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A little belatedly but no less wholeheartedly, I would like to wish both my readers a very happy New Year. It’s a little strange to think that it is 20 years since people were getting exercised over the threat of the millennium bug and, more importantly, which song to play when Big Ben struck midnight. And now, in 2019, we can look forward to Britain regaining control of her boarders and returning to the golden days of the 1950’s. Me, I think I’ll stick around in Monte San Pietrangeli, which has never left them.

As for seeing in the New Year, it wasn’t until we arrived at Pina with Marco, Maddalena, Chiara and Daniele, her boyfriend, sometime before 9pm on Monday, that I could relax in the knowledge that we were actually going to be fed there. All was in order; Paola beamed at us and the evening was a great success. There were about 70 or 80 people dining, and we found out from a reliable source (i.e. someone Marco works with) that it originated when a large group of some forty friends had booked a meal there, and Pina, seeing a business opportunity when it was presented to them, opened it up to other people.

As ever, the food was of generous quantities, starting with a hot and cold buffet, running through the traditional lentils and cotechino (a large, robust sausage whose constituent ingredients it is best not to investigate) followed by champagne risotto and cannelloni before moving on to pieces of roast chicken and slices of roast pork served with potatoes and prunes. This last was an innovation too far for our fellow diners, though as people used to eating fruit with meat we thought it a particularly inspired choice. As for Chiara, she was presented with an embarrassing array of vegetarian alternative dishes, abundant enough to pass around the rest of the party and still have plenty left over for any passing local leading an alternative lifestyle. I find it, still, utterly amazing that one can eat well at a price unheard of in the UK; all this, together with jugs of good quality red and white wine, bottles of spumante for a midnight toast and coffee and limoncello at a price of €40.

Apart from the fizz when 12 struck, there was also a firework display, which we watched from the small terrazzo off the dining room where we could also see other displays in surrounding towns. This went on for a good ten minutes, long enough anyway for us to think that it was time to get back inside where it was warmer and where pudding awaited. This was zuppa inglese, or, if you prefer, English soup, which is a traditional Italian trifle held to be the same as a good, old-fashioned trifle. Except it isn’t – coming in a variety of incarnations from something cakey to something sludgy, it bears little resemblance to anything Eliza Acton would have whisked up. But there again, you could say that for most trifles in Britain these days.

We left the party at, for us, the ridiculously late time of 1.30, when it was still in full swing, and to the bewilderment of Chiara, we walked home. Why would you want to do that, in the dark, she wondered. Because we were over the limit and besides, a good walk after eating all that food might mean we would be able to sleep and not toss and turn holding groaning bellies. Despite her misgivings, we had a very pleasant walk (it was downhill all the way), and didn’t encounter the hoards of wild boar that she foretold. It did mean that we had to go and collect the car the next morning, but as we combined this with walking Bella and Harry it was hardly a chore. Besides, we had all the rest of the day (no lie-in where Harry is concerned) to lounge about at leisure.

The rest of the week was very quiet. Sauro was the only student who was keen enough – or foolish enough, depending on how you look at it – to want lessons, and he came on Wednesday and Thursday. I did, though, receive a call on Friday morning just as it came our turn at the deli counter in Sigma, from Massimo Mancini. As it was not the most opportune time to enter into discussion, what with one’s attention being more focused on whether we should buy an etto of prosciutto or mortadella, we arranged that he would call back later in the morning when I was at home.

Those of you with a wonderful memory, or a comprehensive knowledge of artisan pasta, may be aware of who Sig Mancini is. For those not so blessed, I will explain. Sig Mancini is the owner of Mancini Pasta, whose factory, if that is the right word, we can see across the valley from the back of LCDDB. He contacted me many months ago now about the possibility of English lessons both for himself and for some of his office staff, but as is the way, this was lost in the bustle of day-to-day business life. It may just be a coincidence that it is a new year, but something has prompted him to pursue improving his English and following a further telephone call and a quick visit by me to his offices in the afternoon, we have arranged that he will have two lessons a week, maybe three if he is not travelling, and they will start next Monday at 7.30 a.m., being the only time in the day he can guarantee he won’t be called away or interrupted.

As for the weekend, it has been a very quiet one, spent at home apart from a quick jaunt into town yesterday morning. Our self-enforced exile was due, in part, to the post-festive dip, though of course the 6th, being Epiphany, is a celebration here in Italy, but one for children. As such, the witch Befana visited MSP this evening, delivering the customary stockings to the waiting youngsters. The other reason we battened down the hatches is that Stephen has been suffering from a temperature and a very bad cold, which we thought best to isolate at LCDDB –except, as I mentioned, for a quick trip out yesterday morning.

This was to visit the small exhibition of paintings by Oscar Marziali, a painter born in MS Pietrangeli in 1895, and who produced most of his best work during the second half of the 20th century. The exhibition was in La Chiesa dell'Addolorata (The Church of the Sorrows), the smallest of the town’s three active churches, and featured a small selection of works on loan from various local people. There is a larger sister exhibition at Loreto, as Marziali spent a great part of time there with the Franciscans, his mother having instilled in him from a young age that if you were going to paint then you should paint something religious.

Although the selection in MSP was small, it did show a range of vibrant sketches, watercolours and a particularly striking oil painting of a lady sitting by a window, and the lady who was that morning’s custodian was more than pleased to explain all about the artist and his work to Stephen, who managed not to cough over any of the works. He saved that for when we got home, for whilst there may be those who suffer for their art, he was just suffering.