Not just any old tripe

2nd June 2024

It was things automobile related that occupied the start of the week when we returned the Renegade to Ivano at the garage for the follow up appointment to sort out the strange noise.

We deposited it outside the workshop at eight on Monday morning, leaving the keys on the front seat, then called in the next day, on our way to Pina, to see how it was getting on. “All finished,” said Ivano, so we said we’d collect it on the way back, giving them time to move the two cars lined up behind ours so we could back it out.

On our return Ivano showed us the culprit, which despite Stephen’s sage pronouncement last week I don’t think was a tappet. Really, the squat cylindrical pieces of metal, one inside the other as best as I could make out, could have been anything though Stephen, no wiser than I was, nodded knowledgeably as Ivano commented wryly that the part was supposed to last for 20,000 kms, some three times longer than ours had lasted before it cracked under the pressure. “They don’t make things like they used to,” he intoned. He should know, as apparently, so Stephen told me, he used to be a Formula One mechanic back in the day.

Wednesday morning Stephen took Bella back to the vet as he had called a couple of days earlier to say that the course of four injections that he talked about the last time had arrived. It was a bit on the busy side at the clinic so there was no time for small talk on this occasion. The important business was seen to efficiently, with Bella’s full cooperation, which left the question of what to do about the remaining three injections. The vet was willing to do them but Stephen could take them and administer them himself if he preferred. He did; not because it saved a few euro but because it is just more efficient time wise and less disquieting for Bella – and he has experience, having wielded the needle in my direction in the past.

We had an unexpected outing on Thursday when we went to Civitanova for dinner with Marco and Maddalena. She’d messaged Stephen the previous day, asking if we were interested in trying out this new place that she’d been to recently. Well, yes. The osteria, as it said on the sign, was a little off the main drag, a few streets in from the very northern end of the lungomare in a more residential part of the town, and went by the name Mangiatoia. This, as is often the case, can be translated in a couple of ways into English, the more romantic being Manger while a more prosaic, and some might say more accurate, option being Trough. Whichever, it served traditional Marchigiano food in a relaxed and just rustic enough setting, and Stephen (who leans more to the Trough side) metaphorically rolled on his back and kicked his legs in the air on discovering that he could order tripe for his mains.

Friday was significant when at long last we followed up on the visit of the nice lady last summer to look at the house, the one from the company that, if you recall, amongst other interventions floats old houses to stabilise them. When last we saw her, she said that she needed to come back with her father, the structural   expert, and now we have got round to contacting them again there they both were. Stephen collected them shortly after six and following a walk around the outside and inside of the house and a conflab at the table, the upshot was that yes, the house was worse than last time (the new and improved cracks had sort of suggested that to us), and yes, intervention was needed but no, it wasn’t in imminent danger of collapse.

It was agreed that Irene, the nice lady, would contact their preferred geologist to carry out a detailed examination of what exactly is going on under the house, with the caveat that as he is particularly fastidious, it could take up to a year for him to complete his investigations. In the meantime, they would contact Loris the builder, a different one to he of the digging up fields and laying new pipes fame, to carry out some emergency work to shore up the back of the house, with the caveat that he is very busy. Irene would see to all this as soon as possible, with a third caveat that as she is due to be married in two weeks’ time, she does have one or two other things requiring her attention.

Before they left the father went round taking pictures, after he had shared an interesting gobbet with us: the way our house is constructed would not be allowed these days. When the extension was built, they joined it to the original structure, now there has to be a minimal gap to allow the two to move independently should the need arise – presumably as an earthquake measure.

Last night we had dinner at the pub - yes, on a Saturday. We had intended to make it our usual Friday treat, but Maddalena throwing in the Mangiatoia wild card meant we delayed it a day – two nights out on the trot being unthinkable. What are we, 17? Actually, it might have been an idea if we were still in our adolescence given that we had chosen the same night that two groups had decided to celebrate the imminent end of term – and we’re not talking teachers. Fortunately, both the table of half a dozen scuola media pupils and the larger group of ones from a liceo we’re very civilized, unlike the young boy trying his best to destroy the darts machine while being blissfully ignored by his parents, but we still ate and made a strategic retreat before all those Estathé chemicals began to kick in and they all rest decided to help him.

Today has been Festa della Repubblica in Italy, though being Sunday you would not particularly have noticed any difference. We celebrated it with our first beach walk of the year, stopping off at Kokonuts on the way for breakfast (Funari being closed due to the holiday) where we bumped into Manuel and Monia. Being the beginning of June, Porto San Giorgio beach was not so busy but we still had a bit of surprise when we tried to park as the lungomare was closed off. Whether it was due to the work they have been carrying out refreshing the promenade or the Fun Run later in the morning I can’t say. Maybe both. We did, though, have the best of the day; we were back at the car before the clouds really started to gather, and home and sitting down to lunch before the forecast rain set in and continued on and off for the rest of the day.

That should be where I leave things for this week, but I thought I might just share a little snippet before I go, a little lesson in things not always being what they seem.

When passing the cherry tree by Mario and Luigi’s while walking the dogs one morning early in the week, a tree heavy with gloriously ruddy fruit proving that cherry red really is red, I noticed a homespun sign saying: “NON TOCCARE TRATTATE. What a shame, I thought, all that lovely fruit going to waste because it’s had to be doused with an antiparasitic spray. I made sure not to touch anything, giving the tree a wide berth so Bella and Harry wouldn’t snaffle any of the fallen cherries as we passed. I needn’t have worried.

The next day Stephen stopped on his way home to pass the time of day with Mario, who told him not to pay any attention to the sign as the fruit was safe to eat if we fancied trying the odd one when on our walk. They’d put up the sign as last year, before they could harvest the cherries, the tree was stripped bare by the Chinese who have the factory a hundred metres up the road (or field depending on which way you go). And not just them; according to Mario they were joined by some friends who also had an eye for a bargain. He didn’t say whether they stood there stuffing themselves or filling up a couple of handy trugs, but either way this year they will have to source a different supply – or run the risk of taking part in a reverse placebo effect trial.