Taking the scenic route

I know you will have been unable to settle, wondering what was happening with our Internet connection. You will be pleased to hear that after another couple of truculent days, on Wednesday it decided to cooperate once again. The service is back to what it was before, with the radio connecting, a signal strong enough to reach the back room and me able to log on downstairs so I can waste hours trawling the Internet for lesson materials only to give up and sort something myself, and as if in sympathy, a week that had started with prolonged, heavy rain turned, also on Wednesday, to cold but clear and sunny – always the preferred option at this time of the year.

Something that did come to an end, however, was my dalliance with the world of yoga, and not because the prospect of spending ages in the Doctor’s waiting room to claim my certificato per attività sportive non agonistiche was in danger of draining my soul. I hope I have given it a fair go, but it has not really been working for me – maybe because my image of it as gently unfolding yourself into elegant poses was some way from the reality of the postural yoga, which seems all about tensing muscles and hard lines. I made my apologies to Peppe, who really is a very nice man, and assured him it was because of me and not him. I may not give it up altogether as a bit of research on YouTube has shown a bewildering array of online tutorials to choose from – though I’m not sure I want to invest in a leotard to do it.

The rest of the week passed pleasantly if not very excitingly, at least where the blog is concerned. On Thursday we met up with Marco and Maddalena, whom we had not seen for a while, for a dinner date at Pomod’oro, where we also hadn’t been for quite some time. As ever, the antipasti was very good, with particularly fine galantina and insalata russa and vegetable fritelle, and for dessert a very acceptable tiramisu (which, and say this very quietly so as not to cause umbrage, can be very hit and miss to say it has become a revered national dish).

On Friday we had a visit from our friendly gasman, who drove his tanker down the road and filled us up so we know that with a substantial stock of wood and a replete tank, we should be able to keep snug whatever vagaries the winter weather throws at us. Fortunately, the day previously I had called in at the bank in Montegranaro to draw out a chunk of housekeeping as when I presented the bankcard to OFG, he shook his head sadly and asked if we could pay cash as his machine wasn’t working. The reason, as Stephen found out while I scurried inside to collect the readies, was not a malfunction but that the company had updated the card machine but had not factored in that the charger for it wasn’t compatible with the outlet in the cabin of the wagon, so whenever the battery runs out that is the end of card payments for that day. Progress: one step forward and two steps back.

After a quiet Saturday we went, this afternoon, to Fermo to the Christmas market, or rather, the market for Christmas, the distinction being quite important. Like many places now, Fermo has a Christmas market, with pop-up wooden booths, and skating rink in the main square through December and up to epiphany. Today, however, was the Fiera di Natale, a general market with the usual assortment of clothing, household goods, and various handcrafted gift stalls (a lavender scented doorstop anyone) augmenting the Christmas kiosks, and stretching far into the distance. This was good news for me, as I was able to stock up with honey from local producers as well as new socks at a bargain price.

We also took time out to make our traditional (I think three years can be classed as such) visit to Fermo’s presepi exhibition, again in the small Roman cistern complex just past the top of the Piazza del Popolo. Being by now connoisseurs, we thought that overall it was slightly less innovative than last year – how can there not have been a pasta exhibit? – but there were certainly highlights. Stephen’s favourite was a simple scene set in a wooden representation of a gothic tower, though he thought the theme could have been carried to the figures which were a little pedestrian, while for me honourable mentions should go to the crocheted tableau, complete with a hand-worked miniature Fermo’s Palazzo dei Priori, and the one set in a fish tank, wrecked galleon and goldfish included but not, fortunately for the Holy Family, any sharks.

We were back home not long after five, expecting a quiet evening with maybe a pre-dinner gargle with it being the weekend. We banked without Marco, who sent a message asking if we wanted to meet him and Maddalena for an aperitivo at The Mackintosh. Presumably after going weeks without the benefit of our company, Thursday at Pomod’oro must have reminded him what he was missing – or maybe he was anxious to make use of the pub while he is still able. It is several months now since Zeppa and Teresa put it on the market (a fact that I think has not been mentioned before), no doubt because after who knows how many years – certainly for as long as Stephen has known MSP – working until three in the morning has probably lost its shine.

It came up in conversation while we were there that they will more than likely close the pub at Christmas, even if it isn’t sold, which will not only deprive the youth of MSP of somewhere to gather and share a plate of chips between ten as there first tentative step to adulthood, but also where will we go for a good plate of pasta for a midweek treat? So if you know anyone with a spare €30,000 (cheap at twice the price) and a burning desire to enter the Italian hospitality trade, you know where to send them – and in the process you will be guaranteeing future generations, and more importantly us, of a continued supply of tortellini alla boscaiola.