And I would drive 1,000 miles

We’re already halfway through August, but before I crack on with all things this summer, I need to reverse up slightly. 

I’ve always loved a classic car, years ago I succumbed to my love and bought a British Racing Green, Triumph Spitfire. It was my baby… ten days later it was on the back of a rescue truck getting towed from Sainsbury’s carpark. I adored that car, but dear god it was an insane money pit, largely due to the cowboys I bought it off, but also let’s face it, I can do an oil change but that’s about it. After a year or so, I felt the eternal squeeze on my wallet, and sold her to a dealer.  But my respect for those lines and the beauty of an old car, remains. As a child my parents had an old Morris Minor, I don’t know how old it was, but it had a split windscreen, leather seats and those things that pop out the side when you indicate. I loved that car as well, and the fun we had driving through Kent. My brother and I would egg our father on (he needed little encouragement), to floor the accelerator so we could take off and bang our heads on the roof as we went over a hump backed bridge. Oh, those beautiful old cars… my favourite still being a 1955 Porsche Speedster. And frankly about the only good thing about Top Gun.  

A friend’s father that I used to work with, had a stunning and very valuable vintage Alfa Romeo. I had a go in it once, and I’ll never forget the smell, the lovely old leather goggles and hitting the pedal going down the Mentmore straight. A badge on the dash was my very first intro to all things Mille Miglia. 

That beautiful Alfa Romeo

The Mille Miglia (1000 miles) originally began in 1927 but was ‘reborn’ in 1977. In 1957 it stopped for those intervening years, due to a tragically fatal car accident with a Ferrari, that killed the driver and also several spectators. Known as the most beautiful car race in the world, it is now formed of a series of timed trials, and a gruelling figure-eight course on normal public roads connecting Brescia and Rome. A total of 1,000 miles.  The classic cars (not the modern groupings) have to have been registered during the original 1927-1957 era of the race,

It’s been on my ‘bucket list’ for a long time, but those chrome hub caps never quite lined up. This year they did. One of the time trial legs came through Santa Maria Degli Angeli (close to Assisi) and about the nearest point to home for me. I blocked the day out in my diary and did a ton of research into the final route and timings, as these are often only announced a day or two before, and I wanted to pick my spot. 

I won’t forget the deep throaty roar of a long line of Ferraris’ passing in front of the duomo, or the fun I had with the official photographer, who when he saw my Leica camera, let me into some of the cool spots to take photos, and one of the officials who also allowed me to lie on the road now and then to get the right angle, as the cars drove past. It was heaven let me tell you. Some photos below, enjoy… I mean just LOOK at them. 

Next year, all being well I will head to Siena as that city is breathtaking, and I’d love to see the race again from a different perspective.  I won’t regurgitate all the info, but if you’re interested, the main Mille Miglia page is here: https://1000miglia.it/en/

Lyrics by Paul Roberts, Sung by Sniff ‘n’ the Tears

Now then, the rest of summer, what can I say, other than what has been a constant strain on just about everyone in Europe and way beyond.  The extreme heat really started in mid-June and it has, apart from a slack handful of days, been absolutely relentless, I never realised it was possible to sweat so much. The summer of 2025 was bad enough but this year has been brutal, with day after day in the 40’s. Right now, the only good thing I can think of to come out of this summer’s batshit crazy heatwave is that my gas bill was tiny.

I’m now so deliriously tired from the continual heat here in Umbria, that I just lie awake half the night and pop into the bathroom for a cold shower every now and then. The heat has been biblical, last week alone it was nudging 50 in the roasting sunshine and typical temps on my veranda are well into the mid 40’s. The other day the gate buzzer went, I have a t-shirt by the front door so I can be decent when I go outside, but I clean forgot anything for my feet, a few steps into the sunlight and I was ouching and ‘shitting demons it’s like hotplates.’ as I hopped down the tiled stairs to get my parcel from a now laughing Amazon delivery lady. ‘Ciao Marie… pachettino… sei caldo?’  Ouch, ouch, ouch all the way back upstairs again. 

The ferries have stopped going to one of the islands on the lake, as the water is too shallow, and there is a dredger trying to keep the main route open. One of the fishing villages near me – their harbour is now completely dry. Livelihoods are struggling all over, here is no different.

Last week, we were hit by more wildfires – the fire spent nearly two days, ripping through olive groves and destroying two farmhouses just a few miles from me. The smoke in the air turned the sky a colour as if it was a scene from Bladerunner. All the while two planes and a helicopter worked back and forth until the light went, scooping water from the lake. It was barely light the next day when I could hear the dull thud of the blades overhead as they started work again. We’ve even had severe heat induced lightning which was pretty fierce, and a tornado. It’s like Armageddon has arrived. I keep checking the forecast, hoping soon it will be below 30, some much needed rain for the crops, and a little sleep. 

Ironically it was so cloudy the evening of the solar eclipse and despite having the requisite specs, I saw not a sausage. Although a few hours later when the sky had cleared and I was able to watch a few Perseid meteors from my little veranda. 

The forecast is sweltering for at least another week- 10 days, and then I hope it will start to cool down. If you ever had any doubt about climate change (which I don’t btw), this year must surely be the proof you were seeking. 

Updated playlist / Give this a listen

Follow me at: @write.upmystreet

Islands in the Jet Stream

Readers of my cancer blog will know I didn’t hold back on the horror of that particular time, now this story isn’t about that period of my life, in fact it was several years earlier when I was oblivious to that missile heading my way. But, I will nevertheless tell this story in all its somewhat gruesome detail, so if you are the queasy type then scroll on. 

I was heading to Annaheim for a food show, the irony of this will come later. Never a Disney fan, too much schmaltz for me, but heading for Disneyland country I was. Turns out alongside all the rides and Mickey Mouse the town makes its money from a big portion of an events, exhibitions and conference sideline. Who knew.

My flight was in the morning which meant the horrible early start heading for Heathrow, I’d not had time to eat much breakfast and grabbed a family sized bag of Peanut M&M’s on the way through the airport. I scoffed them down and boarded my flight. Less than an hour in I felt like I needed to do the largest burp, and this was without the gaseous intervention of a can of 7-Up. But I just started to feel worse and worse, and eventually I thought oh crikey I’m going to be sick, and as luck would have it (not) I’m in the middle of a row of four seats and had to climb over the snoozing woman (one foot on either arm rest, style… come on, we’ve all done it) next to me and sprint down the aisle to the bank of toilets, mid cabin. Well I thought that was that, glass of water and back to my seat… you know watch the film and eat something resembling cat sick (excuse the pun) out of a foil tray, but no… and still many more no’s. If I said this went on the entire remainder of the flight I would not be exaggerating. 

In between inflight turbulence and trying to blag my way at speed into the First class loos, I spent most of the flight in one toilet or lying on the floor outside another, and believe me sticky plane carpets don’t bear a close inspection, or being handed yet another sick bag by a flight attendant. Long distance porcelain phone calls and cuddling those god awful plane toilets for hours with only brief islands of calm before it all began again. It all got really grim as I had to be seated for the final approach to LA, it wasn’t a smooth descent either, but yes you’ve guessed it, I kept on yacking. The poor people in the row behind me were passing sick bags forward for me in quick succession. The lovely lady, I’d climbed over earlier was holding my hair (I had loads of it in those days) and mopping my forehead with those hand sanitiser wipes. At least part of me smelt vaguely of lemons.

We landed eventually, and I was told to stay in my seat while they got everyone off first. The poor sods sitting anywhere near me, almost ran off the plane. The flight deck had radioed ahead to get me some support. By this point I couldn’t stand, I was so ill and exhausted, they helped me off the plane with rubber gloves and face-masks. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw Dolly Parton waiting for me with a wheelchair on the ramp. I squinted through my sickie hair and sweat exhausted eyes, nope still Dolly Parton. 

DAVID CROTTY/PATRICK MCMULLAN VIA GETTY IMAGES

“We y’all hear you been sick on the plane darlin,’ she said.

I really was either unconscious or they’d slipped me a Mickey Finn on that 747. Dolly wheeled me at a fair lick through the airport, turns out hours of inflight barfing gets you through passport control at speed. We arrived in the luggage hall and I’m eyeing the carousel and it’s rotating just like my head feels, the smell of rubber is well, making me feel… yep one last throw on the arrivals floor (at least it was tiled). I looked sideways at Dolly and said “Are you… ?” And she said, “No darlin’ I’m just a Dolly impersonator and I work at the airport for extra dollars. But you sit tight now, … we can rely on each other,” and she grinned and winked at me. How did she know to choose a line from one of my all time favourite Dolly songs?

Well thank f**k for that I thought as we burned a hasty trail through customs, and she unceremoniously tipped me out onto the pavement by a bus stop, adjusted her ‘you know what’s’ and apologised for not staying with me but she didn’t want to be vomiting tomorrow when she had a show to do. I waved her off and looked for a taxi… the fresh air hitting me square in the face. 

I spent the next 48 hours in my hotel room barely moving and room service had been instructed to leave my food outside the room and just knock. I felt vile. Norovirus had left me like an old peanut shell husk. But the story doesn’t end there, and after the exhibition Rasta Prom closing night with Ziggy Marley, by which point I was much better, I weaved my way back to LAX and the flight home. I’m sitting at the gate and I spot the lovely lady who’d been so flipping kind to me on the way over. I asked how she was and she looked weakly at me and said she seemed to have picked up a sickness bug and was ill for most of the trip to California. I bought her a drink and apologised profusely. She was as kind to me as I’d remembered. I did make sure my seat wasn’t next to hers this time, didn’t want to risk a repeat performance. 

Moral of the story:

Don’t have peanut M&Ms before a long haul flight. To this day I can’t eat them. 

If you think you’ve seen Dolly Parton you probably have. 

Always take an extra sick bag.

The kindness of strangers never ceases to amaze me. Just make sure you give some back. 

Lyrics by: Maurice, Robin and Barry Gibb

Sung by: the one and only Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers.

(Alternative blog title: Chucking 9 to 5.) 

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

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

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

————————————-

Follow me: @write.upmystreet

Famous Last Words

As a creative copy writer, my thoughts always veer towards the opening line – the how you engage, hook, and interest your reader and audience. But recently and for the worst kind of reasons, I’ve started thinking about those last words, their impact, their outpouring of emotions or are they stifled and trapped inside, taken with us and leaving a space of doubt, hope and a helpless void for the one left behind. In whatever form that takes. 

How do we want to end what we say – be it that last sentence in a blog, book, press release, words to our family as we leave in the morning, or those actual very ‘last words.’

A friend of mine is struggling to breathe, cancer is consuming her, and she is giving it her everything to stay here and live. Keeping on talking to our little group of friends in our WhatsApp group. She’s written letters to leave behind and a book of instructions for her funeral. She’s prepared in all the ways she can, apart from the sadness of knowing it is hurtling towards her and what to say, what can you say? But say you must. 

Over the years I have become a firm believer in telling people that you love them, showing them that you care – they are in your thoughts. You don’t always get that other chance to say or show it, when that moment, that breath of tangible air sits between you and the other to speak your truth. And that is how my friend is living, what I hope will be more than her last days, but I’ve told her – in the middle of the night when I know she is awake, IV stuck in her vein; on a card, on a call – I’ve shared how I feel about her. 

When you are writing, recording, filling in those blanks in your email or whatever, think about what you are saying, and not just how it starts, but how it finishes. What will you leave in that space at the end, what do you want to say that counts. 

Then write it down and say it. 

For Jenn.

All our love and all our pain
Will be but a tune
The Sun and the Moon
The wind and the rain
Hand in hand we’ll do and die
Listening to the band that made us cry
We’ll have nothing to lose
We’ll have nothing to gain
Just to stay this real-life situation 
For one last refrain.

Songwriters: Nicky Holland / Roland Orzabal (from Famous Last Words)

Contact me at: writeupmystreet@btinternet.com 

Follow me and subscribe:

Instagram: @write.upmystreet

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑