) but I said I’d get his side fixed outside, inside was up to him. Really, he should have got this sorted ages ago with my predecessor, but we all know that’s not how this works. My apartment now, my problem.

Moving onto hiccup no.2, the previous owner liked to place enormous and very heavy terracotta planters on the steps, I’d moved them all except one massive one as they’re just in the way coming up and down. However, the biggie, had cracked some tiles and let some more water in. Guess where the water is coming in… yep, dick… I mean downstairs. Tiles all had to be replaced and later a waterproof membrane. The planters went for a one-way trip to the tip, both broken and hideous. I did however strike gold at the tip and found a whole pile of demijohns, they are now cleaned and resplendent on my veranda.

House is freedom

House is love

Under the stars, and the skies above

Lyrics and Song by: Cafe Du Midi

By that point, I’m freezing going in and out to see progress and take the lads coffees and donuts. It’s about 2 – 3 weeks until the new kitchen arrived and the builder merry-go-round started all over again. But get this, they would not take the old kitchen out, nor could they take it to the tip, I had to arrange for it to be collected. The tip office is only open first Tuesday of the month (sounds like a good gig, ha ha), so I was hoping that would get sorted in time, to avoid becoming another bureaucratic treat to unravel. Also, the kitchen peeps wouldn’t take the tiles off and fit the new tiling. The old kitchen when I arrived last November, was sporting some heavily patterned horrors with a toadstool relief, by that I mean it sticks out and looks even more annoying and ugly. The oven was broken, even the door didn’t close and required a stool to keep it shut. The builder was charged with getting rid of the mushroom tiles and the re-tile. I gave him my old fridge and the dishwasher as well, otherwise they would have just ended up at the tip.

I knew there was going to be some dust and noise when the tiles came off, but holy Christ on a sandal wearing bike, it was indeed biblical and bloody relentless. I’d taped up all the doors and yet still the dust creeped into the rest of the house. I thought the hammer drill was going to do something other than shake a few pictures askew on the walls. But then the fun started.

Let the games commence

When I chose and paid for the kitchen I went to a showroom that had been recommended, I was very recently in Italy, and my Italian was pretty threadbare. As it turned out when I went to the showroom, one of their staff had lived in Ireland for 10 years and his kids were born there. His English was excellent (this will become important later); we had a good laugh and the kitchen got specked and paid for. I asked him 4 times if this included everything – taps, power points, everything hooked up and working. Yes, absolutely he said each time. When they called to confirm dates, he even said they needed two days as day one is all the cabling, sockets etc. So imagine my surprise when 3 hours later the two kitchen fitters knocked on the internal door and said we’re finished. What then followed doesn’t entirely warrant repeating as it wasn’t the guy’s fault. But they did let slip this isn’t the first time its happened. However, I had a lovely set of units, but the oven, taps, lights and zero sockets were connected, the taps were sitting in a box on the counter. The kitchen company said oh no, we don’t do that…. Ah ha… but I literally stood my ground for over 3 weeks, while I flat out refused to sign their work order as ‘complete’ and to pay the second instalment. I don’t have what I paid for. Dear god they tried every coercive trick in the book to get me to buckle, including sending the boss around to gas light and be rude to me. But I fastidiously refused all their games and time wasting to wear me down. I had, by this point got the builders who took the tiles off, back in – between them and a crazy Romanian sparkie, who was absolutely amazing and I renamed him The Maestro, to fit in the sockets, taps etc and connect the gas and give me a working kitchen and re-tile. I refused to pay the kitchen company bill, unless they agreed to deduct the cost of the builders retro fit. Eventually and after a lot of calls and site visits, where they tripped up their own colleagues claims and promises, I got the bill reduced.

Ta da…

But all of this has been to get the apartment to a point where it is finished, where I can relax and enjoy the lovely space, lake views and my veranda. I finally finished in mid-April, when Team Romania came back and ripped out the old shower room and fitted a new one. At one point it looked like somewhere between an East End lav and an Egyptian tomb.

As, this was now their third job at my place, we were getting to know each other, and I knew who took sugar, who liked a slice of homemade cake and also that they were invariably late. They would play music from their own home country and one day one of them brought his accordion to play some tunes. I also subjected them to a lot of my dodgy playlist, I have a lasting memory of the three of them in the tiny shower room with me in the doorway teaching them to sing, ‘Gold’ (made even funnier as one of them was super tall and one a complete shorty like me).

Nothing left to make me feel small

Luck has left me standing so tall

Gold

Always believe in your soul

You’ve got the power to know

You’re indestructible

Lyrics by: Gary & Martin Kemp, sung by Spandau Ballet

Since then, I have stripped and painted the veranda and sealed those tiles, decorated the spare bedroom and cleared and replanted the garden and pruned my first olive tree. I have a family of geckos living alongside me and they’re not eating nearly enough mosquitoes.

Moral of the story:

For the good ones there is always homemade cake, fresh coffee and 80s pop classics.
Plaster dust gets everywhere. I shit you not.

Updated playlist / Give this a listen:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3Gvu1BmDkmjTljKnraEm1d?si=mkKZel3ZQb-WK79Doz4Yag&pi=pi=3.142

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June 21, 2026 2

Paging Doctor Beat

“Doctor, doctor I think I’ve got subjunctivitis.”

“Don’t you mean conjunctivitis?”

“Would that it were doctor, would that it were.”

Now then, joking aside Italian bureaucracy is not without its challenges, my experience so far has largely been wading through trying to get appointments, lack of opening hours (I’m coming back as a civic office worker in Italy…), endless forms, conflicting advice and some super helpful people but also some which caused me to eye roll as I walked away, so hard, my eyes nearly lolled down the stone steps.

Having secured my health card last summer – which only took three appointments and a rinsing to the tune of 2000 sheets (that’s Euros btw), I was really happy when they offered me an English speaking GP. Over here your GP or primary medic is your gateway (no, not that sort of drugs) to the rest of the health system, he or she dolls out your prescriptions, does the usual BP checks and so on, but also refers you if you need to see a specialist, have a blood test etc. He’s super nice and we always have a chat. So far so good, but there is always ‘a but’, otherwise where would the future eye rolling opportunities be? Once you get an email with a barcode on and confirming you need to make an appointment with a specialist, you then have to either go to a pharmacy and stand in line while they look on the national health website, also known as CUP, which to you is – Centro Unico di Prenotazione, or find your way solo, around the online portal.

Mistake number one, don’t do this in the pharmacy if you have anything remotely embarrassing like say a urine or poo test, as this is Italy and they are a nation of voluminous over sharers. (Almost shouting) ‘Is this for the full culture madam…?’ Far safer to spend ages trying to work it out the long way, and realise that you have to book the appointment yourself, and that’s assuming there are any available. Once you do this, you sometimes have a small co-pay to complete (more fun), then you are in and have your appointment. However don’t for goodness sake expect to be seen again at the same hospital or by the same consultant, as yes you’ve guessed it… you need to repeat all this again if you have to go back. Unless that is, you get a really nice doctor who will tap one out for you. When I went for my mammogram the radiographer was incredible, as I’d been struggling to get an appointment for a follow-up MRI, and she took my CUP slip and wrote an email for me, insisting they see me pronto. I’d not got to the cafe up the road for a coffee, before an offer of an appointment popped up on my phone. I stopped on the way back to my car to take her some flowers. Italy is ranked as one of the best healthcare providers in the world, and some days it is very clear exactly why.

The lovely hospital at Citta della Pieve.

Anway, back to the story… I’m in the hospital at this point, but hang on, don’t be thinking you can just go straight up to level 2, that’s if you can find it, as apparently whoever puts up signs in hospitals was on annual leave. Made that mistake with 5 minutes to spare and got sent back downstairs to their very own hospital CUP office to get my already booked and paid for appointment, printed out and stamped so I can go back upstairs again. They love as big a paper trail as you can carry around with you. Okay, back upstairs again… this one was the eye hospital, and can I say the consultant I saw was nothing short of remarkable; once you’ve played 4 rounds of Dungeons and Dragons getting there, the medical staff are amazing. I got lost on the way, due to the zero signs situation… even ended up on an ICU ward, the ICU nurse took pity on me and walked with me to the eye department. I then had the most thorough and well explained eye check and at the end they handed me a handwritten note of how and where and what I needed prescribing, which… yep, got to go back to my GP for, and told to come back in 3 months.

Italian Healthcard

After I sat in the café for 3 hours looking wasted, as my pupils were so dilated that I couldn’t see the floor, I made it back home. Now, you could be excused for thinking the story ends there, but non, non, non. When I went back, 3 months later and saw a completely different consultant, they asked me where the note was that the previous doctor had given me. I didn’t have it, and then I realised that all your appointments and results aren’t held on any kind of central system, it’s down to you to bring it each time and show it to whomever you see next. Aaaaaagh.

Doctor, my eyes, tell me what is wrong

I was unwise to leave them open for so long

Lyrics by: Jackson Browne

A while later I was back at the GP having my flu vaccination, he asked how I’d got on at the hospital and which consultant I’d seen…. ‘Was she the one who was a bit fat?’ he asked. I looked horrified and said, you can’t say that. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you mean she was the one with the moustache?’

A moustache, a moustache

If you’ve only got a moustache

Lyrics by: Amick Byram

And there we have it, the general lack of PC etiquette, and that also reminds me of when I had an echo ultrasound to check the whereabouts of a kidney stone. I got to the surgery – which was his private one this time, as he doesn’t do them on the NHS system. ‘Take your clothes off and lie down…’, then he sniggered and said, ‘oh that sounds a bit sexy.’ Lucky for me I have a sense of humour, but there is no nurse chaperone, so I was left thinking how different it is to the UK.

But the final treat was at the end, while he typed up a report for me and went over the results. It was €120 if I wanted a receipt or €70 if it was cash…. And this is totally normal and above board in Italy.

The next time I was back seeing the consultant, I of course had a different one and a totally different hospital (this time, I went to the CUP office first and had my notes from the first time ready in a folder).

There were two ladies in the consultation, one of them was clearly in wind down for Christmas mode, with lashings of tinsel (nurse). The doctor then proceeded to tell me that the issue was my back and did I have an Italian boyfriend? (Not sure if the two were meant to be related, oi oi), I said no and then they both started discussing their dating debacles and telling me I was a clever woman to be swerving the Italian male. The nurse apparently had been ghosted recently and was still stinging as she wanted the chance to dump him first. But before I knew it I was out the door with dating tips from the pre-Christmas medical tag-team, and holding a slip with ‘bad back’ written on it.

Back at my GP’s, who said they always try and avoid seeing anyone for actual clinical treatment. Who knew, Carry on Doctor!

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January 13, 2026 0

Alphabetti Spaghetti

If I ever say I’m moving again, someone throw me in the lake. This last stage of the move here has been borderline crippling with exhaustion; let’s just say that at my age, dismantling one apartment after 21 years while moving carloads in my Fiat 500 (= not a lot of boxes), so I could then clear it out in time for its sale at the end of November, has been an absolute uphill slog. Each day I had to carry boxes down flights of stairs, across the garden and down a rough gravel slope to the carpark and repeat until the car is full. Then a 45 min each way drive and a car unload at the other end. I worked my ass off trying to get a couple of rooms decorated before the lorry arrived from England with all my things from my old home in East Sussex. Then the almighty business end of all of this started… the big unpack. In between there have been IKEA deliveries, several days of flat pack assembly (hell on earth with an Allen key) and a lot of swearing and hammering.

People think I’m insane because
I am frowning all the time.

Lyrics by: Michael Butler / Ozzy Osbourne / Tony Iommi / William Ward

However, huge apologies to Rosa Anna downstairs for her induction into the more flowery end of British vocabulary. The bastard washing machine blew up (more swearing), knocking out the electrics, and the mains box is almost as far away as the carpark in the other place. More swearing and up and down stairs until I got it sorted. New washing machine eventually arrived.

Lorry Armageddon

I’ve been sorting out a new kitchen as the current one is terrible and even the oven door doesn’t shut, and if you know how much I love to cook this is not good. Christmas day saw me nearly give up as I was trying to cook a chicken with a stool wedged against the oven door to keep it shut but add to that the dial is broken so it involves the use of a wrench and a hope that I’m not grilling food rather than roasting.

In the meantime, back and forth to the showrooms, buying paint, ordering a sofa and couple of cupboards. Back and forth… my life is like a never-ending plate of spaghetti, while I am slowly looking more and more like an extra from the Addams family. I give eye bags a run for their money. I’ve lost weight as would you believe painting a ceiling uses more steps than a walk in the woods. I’ve got blisters on my hands and bruises from holding the ceiling extender steady.

When the tiredness becomes all consuming

I just now need to pace myself with the work and slowly settle into life by the lake. I also need to get my locks changed as one of my new neighbours keeps letting herself in for a chat. She’s an old lady, wears a thoroughly tacky tracksuit and whiffs of fags. She’s tiny, her name is Maria, and she needs little excuse to knock very quietly… whisper ‘permesso’ , literally means, ‘I have permission?’ And appear in my lounge, chatting away at me, usually about her old cat who pees down in the garages and under my entrance stairs, or she wanted to know when I am moving in, or when it’s my turn to pay for the lights on the path, what do I do for work. The list is endless, but there she is like a Swiss cuckoo clock, using my front door as a rotating entrance. I don’t mind. It’s actually very Italian and her curiosity for her new neighbour is funny. Another neighbour appeared last week, to tell me that the day before I’d left my garage light on, she seemed more interested in what I was doing to the place, no surprise there. She’s lovely and we chat over my veranda wall, as she is below my apartment. To be fair even the Amazon man has taken to letting himself through my security gate to leave parcels by my front door, and thinks it is hilarious to ask me random things in pidgin English.

So, life is moving forwards in my new pad, and I’m unravelling all my possessions and finding them new homes, it is indeed like a plate of spaghetti with added swear words. Ironically, Italians find the concept of tinned spaghetti an anathema and more so a total food code violation, it’s almost worse than a cappuccino after 10.30am. The pasta aisles here in the supermarkets are front to back in the stores, every size and shape, fresh or dried and bags of Farina 00 if you make your own. I do miss some of the variety in good UK supermarkets, but the food here is way fresher and tastier, you just get used to shopping a little less and a little more often.

**Alphabet*ti Spaghetti***

I’ve filed to change my residency in the new town and am now waiting for the rozzers to come round, unannounced (like everyone else …lol) to make sure I exist, and I am actually living here. Bureaucracy continues to be next level, I went to the comune to make my application, they’re closed on Wednesdays (who knew), so I went upstairs to sort out paying my refuse tax. I knocked on the door which was open, and she asked me to wait outside, meanwhile her colleague walks past and told me to go in, as an open door means you can enter. But this was a ruse, as the refuse lady was on the phone, and her mate in the corridor started to laugh and tell her off for not being instantly available. She then proceeded to give me the door open/ shut protocol, while tutting at the refuse lady and eye rolling. After the comune cabaret you then have to go to the tip, (obvs also closed), to get your card, so I could start to shift the EU cardboard mountain on my veranda. Meanwhile I still have to switch my health card to the new area, I’ll save that experience extravaganza to next month.

I’ve also discovered during this whole process, that no one can pronounce my last name. it starts with an H which isn’t really pronounced here; hotel for instance is said like ‘otel. My name also contains a Y which strictly isn’t in the Italian alphabet, more difficulty … but my Christian name is, to all intents and purposes, Italian. They breathe a sigh of relief while skirting around my surname.

With that, I need some carbs and am off to eat some pasta.

Fino alla prossima volta

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January 3, 2026 0

Augustus, Hot Augustus

The arrival of August in Italy sees the approach of one its biggest holidays, namely, the 15^th August, or Ferragosto. The term itself, Ferragosto, comes from the Latin term, Feriae Augusti or Augustus Holidays. Back in 18 BC, the then emperor Augustus, decided to create a public holiday, to not only glorify his name into history, by naming it after himself, but also to give the empire’s workers a well-deserved day off, after months of hard labour in the fields.

The First Roman Emperor, Augustus.

Back then, people would pass by their patrons houses to greet them, collecting a small tip for their troubles, before heading to one of the many horse races held across the Roman Empire – one of the most famous and indeed oldest, still survives today – the bi-annual palio in Siena. (James Bond fans will recall the palio featuring at the start of The Quantum of Solace.)

Siena’s Bi-annual Palio

While the empire’s horses didn’t enjoy the day off, its other beasts of burden did. Oxen, donkeys and mules were temporarily relieved from carrying all the heavy shit about, and decorated with flowers and garlands—usually a sign of their imminent sacrifice (this was the start of the Roman Empire, and we all know how things panned out for the Christians a bit later on), but on this occasion donkeys were a welcome addition.

Ferragosto however, was not traditionally held on August 15th but on August 1st (the first day of the month that Augustus himself introduced). It was the Catholic Church that pushed the event back in the calendar so that it coincided with the Assumption of Mary. Assumption Day is now a public holiday in many countries where they have strong roots in Catholic or Orthodox traditions. But while the Feast of the Assumption was introduced in the 5th century by Bishop Cyril of Alexandria, it was not until the 6th century that the tradition was adopted by the Eastern Church and recognised by the Western Church as a Holy Day of Obligation. I digress a little, but just to wrap that bit of history in an appropriate loin cloth.

Ferragosto during the Fascist Period

It doesn’t end there, Benito Mussolini’s Fascist regime popularised the tradition of travelling during Ferragosto, implementing the idea through corporate ‘associazioni dopolavoristiche’ (‘After-Work Associations’, which controlled the after-work activities of Italy’s workforce).

From 1925 onwards, Mussolini’s regime organised hundreds of trips to Italy’s major cities as well as its coastlines and mountains, facilitating travel for Italy’s working classes through heavily discounted train fares. Valid on the 13th, 14th and 15th of August, the offer consisted of two options: one-day travel within a radius of 100km or three-day travel within a radius of 200km.

The ‘Popular Trains’ of Ferragosto

In terms of kickstarting domestic Italian tourism, the initiative was a roaring success. Many Italian families were able to visit the artistic cities of Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples for the first time while landlocked families were able to visit the coast; and families living on the coast were able to venture into the mountains. It really was a great idea put into practice on a national scale.

Today in true Italian style, and remember this is a nation for whom a 3 hour lunch break is a ‘religion’ not to be tampered with, Ferie as it has now become known, extends for at least half if not all of August. Even the banks are on short hours, I kid you not and many businesses close altogether to give their staff a chance to head to the seaside with their friends and families. If you go to Rome on the 15^th August, you will find it as quiet as it can be, as most Romans are out of town, laying on their towels or sun loungers, basking in the cooler mountain air, having a stiff Aperol or chilled glass of wine.

As this is the first time I have been in Italy for the entire month, I’ve noticed that literally every town and village, no matter how small or large are having parties and festivals. These get advertised, if they are well organised, on Facebook, or even just with a poster papered to lampposts and town notice boards, right next to the funeral and birth notices. Every night the sound of Euro music beats out across the countryside, fireworks blast upwards into the night sky and endless piles of Italian street food are scoffed. Everything from prog rock, 80’s disco to Italian classics are go, vans serving porchetta and torta di testa, (an Umbrian flat bread, filled with pretty much anything) can be found in the hands of hungry locals.

But for me the atmosphere and the holiday/party vibes of unbelievable conviviality have stuck in my mind for ever, seared in with the heat that has been this summer; which has included fire breathing acrobatics, alongside old-fashioned fairs, parades and food as far as the eye can see. They embrace August, just like the first Roman emperor intended and they’ve rolled out the 15^th into the entire month, of their summer holiday season.

My nearest local hill town is small, around 500 inhabitants, they had a week long festa, with a parade of medieval costumes, music until 1am or later each night and some serious food carts. They embodied one of the reasons I wanted to move here to live, their passion for fun and celebrations, while respecting history and tradition. It rained heavily at the weekend, along with a stunning and loud storm, but nothing that would dampen the Italian holiday spirit. Tonight, I am off into town for skewers of fish kebabs, a cup of wine and a band playing into the night. Happy August wherever you are.

Spegni le luci della città

Cosi che il cielo s’illumina

Balliamo l’ultima volta, ma

Lyrics & Song by Cesare Cremonini

(Turn off the city lights, So that the sky lights up, Let’s dance the last time)

August 23, 2025 0

Vroom, Boom, Boom, Boom

Am drifting back to an earlier Clint inspired post here, but you know when you watch an old spaghetti western, when the desert heat is palpable in those hot, dusty and sweat drenched, exhausted faces; that lingering quiet in the highest temperature of midday, just as a dried husk of tumbleweed rolls and bounces past.

Well, in case you’d not been reading the news, Italy is in the midst of an unprecedented heatwave since early June. It’s normally not this hot until mid-July, but day after day it’s been hitting the 40s centigrade or very close. Your skin feels like the moisture is being desiccated by the second and on top of that the mosquitoes have been out in force. My back looks like a join the dots map of Italy and I’ve been eyeing the spare cheese grater as a means to reach those places in the middle of your back, you know the ones where only those with arms like an orang-utan could have a hope of reaching.

Mosquitoes, the world’s most pointless insect after wasps.

Once the sun sets and the air cools a few meagre degrees, windows are opened to let in any semblance of cool night air. I’ve got a fan running non-stop to keep my two cats at a comfortable temperature. Although after one of them took to sleeping in the bidet I bought her a pet cool mat. On the upside my laundry bill is minimal as unless you are going out, seriously who wants to wear anything more than the essentials in this heat.

In other news I’ve been sweating my way through appointments at the local municipality office as I went through applying for Italian residency, while on the other side of the security screen there is a whirring A/C, my face is dripping. I’m literally sweating like a nervous dog. But some good news, I am now officially a resident here, and one step closer to Italian health care and have been able to sack off hiring a car and buy one. Having finally stopped getting rinsed each month, I’ve splashed out and bought a little Fiat 500 in pale blue. I am pretty sure Avis are glad to see the back of me, as two weeks ago I was driving down the hair pin bends from my apartment to the main road below when an old man was coming the other way and didn’t see me swerving out the way or honking my horn like a loon, and smashed into the front of my car. My driver’s side door wouldn’t open, my leg was whacked against the steering column (nothing cut or broken so phew…) and I now have a smashing (‘scuse the pun) bruise and a bump on my shin. But thank the car hire gods for reminding me to take the extra insurance as all covered, as it was close to a write off. I had a few days of feeling the shock and felt a bit wobbly inside, but I spent the weekend making deserts for a friend’s barbecue and helping out with the catering at a pizza party, which helped to take my mind off it all.

Pear and Gorgonzola Pizza (which was divine)

I’ve also been house hunting and had found a lovely apartment made an offer which wasn’t accepted but was told the owner would only take full price. So, I upped it and then he decided he couldn’t be arsed to sell and took it off the market (silent inward screaming).

Back to the drawing board… and I found a little Cielo-Terra (means sky – earth) in a hill town. About 500 years old and restored, lovely … however, the ground floor rooms were so damp the plaster was coming off, the owner is an architect so he should know better but he not only hadn’t got permission for all the alterations he’d done to a very historic building, but he’d also neglected to get a certificate of habitability. We all know what happened next… back to the drawing board.

I’ve now found another apartment near the lake here in Umbria, and the other day got the magnificent news that my offer has been signed and accepted and should be moving in late September. It needs a good decorate and freshen up, but I will have all the time to do it up and make it home. I will be sitting on that veranda with the lake in the distance having a well-deserved Aperol.

Lake Trasimeno

It’s 3 months since, I arrived, and it’s been baking hot, tiring and at times bewildering; the cats are slowly accepting the new billet, (little do they know we’re moving again) and Jack as per the pic below, has taken to sleeping in the bidet when it gets super hot.

But my Italian is slowly improving thanks to weekly lessons, and I have not once regretted coming here and taking that enormous leap. So, you could say, car crashes aside, Italy so far has my heart.

Ricordo ancora il suono: “Click, boom, boom, boom”
Senti il mio cuore, fa così: “Boom, boom, boom”

Lyrics By Rose Villain

(I still remember the sound, Click, boom, boom, boom

Feel my heart, it goes like this, boom, boom, boom)

————————————-

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July 29, 2025 0