Parting.

And so we leave our stone farmhouse of the last month, with a salute to Sig. Dazzi. We remember our days with our house-guest Jeanne; the late night suppers after long days of touristing; the beautiful views morning scenes laid out under our upstairs windows: the terraced hillside of Pontemazzori and the rising mountains behind Camaiore: long mornings spent in bed, reading trashy novels and great literature. Above all, we carry with us memories of the four successful reunion of the extended Casali family, from old folks to giggling children, camped out under the huge pine tree on improvised tables and an odd variety of chairs and benches.
We leave behind also the ceiling crossed with heavy rough-hewn beams, and the red-painted rough tile floor rolling like a wave under mismatched furniture; the damp upstairs, and especially the terrycloth-covered living room set (which felt perpetually damp), and our mini-TV which could supply only the lowest of the RAI broadcasts. We leave the set of Italian motor-touring magazines, 1950-1954, inclusive; expansive sets of cast-off kitchen utensils and tableware; and the vaguely malodorous "modern" bathrooms with their hissing commodes and unused bidets. Above all we bid farewell to the resident life of the house: the scampering rodents in the attic upstairs; the pheasants in the fields, the foxes, and the passing hunting dogs, curious but skittish without their masters; and the insects which joined us inside: the moths, gnats, worms, ants, and one out-sized brown spider - and le zanzare - the tiger mosquitoes -and the accompanying ritual of repellent sprays, red VAPE burners and hydrocortisone ointments. One last time we drive down the 300 yards of high-centered gravel-tracks to the paved road- piano, piano - all the way in a whining first gear.



Did I remember to say that it IS a lovely place?