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CdP
4 January 2014
Four
magnificent angels hover in the
pendentives. That
is my very favourite
sentence in the
whole of the Time Out Venice guide. I didn’t
write it, I’m afraid (that honour goes
to
the oh-so-knowledgeable
academic-author Gregory Dowling) but I treasure
it,
and roll
it around my tongue quite frequently when
it comes
to mind.
It
has
come
to mind recently because I have agreed
to
update
the
guide again – why
oh
why?! I have so much garden work on my plate that I really
don’t have the time, never mind the inclination… yes,
the
thought of yielding my baby (I crafted the opus myself, years
ago,
in another life) up to anyone else would be dreadful,
but
this
is so much not what I want to be doing. So I have to cling
to things like sentences which resound… and
of
course
to the fact that I get to spend quite a lot of time in Venice:
once
in
November and
we’ll be back there again some time very
soon.
Wintry
Venice: I love it.
Wintry
CdP
is
decidedly grey and damp right now,
though
surprisingly un-cold. In fact, so far, this winter
has
really
been very fine – a fact that’s
easy
to forget on the occasions when we huddle round
the
stoves
and keep the lights
on
all day. It seems so long since summer that we are beginning
to
feel that winter should be drawing to a close.
But
really,
it
has hardly begun.
On
20
December – the day before we set off for a UK Christmas – I
was
out
planting
until
6pm.
The
blue
of
the
sky
was
superb,
and
as
long
as
the
sun
shone
it
was
heavenly
out
there
(less
so
the
moment
the
sun
set
when
the
damp
immediately
started
insinuating
itself
into
your
marrow).
There
were
many
days
like
that
(and
New
Year’s
day,
when
I raked
up
two
whole
oak
trees'
worth
of
leaves,
was even
better).
We took what could
only be
described
as serious
risks in
that garden
in Castiglione:
such as laying
turf
so late
in the year.
But the grass
arrived on
a big truck
from the UK, sent by a vendor who swore
that it would
be perfectly happy being laid
then.
That
kind
of
claim never fails to worry me:
Brits
tend to judge Italy by their summer hols,
imagining
anywhere
Italian
as balmy and awash with swimming pool
action.
When
I
send
photos of us in the snow to friends who visit
us
only
in
summer,
they scoff with disbelief, suspecting my
Photoshopping
talents rather than the meteorological
conditions.
Few
can accept that
we
can be far icier for far longer than anything tempered
by
the
Gulf
Stream.
But
my client, in his wild dash to get things
done,
was
more inclined to go for the grass-seller’s
tale
than I was. He accepted the risk: the planting
went
ahead.
Now I wonder what
the
next two months will hurl at us.
February
can
be
the cruellest month, as
we
learnt two
years ago.
I’m not sure that new-planted turf would
stand
three
weeks buried beneath a
metre
of snow. And I might have some sleepless hours
over
the
things that went into the formal garden beds too.
I’m slightly more confident about
the
bushes I had yanked out of the ground and replanted
in more fitting
places
near
Orvieto.
With the
exception
of an eleagnus or two, they’re
all
looking
rather happy, which is
a relief.
I shall keep my fingers crossed for the
slightly
less
cheerful
ones.
This
evening
there’s a southerly howling: a real scirocco,
making
the
air
oddly
balmy
and
the
stove
in
the
living
room
hopelessly
sluggish.
It’s
always
the
way.
I'm
up
and
down
contantly,
opening
and
closing
vents,
and
poking
logs.
We’re
digging
ourselves
more
deeply
into
the
wood-burning
stove
rut,
putting
yet
another
one
in
L’s office in the hope
that
the
top
floor
will
feel
less
chill – if, that is, our recalcitrant
builder
ever
gets
here
to
knock
the
requisite
hole
in
the
roof.
At
the
same
time,
I’m going
to
get
him
to
cut
a bit
out
of
the
masonry
that
encases
the
flue
from
the
living
room
stove
as
it
passes
through
C’s bedroom.
It
is
stupid
that
all
that
heat
just
goes
up
the
chimney.
I have
had
two
metal
grates
made.
We’ll
put
one
on
one
side
up
near
the
ceiling,
and
the
other
on
the
other
side
down
near
the
floor.
I’m hoping
this
will
make
a nice
convection
swirl.
L is
scoffing.
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