Pipe dreams

21st April 2024

Despite having so much enjoyment playing with the drains last Saturday afternoon, Stephen, being the altruistic soul that he is, decided it wasn’t fair to keep all the fun to himself so phoned Andrea, the plumber, on Monday morning. Much to our surprise, he didn’t drop everything immediately, saying he was very busy but that he would try to fit us in on Wednesday, so let us move on.

The weather continued hot at the beginning of the week, if not hotter, but that all changed on Wednesday, presaged, as is so often the case, by stormy winds on Tuesday evening. Since then it has been, I suppose, more seasonable, with some sun, some clouds, and more than some rain. Typical April weather, you might say, especially as the temperatures have dropped significantly, but the few days taste of summer does make it seem a somewhat inconsiderate change.

We did have something to occupy us whilst waiting for Andrea to appear when it became obvious that Mario and Luigi were on some sort of mission. I had wondered why there had been a handful of very loud bangs on Monday from up the hill, and then on Tuesday morning Stephen’s attention was caught when they came down in their white transit van. He just happened to notice that they got out, carrying shot guns, went behind the barn at the side then returned, got back in the van and went away. Later that day they started putting metal poles, maybe a meter and a half in length, scattered across the section of the field in front of the house, each with what looked like metallic flags attached but which, I am reliably informed, are the plastic coated wrappings they use for Easter eggs here in Italy.   

Mario planted more of these on Wednesday (how many eggs did they have this year?) in the lower part of the field, the purpose of which, Stephen discovered, was to try to stop the pigeons from eating the newly sown seeds. I was, given the bangs of Monday, and a few more on Tuesday, concerned about our local wood pigeons, but Stephen said these weren’t the problem, rather the ones that come down in flocks in a day trip from Rapagnano and Monte San Giusto, feeling a bit peckish.

The Mogliani brothers mustn’t have thought that this was quite enough of a deterrent as Thursday, around 6.40 while Stephen was having his gently stroll around the homestead with Bella and Harry for their early morning comfort break, a white van came down the hill, one of those with the open back. It stopped briefly to say that they were there for the pigeons. What were they like I asked when he returned. Typical country men, he replied, though, he added, one looked like he couldn’t see very well. This was a worrying observation, considering what happened next.

The car carried on and stopped where the lane ends at the quince tree (we know because Stephen was watching them from the back window while I finished preparing breakfast – not that he was being nosy, just showing a healthy interest) and headed across the field, stopping about a hundred metres of so from the van. They then erected a makeshift hide, whose grey, vaguely wattle effect walls and roof I’m sure would be enough to fool any passing pigeon, especially as the decoy bird they positioned in front of it would have captured its attention. It didn’t, at this point, take a great leap of imagination to figure out what their method of crowd control was.

We closed the upstairs gate to stop Bella and Harry going down into the back garden, and I wondered what to do when we went for our walk later, not wanting any of us to get winged by a stray bullet (see above re. eyesight). I needn’t have worried. As we were finishing breakfast it began to rain, and when we again looked out of the window while tidying up it was to see the two men dismantling their hidey-hole and a few minutes later, an hour if that after they had arrived, they left. One can only think that rain is a better deterrent than flags – at least for humans, if not for birds.

Jumping back a day, Wednesday was Stephen’s birthday and the highlight, more so than his presents and dinner at the pub, was Andrea, the plumber, turning up after lunch – right in the middle of my lesson. It was ok, though, for he kept his word in phoning Stephen to say he was coming, though it might have been a bit of an idea to do so before he stopped in front of the house. No matter. Stephen made a quick return from the office and showed Andrea what needed doing, because while he was here for the drains he might as well sort out a couple of other little niggling things into the bargain. Andrea duly noted what was what and said he would be back the next day.

And indeed he was. It took him very little time to sort the flush and the tap in the bathroom, but the drain out the back was a different matter. He tested this, and he examined that, and expressed surprise when Stephen said we didn’t have a mop, which he thought would be useful for poking up the pipes to see if there were any blockages. How did we clean the floors, he wanted to know, and Stephen explained that we used a microfibre cloth on a flat headed floor cleaner. One presumes he could only shake his head, metaphorically, at our strange British ways.

He then asked Stephen if he had the plans of the house showing the layout of the drains, which is where another snag was hit. A search of the files proved fruitless, when it occurred to Stephen that he had given them to the lady that came all those months ago when we began our currently on-hold enquiries about work to secure the house. He wondered if Mario might remember where they ran so popped up the road in the Panda. He didn’t, but he did come down a few minutes later to supervise and give his considered opinion on things, saying there were three pipe shafts in total (they eventually found four). With little more to be gained other than scratching heads and staring down a hole, Mario exited stage left and Andrea said he would be back tomorrow, Friday.

He wasn’t - but knowing him there will be some good reason. In the meantime, having imposed a temporary moratorium on the washing, come the weekend Stephen had to do something about emptying the linen basket and so concocted an arrangement of hosepipes from the washing machine to the open drain, bypassing the broken pipes. Fortunately the various joints held, so all the water headed where it should for a change. 

Dinner last night at our new favourite place, Sugo in Macerata, with Maddalena and Marco to celebrate Stephen’s birthday, giving Maddalena the opportunity to show us where she went to high school, being an extensive old building in the centre of the town, would have been as exciting as it got this weekend, if it hadn’t have been for our road – the gift that keeps on giving.

It was just after six this morning that we were woken by the doorbell ringing, a strange enough occurrence at the best of times, not being prone to passing traffic, but especially so this time as it was accompanied by voices that were obviously having a bit of an argument. We were a bit wary, and while Stephen made himself decent I (in my snug pyjamas) went to the door, and through the window I saw a couple, probably around 20. The young woman was talking on her phone and also calling through the door, while the youth chuntered away behind her.

Stephen then appeared and now that there were two of us, I opened the door. The girl thrust her phone at him to talk to whoever was on the other end while the boy continued to chunter. It was all a bit confusing, and rather than give a blow-by-blow account, I’ll try to sum it up as best I can.

The person on the other end was her father and she was calling him as her car, with three other people in it, was skewed off the road with its back wheels in the field. She had come to the house because they didn’t actually know where they were. She was supposed to be taking her boyfriend (who kept asking Stephen for a light, because smoking a cigarette was apparently more important) home to Monte Vidone following his directions. If he was sober it might have been ok, but going in completely the opposite direction and taking them down a dead end shows what state he was in.

Stephen, being the good soul he is, went up with them to the car to see what was what (with the boy now asking if we had any Varnelli, because of course what you really need at a moment like that is a glass of the local anisette), then came back to say that he was going to take them in the Jeep to Grottazzolina, about 10 or 15 minutes away, where the girl lived – and true to form, as they were going there the boy suggested it might be an idea if they stopped at MacDonald’s for breakfast on the way. No it wouldn’t.

Stephen was back in reasonable time, we breakfasted and then about 8.30 a black pick-up truck came down the road. It was the youth (why was he driving?) with the girl’s dad and, much to our surprise, Mr Carelli. He had managed to get in on the act as, and it won’t come as any surprise, the boy couldn’t remember how to find the car so they stopped and asked a man who was out for his morning walk… and fortunately it was Mr C.

Stephen went to join them for a conflab while I took the dogs. The youth towed the car out onto the road and the father phoned for a tow truck as it was his car, but discovering that the brakes were all burnt out suggested it might not be so simple to get it up the hill. And then the cavalry arrived. Mario, wondering what all the action was about, came down to see what was happening. The consensus was that a tow truck would never get the car up the road so Mario, once again, volunteered the services of his tractor. In the meantime the youth had made off in his truck (he is a pig farmer he told Stephen, hence the vehicle) with Mr C, and then headed home after his passenger gave him directions as he was still befuddled as to where he was.

You know the routine from here. Mario arrived with the tractor, they hooked the car up and he pulled it to the top of the road. Stephen followed in the Panda with the father as, not knowing where the tow truck would take the car, he might need a lift home. What with this offer of random kindness and having unburdened to him about his daughter and the youth, Stephen had a new bbf, and before he left in the tow truck (it was taking it to Grottazzolina) the father hugged Stephen with tears in his eyes and promised to bring some of his home produced wine as a thank you… if he can find us again, that is.

As for us, we were left grieving for our road which, since the work done on it, has stood up to tactors, to the elements and to the everyday wear and tear. It didn’t, however, stand up to a small runaround churning its wheels and burning out its breaks as it roiled through the hardcore to the surface beneath. Nor did we ever expect it to have to deal with an inebriated chauvinist (“Women drivers,” he scoffed to Stephen at one point – here’s an idea, next time don’t drink and you drive) with no common sense and even less of a sense of direction, but I suppose it is all part of life’s rich tapestry… unfortunately.