Reliably unreliable

31st July 2022

With the temperature inside hitting 32ºC on Monday, it seemed that there was to be no let-up in the heatwave, though help, after a fashion, was on its way. Wednesday saw our first decent fall of rain for some time, leaving the evening feeling fresher, comparatively speaking. We had more rain on Friday afternoon and early evening and then a really good downpour yesterday afternoon, that left the ground spongey underfoot for a good twenty-four hours. This is good news, generally (a bit of realignment of the road surface was to be expected), if only because when unremitting blue skies returned today the temperature (and those forecast for the week ahead) was in the less confrontational low 30s.

There was slight consternation at the rain on Friday afternoon as we were due to go to see Tosca at the Arena Sferisterio in Macerata that evening, but before we get to that the morning provided a diversion we had not anticipated, and which we didn’t particularly need.

Stephen had told me earlier in the week that I would have to do the shopping on Friday morning, even though it was his turn while I had my haircut, as he had to be in Monte San Giusto at 7.30 to meet up with Manuel. That was the theory anyway, but the Freeclimber had other ideas. He set off in good time, and I had just set off on the morning walk with Bella and Harry when my phone rang. It was Stephen to say that the car had rolled to a halt, conveniently on a blind bend on the country road to Monte San Giusto, that he thought it might have run out of petrol (if you remember, the gauge doesn’t work properly) even though he had put some in just the other day, and that he was waiting for Manuel, whom he had already called, to come. He also put me on stand-by to collect a few litres from Paolo at the garage, should he need a bit of oomph to get the Freeclimber going again.

I was not surprised to receive a further call some fifteen minutes later, when we were on the downward leg of the walk, to say that indeed he did need petrol. I tried to chivvy Bella and Harry along, and while they seemed somewhat reluctant to hurry with their investigation of the undergrowth, we did eventually make it back home where I left them and headed to Paolo for the petrol and ferried it to Stephen.

I knew I was approaching the beached car as nearing the bend not only was there a red warning triangle at the side of the road but also Manuel trying to direct oncoming traffic. Stephen was further along, trying to do the same to vehicles coming from Monte San Giusto, though I believe many at best ignored him and at worst shot him filthy looks – because, of course, he had deliberately decided to break down and make himself an inconvenience to all those people dashing to work because they had lingered too long in the bar. He put some of the petrol in the car, saving half on Manuel’s advice just in case, and tried the engine, which, to general joy, started. The road was cleared, Manuel headed off to Ivan at the garage to warn him of Stephen’s arrival, and Stephen himself drove a few metres to a convenient turning spot with me behind.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end, for after maybe half a kilometre he started slowing down. I did the same, as I was following him, and eventually when he stopped so did I. There was, again, no power. He called Manuel, who was by now at the garage, to ask Ivan to come, and as there was nothing really for me to do other than to look supportive/consoling/concerned, he said I might as well get off, which I did (having said the obligatory “Are you sure?” because I didn’t want to seem too eager) as I knew I was going to be cutting it fine to get back, shower and make it to MSP for my hair appointment. (Priorities.)

Stephen didn’t have too long to wait before Ivan arrived, who wasted no time in getting down under the car and reporting back. The hitch was that the tube that takes the petrol from the tank to the engine was perished, so the petrol was evaporating, but he had also spotted something else that needed attention. He made a quick fix by wrapping what looked like a cotton cloth around the gap in the tube, allowing Stephen to drive the car to the garage, where he left it, asking them to sort the tube and the other, undefined problem. And that is where we, and the Freeclimber, are still. We will, though, have to think seriously what we are going to do. Using the Freeclimber to pop backwards and forwards to the village was one thing, but now with his new work he really needs something more reliable – it’s not quite the image to apologise for missing a meeting because you are making like a Paris to Dakar official on a street corner in downstate Le Marche.

Things could only get better, surely, but even that was in doubt when, as I said, it started raining, and quite heavily, in the afternoon. Typical, I thought, we buy opera tickets almost three years ago, have one season cancelled and the next curtailed and when we are eventually able to cash them in, it rains. Fortunately, however, it tailed off by early evening, and though there was a vague attempt at a shower while we, together with Computer Luca, were sitting having a pre-performance snack, the evening turned out clear and just warm enough to be pleasant while sitting in the auditorium.

The tickets were for Tosca, not the jolliest of stories and one which teeters on the edge of melodrama, but Puccini’s music, the balmy evening, Stephen being able to look fabulous in his silk Dolce and Gabbana shoes, and the joy at once again being able to wallow in a live, open-air performance made, if you forgive the pretentiousness, for a magical evening where, like the heroine, one could live for art and live for love.