Never mind the quality...

30th April 2023

With Tuesday being a holiday for the Festa della Liberazione, Monday was a bridge taken by quite a few of the factories and businesses in the area. Not by Stephen, though, nor by Ivano and his garage, which is where Stephen and I headed on Monday morning as the Panda was in dire need of new tyres. This was discovered when Stephen called for a spot of diesel last week and Paolo at the garage pointed out that one of the tyres looked a little flat. He obligingly checked it, and the pressure was all right, but he did suggest that the tread on the back tyres was wearing a bit thin while the front ones were illegal. Tangling with the local Carabinieri might have its positive points, but having Ivano and son fit four new ones seemed a wiser option.

We made sure we were back to collect it in the evening, as the garage like most places was closed the next day. One place that wasn’t, at least in the morning, was Conad but when we got there it was obvious that only mad English people do grocery shopping on a bank holiday. Maybe this is because everyone else with some forethought realised that a festa after a bridge meant that there was a distinct paucity of fresh produce. At least the lack of customers meant the nice assistant could do a bit of spring cleaning of the displays.

The good news midweek was that the sun made a reappearance on Wednesday and was considerate enough to hang around all day rather than give way to grey skies and drizzle as on the previous ones. It managed to sustain its interest until yesterday afternoon, meaning that the ground dried out enough for Mr Carelli to come and do his magic with his rotovator, at the second attempt.

Stephen had come home mid-afternoon on Friday when the customers who had been visiting the factory since morning had gone on their way following a lunch in a fish restaurant that also did meat and which seems to have left his stomach a bit on the gurgly side over the weekend. (That’ll teach him to eat seafood anywhere other than Porto San Giorgio lungomare.) He was waiting for the call from Nazareno to say they were on their way down the hill with the machine, and I was wondering if they really were coming, it getting towards coffee time, when Nazareno, alone and without the rotovator, called from outside the house. He had walked down with just the spade-shaped blade as Mirco had somehow managed to break the clutch cable (yes, we are cursed that side of life) when taking said rotovator out of the van. A little puzzled, Stephen asked why Nazareno hadn’t called as he would have gone to collect him, only for him to look a little shamefaced when he realised that he hadn’t heard his phone ringing.

All, however, worked out fine yesterday morning. The rotovator was back in full working order and Nazareno reunited it with the blade, left overnight, after he and Mirco and trundled it down the hill. He did his usual sterling job of turning the orto into regimented furrows, no doubt thanks to the input of Stephen and Mirco who supervised from the sidelines.

Whilst the morning was warm and sunny, midday saw the weather turning dull and then distinctly grey, which was a tad on the disappointing side as we had decided to hit Civitanova for the third time in nine days and make an early evening trip for the vintage market. This occupies the same space as last week’s plant one and again runs for three days and finishes on a public holiday, being tomorrow’s May Day. Fortunately, it did manage to keep mainly dry, despite the odd worrying spot of rain, and there were plenty of stalls to browse.

We didn’t purchase, however, though we were engaged in a lengthy conversation with a man who sold, amongst other items of clothing, gilets made from old combat uniforms and by which, he obviously sensed, Stephen was sorely tempted. A €170 price tag put them out of our price range, but he was more than affable while we chatted, and he even admired my coat. “Is it French?” he wanted to know. We weren’t able to help him on that point, knowing only that it came from a shop in Fermo, so he asked if he could look at the label. Why not, I thought, and he duly pulled my collar back to announce, with maybe some trace of disappointment at being wrong, that it was Italian. Undaunted, he wondered about the material, which meant I had to unbutton the coat while he read the label on the inside seam. His curiosity being satisfied on that point, we thought it time to say goodbye, otherwise who knew where it would end up…

Where we ended up was in Caliope, a clothes shop on the main street which we had been lured into by a banner in the window proclaiming up to 50% off. The market closed at 7.00, which was a problematic time as we had decided to eat before returning home, but unless you wanted aperitivo (which we didn’t) it was far too early for anyone with any self-respect to have dinner. We thought we would try Mille Lire, a chain specialising in tigelle, which are a type of flatbread, somewhere between a blini and a pancake in size, originating in Modena. But even though that was open all afternoon we still needed to fill in some time, and what better way than shopping for bargains.

It was not to be. We are on the cusp of May after all, and what was left was either what no one wanted or was in no one’s size, least of all mine. There was a healthy supply of summer wear, though, prompting the following mathematical conundrum: If a man who is going on holiday in three weeks’ time for one night in the Gargano National Park and six nights in Polignano a Mare sees a vast array of tailored shorts and light summer shirts, with how many items of clothing will he leave the shop?

The correct answer is two. Not what you expected given my track record, I know, but hey, one has to leave some space in the suitcase.