Barking mad

I started off the previous entry by saying that it had been a bit of a routine week, but then proceeded to find lots of entertaining (well, I thought so, anyway) observations to make. This last week, however, really has been quiet – though with daily temperatures in the low 30s, there has been little energy for anything other than what is necessary. Even Bella and Harry have taken to lying on the kitchen floor, finding the granite preferable to sweltering in the full sun of the terrazzo.

Of course, the upside of all this very fine summer weather is that it gives you a good excuse for a glass of something chilled of an evening, so with this in mind we popped up to Bar Corradini for a spot of prosecco. Now, for the past two years we would have headed to Chupito, the bar’s summer manifestation in the local parcheggio by the campo di tennis, but which the owner, Vittorio, hasn’t opened this year. When we asked about this, Arianna, Vitto’s right hand woman, said it was because the Comune had not sanctioned the use of the bar. No reason was given, but if you remember last year there was a bit of a breakdown in communications between the two parties over the Festival Beer Park, forcing its location to be switched from the car park to near the church. I leave you to draw your own conclusions whether there was smouldering resentment on the part of the authorities, but it would seem that even in MSP the little man doesn’t often win.

Thursday was the first Mostra Mercato of the year in Fermo, the annual market that is held in the main square (and surrounding areas, as it seems to grow year on year) in July and August. It was a lovely evening and we took the opportunity for a stroll round the stalls. We didn’t buy anything on this visit, it being more of a recce, and we didn’t want to be encumbered with packages as we had also booked to dine at L’Enoteca. You will, by now, know that this is one of our favourite places to eat, and particularly so when the market is in full swing as you can sit in raised the arcade outside and watch the comings and goings in the square below.

Food was also on the agenda yesterday when I tried my hand at a new recipe from our monthly culinary magazine, Sale & Pepe. This month’s edition has a very enticing section called Buffet in piscina, with the obligatory photos of ultra glamorous linen draped thirtysomethings lounging around a swimming pool sipping cocktails without getting their lips wet. While we can’t stretch to such heights of sophistication, not having a swimming pool, I did make the sbrisolona with pecorino cheese, peppers and sun-dried tomatoes, which, if I say so myself, was very moreish.

Apparently, sbrisolona is a traditional dolce from Northern Italy, originating as a cheap peasant food but refined when the aristocrats got wind that it was something rather fine. The texture is akin to a British crumble but with larger and rockier pieces melded together in the baking due to the addition of egg yolks. The one I made was a savoury twist to impress one’s friends at an al fresco get together, but I have been told that the sweet version (which you break into chunks rather than slice – which sounds an eminently sensible way of consuming cake) is very good eaten with an espresso or glass of vino santo – or better still, with a shot of grappa poured over it. It just gets better and better…

With temperatures increasing steadily all week we thought it was about time we took to the beach. Of course, to the locals, going to the beach means arriving early to mid-morning and staying there till the sun dips past the yardarm, camping out for the day at their favoured chalet, preferably accompanied by extended family. That isn’t possible for us, for aside from the fact that while Stephen would quite happily spend the day spit roasting himself I would have to hide under an umbrella to avoid a fit of the vapours, we have Bella and Harry to consider. Our answer was to head out to Porto San Giorgio early doors today, stopping for breakfast on the way, to take a walk in the morning sunshine before the sun became too intense and the beach too crowded. An hour through the shallows one way and an hour back, stopping off for an occasional chat, was a remarkably pleasant way to spend a Sunday morning, with the added benefit of giving my daily Fitbit steps a considerable boost – and we were still back home in time to shower, have lunch and then lounge about for the afternoon. When the thermometer is reading 34C it seems a perfect way to spend the day.

Not that the afternoon was completely undisturbed, thanks to Harry. Over the past few days there has been a baler turning the stubble remaining after the harvesting into rolls of hay. These have been left strategically around the surrounding fields, waiting to be collected and taken away for storage. While Harry showed little concern for the machine, the same can’t be said for the bales, which he must think are some sort of alien set on terrestrial domination. It was one thing for him to stand at various points on the terrazzo, barking at them whenever they came into view, but when I tried to take him and Bella for a walk down the lane through the fields, he dug in his heels and refused to go anywhere near them – and those of you with experience of terriers will know that though they may not be the biggest of dogs, if they don’t want to move you are not going to make them.

On that occasion I turned round and came back, but when Stephen, being made of stronger stuff, took them out later he picked Harry up and carried him into the field to introduce him to one of these strange creations, whereupon both he and Bella spent a happy few minutes investigating the new. You would think, therefore, that this would have cured his barking. Not so. For whilst looking north from the terrazzo to where he had been with Stephen he kept his mouth shut, he still let loose when he turned to face south towards the unfamiliar ones. Oh well, at least that gives us something to do next week, taking our dogs on a circuitous tour of the surrounding fields so that Harry can be introduced individually to all the hay bales: Harry, meet Bertie Bale…Harry, meet Bernie Bale…Harry, meet Barry Bale…