Many happy returns

With Stephen away I tried my best to keep a stiff upper lip, even though September’s unpredictability where the weather is concerned continued. The week started very wet, much to Bella’s and Harry’s disgust; you would have thought, from the looks they gave me when confronted by sheets of rain as they stood at the doorway, that it was all my fault.

There was, though, a significant moment on Tuesday when I went into Monte San Pietrangeli to do some shopping and spied, in Sigma, the unusual sight of a packet of Brussels sprouts – and I mean ‘a’, as there was just the one. This is the first time since coming to Italy that I have seen these small green brassicas, despite a search last December of Civitanova to track some down for Christmas dinner. It might have been just as well that we didn’t find any given the €2.59 price tag on the cellophaned package. This puts them on a par with a tin of Heinz baked beans at Iper, in much the same way that pancetta and Parmesan have a premium in British supermarkets. The difference, though, is that the latter are actually wanted by the domestic consumer.

Fortunately, the skies started to clear on Wednesday afternoon, in time for me to collect Stephen from Civitanova station after what he considers to have been a successful trip to MICAM, and also in time for Friday, which happened to be my birthday.

The morning passed very pleasantly indeed, with opening of cards, presents and the usual weekend shopping. We didn’t, however, need as much as usual for after lunch we dropped Bella and Harry off at Marco and Maddalena’s, who had kindly volunteered to look after them for us, before Stephen whisked me away into the mountains for a special treat, what with this being a birthday of the milestone variety. It was a bit of an adventure for both of us; for me because it was my first time into the Sibillini range and for Stephen because, as he had chosen to take the scenic route, he had to face the hairpin bends on the pine-clad mountains.

After about two hours we arrived at the old, walled town of Norcia. Stephen had been advised that getting to the actual hotel, the Palazzo Seneca, might be a bit of a challenge through the narrow streets, but it proved to be even more so as several entrances were blocked by construction vehicles and various areas were forbidden red zones. This is because the town was severely hit by last year’s earthquakes and there is still much rebuilding work to be done – the church in the centre is little more than a façade and a back wall – but there is still a great deal of charm and activity amongst the businesses that have managed to stay open.

Having circumnavigated Norcia twice, we finally decided the best option was to leave the car parked outside the walls and head to the hotel on foot, which being less than five minutes’ walk away was no real hardship. By some stroke of fate, the hotel, which started life in the fifteenth century, was relatively untouched by the earthquake. If there had been any damage, no sign remained in its air of serenely discreet elegance, and from the pleasing proportions of its facade to the understated luxury of our room to the refined sophistication of the restaurant, the whole stay was simply wonderful. Thank you, Mr Firth, for spoiling me to a fabulous, unforgettable experience.

We left soon after breakfast and collected Bella and Harry. They also seemed to have enjoyed their overnight stay, which included an early morning run around Monte San Pietrangeli with Marco. This left them nicely tired in the afternoon while we just pottered around before another minor celebration with aperitivo at Forneria Totò, a celebration that we stretched out by taking home one of their wonderful semi freddo cakes – this one being strawberry – again courtesy of Mr Firth. Then today has been one of catching up before a busy week next week. In the afternoon, Stephen guided me through the tricky task of selecting my wardrobe for our holiday to Paphos in part two of my birthday celebrations. He appears to think that I’m incapable of either sorting my clothes or packing for myself, which is fine by me as it means my years of perfecting an air of helplessness have not been in vain.