Bedding in

27th August 2023

After being sensible and well-behaved for a couple of weeks, the weather again went rogue when the temperatures started to climb on Monday and continued to hover around the low to mid-30s for the whole week. Our fan, which had been idle in the corner of the bedroom since the beginning of August, was once more called into play, being situated near the doorway to get some air moving through the house for an hour or so before bedtime, and then repositioned once we retired to keep us feeling fresh while we dropped off to sleep.

As for Stephen, he was ready and waiting, at least mentally, for “the call” signalling that it was time to return to work, but it never came on Monday, nor the next day nor the one after that. This worked out well as, with the decorating completed, he was able to potter around doing other bits and pieces (but not watering the orto, all hope having been abandoned on that front for some time), and allowing us on Wendesday to make an expedition to Ikea in Ancona (or, more precisely, Camerano, if you are being picky about these things), something we have not done for a few years.

This trip was prompted by the need to refresh things in the bedding line, for us, for guests and for Bella and Harry, who were in sore need of a new feather pillow each to plump up their dog pillows in their dog beds. We couldn’t run to such luxuries for ourselves, but we did run up quite a bill with three full sets of bedding (two for us, one for visitors), a new lightweight duvet, two pillows for us (not feather), two new cushion inserts, a new doormat, two sets of towels, one for us, one for guests, a new doormat and 8 new bottles for decanting the 5-litre jars of vino da tavola into. I think that’s everything, and if not, it’s quite enough to admit to - but if you divide it by the number of months since we were last there, it works out as really quite modest.

After a stop for a plate of pasta at the services just past Civitanova, timing our arrival, fortunately, just before a coachload of vaguely bewildered travellers made an appearance we headed home. Once there, we unpacked everything and then spent a happy half an hour or so going through all the old bedding and making two piles: one of matched (or almost) to keep and use along with the new sets, and one of odd pieces, past their use by date, for sending to a better place.

It was just as well we squeezed the Ikea visit in on Wednesday as Stephen was back at the office on Thursday, manning the fort all on his own after receiving his instructions via WhatsApp from Bertrando. He had a busy day visiting various factories (at least the ones that were open and working) and sorting out other odds and ends whilst his boss was still away and Cecilia was on her delayed honeymoon. He was, though, allowed to work from home on Friday, and therefore relatively refreshed for our big night out.

This weekend has been, in a rebranding exercise to catch, presumably, the international market, the 51st Vino Cotto Festival. Whilst the name may have changed, the actual bones of the event seemed pretty much as before - apart from there being a much more conveniently situated parking area in a field by the centre of the town, requiring a five-minute walk rather than a shuttle service to get the heart of the action. Not that there was much action when we arrived, for as is our wont we turfed up before any parking marshals were on duty and while most people were still setting up their stalls. The advantage of this is that we were able to stroll around checking out possible eating spots before settling on the same place as last time and placing our order with the man on the door (and paying by debit card – what next?) without having to queue, unlike those people in line when we left.

We took another stroll round the town as dusk fell, ending up at the Museo del Vino Cotto tucked away at the back of the courtyard in one of the town’s old buildings. I think this might be another new venture as I can’t remember it being signposted in the blurb before, and it certainly looked pretty pristine, small but nicely but together, prompting the man behind the desk to leap up when we entered and proudly proclaim that it was the only vino cotto museum in the world. I thought it a little unnecessary for Stephen to remark that maybe that was because vino cotto’s not made anywhere else.

If the man heard the retort it didn’t put him off his stride as he proceeded to give us a personal tour of the site, going into lots of detail while we made our way around the exhibits. He finished off leaving us to sign the visitors book after telling us that the museum didn’t have any official opening times but if we called up beforehand it was possible to arrange a visit, depending on when there would be someone available to open up. Just another of the many things to love about provincial life in Italy.

It was then time to wander back down to the centre and to decide which producer to buy our bottle of vino cotto from. In the end it was pretty much Hobson’s choice, for having dismissed various ones along the way it was either from Il Lorese, the company with the prime spot facing the main square, or retracing our steps. We were reassured when we entered the pop-up shop, saw their lable, and realised it was the same company we bought from at last year’s wine event in Monte San Pietrangeli.

We were a little confused at first as it appeared that there were three different wines to choose from, each at an identical price. But then the man behind the counter explained that they were all the same, it was just a matter of preference whether you wanted the rustic look with wicker round the bottom, a bottle with their standard label or one with the label used for exporting to South Korea, where they preferred a baronial look to a more impressionistic water colour vibe. I’m not sure what it says about me that I found myself siding with the South Koreans.

And then it was time to leave unconscionably early at just after nine o’clock. This might have caused a problem with the number of cars still arriving (and now being directed by a bevy of marshals) had someone not had the foresight for those leaving to exit at the bottom of the field. What did cause a problem, though was that we exited into the middle of a marathon. Well, maybe not a marathon, it’s hard to tell exactly the distance of the race as there was no mention of it in the publicity, but certainly there were a lot of very fit and earnest people in running gear pounding the roads around Loro Piceno in the dark.

This made negotiating our way home interesting as not only did we have to weave between various groups of runners as we left the town, but as the main road was blocked to traffic, we were directed by the race marshals onto the back roads. We took an interesting tour of some very narrow, unlit country lanes as the sat nav tried to direct us back onto familiar territory, encountering on the way a particularly vociferous farm dog that ran alongside the car for a while, like they do. Eventually Stephen said he recognised where we were and we made it home in time to enjoy a little something on the terrazzo before bedtime, one of the many benefits of arriving and leaving early.

As for the weekend, that has passed more or less without incident, albeit that I am loathe to say that once again Maria Teresa pasta let us down. Yes, it is open again after their inconsiderate holiday, but when we went in there was no baked cannelloni to be had, even for ready money. We took it on the chin and left with spinach and ricotta ravioli instead, which Stephen worked his magic on and served up with butter and sage, because needs must when the devil drives and the good women of Monte San Pietrangeli send their husbands out to the pasta shop on a Sunday morning to get them out of the way.