La casa in collina

This week saw us in the Langhe, the wine-growing area east of Cuneo and south of Turin. As if excellent (and often expensive) wine weren't enough, the region is also renowned for truffles, chocolate and hazel-nuts. We tried them all, except for the fresh truffles, which were beyond our means.

We were staying in an agriturismo, the Erbaluna, at La Morra, in the epicentre of the Barolo producing vineyards. The B&B was spotless, roomy, well-appointed, had a wonderful view from the terrace, but where it really excelled was in the breakfasts. Home-made jams, home-made cakes and tarts, home-made bread, local cheeses and hams, freshly picked pears and tomatoes. A feast. And in the appartment, they had thoughtfully provided examples of their wine-making expertise, ranging from a deliciously fresh and light dolcetto, through to its bigger brothers, the massive, tannic reds made with the Nebbiolo grape.

The wine producing villages are very sleepy places, despite the tangible wealth oozing from the various enoteche. The vineyards were a great place to wander, however, with marked paths snaking amongst the rows of vines, catching breathtaking views over the rolling, steep hillsides. With the vineleaves turning orange and red, and the second growth grapes just asking to be eaten, the wine trails, however long and frequently almost vertical, were definitely a high point of the trip. Further round the slopes, where the sun was in less plentiful supply, it was the turn of the hazel-nut plantations. Not an inch of land was wasted.

Turin, to which we repaired by train, was cold and foggy. Our dizzying ascent up the inside of the Mole Antonelliana was architecturally interesting, but the panorama was pretty limited. The cinema museum, housed in this massive folly, had some extremely interesting (and moving) exhibits of the attempts to create 'moving' images, but I found the later galleries, dealing with the star system, and with cult elements like SciFi, rather gimmicky. Still, the museum was heated, which had to be in its favour, considering the temperature outside.

Of the smaller towns, we liked Alba, the regional capital, and found Bra and Cherasco rather dead, despite the sophisticated chocolate vocation of the latter. Much more lively, and well worth returning to were Cuneo, whose chocolates (cuneesi) have to be the best we have ever eaten, and whose city centre combines elegant architecture with a genuine lived in feel, and then the small town of Saluzzo, which summed up for us all that Piemonte has going for it: a wonderful street architecture, big squares without traffic, lovely, ancient shops, a café culture. We bought fruit, vegetables, meat of extraordinary quality, for prices which were much lower than in Antibes. Definitely a place to go back to.

In terms of authors for landscapes, I feel the definite winner here has to be Beppe Fenoglio, rather than the once hallowed Cesare Pavese. So maybe the title of this particular blog ought to be I (venti)tre giorni della città d'Alba. Nice place... will definitely go back.

Nice day

Some days suck. Other days just work out perfectly, and one is at a loss to explain why. Today was one of those good days.

One easy explanation is that the BH is on holiday, which means that she didn't have to get up at the crack of dawn, and she could wait for me to buy fresh bread before having breakfast. We have taken to buying a very rustic, dense country bread with a wonderful elastic dough and a thick, tasty crust. Consumed with coffee on a bright Antibes morning, with snow on the Alps and sun on the snow, it was bliss.

I finally figured out a way to do some plasterwork on the ceiling, after a botched attempt last week. This involved woodwork, to reconstruct the laths, and working with wood and cutting tools always puts me into a good mood.

To cap it all, we were able to eat out on the terrace for lunch. It was actually hot in the sun, and I sheltered a bit when taking my coffee. More than the actual heat, it was the luminosity which lifted the spirits.

In the afternoon, I gave in to temptation and went for a swim. There have been near constant gales for the last week, churning the sea, scouring the seabed, and bringing in to land large quantities of fairly dangerous flotsam (see picture). But to get back in the oggin after what looked like the onset of winter, and to swim out into the bay of Antibes, kissed by sunshine and sparkle, in late October, was absolutely priceless.

To cap it all, this evening the public library put on a show mixing jazz and literature, performed by professors from the conservatoire and from the local theatre. It was spectacularly good: intelligent, subtle, sincere, and performed with mastery. It got an audience of sprightly pensioners dancing and clapping in the aisles as if back in a Bill Hailey concert, but, as far as I could see, nobody slashed the seats.

Vieille ville

Many of my postings have dealt with that uncomfortable feeling, half way between disgust and envy, of living in a town where conspicuous consumption provides the main means of employment. There is, however, an older, humbler side to the town, albeit one latterly invaded by second-homers and twee renovators from northern climes.

Much of the old town consists of fishermen's houses, basically tall buildings with just one room on each floor. The problem with these houses was stability, they tended to lean towards each other alarmingly, as the lateral forces of the roof were not redirected and contained by adequately oriented beams in the floors and ceilings. To counter this sideways tendency, and relying on the close proximity of other buildings, the inhabitants jerry-built flying buttresses from one house to another. This is a partial view of a lane which counts more than a dozen such repairs.

Many streets in Antibes have their resident beggar, who sleeps rough, accompanied by a pack of mangy dogs and an all-pervading stench of fermenting urine. The present consumer society does not seem to know what to do with them, even when they faecally occupy the doorsteps of shops, offices and residential buildings. It seems this is not a new problem. The plaque in the other photo intimates that the business of ignoring the indigent is not new, and hints at a truism which says that the very need for moral reminders is itself a sign of general neglect.

Climate Change

Plenty of theories, even more controversy, particularly as to whether evidence is conclusive, beyond seasonal and macrocyclic phenomena. Well, in Antibes the evidence confronts you from your window, albeit only for the delimitation of seasons. No British gradualism and compromise here.

Last night, after a radiant but blustery day which I partially spent in Nice, the wind started up without warning. Terrifying gusts, from all points of the compass, howling of unsuspected apertures in the house, slamming of shutters, alarming creaking and groaning from trees and even our roof-beams. It was the beginning of a violent storm: the rain, thunder and lightning hit about a minute later. An hour later still, and all was calm again.

This morning, the sun was streaming in through the windows and the sky was a Wedgwood blue, but, when I looked out towards the Alps, there was fresh snow. Considering I was swimming in the sea only the day before yesterday, this was climate change indeed.

Cooperative Agricole

An Italian friend encouraged us to visit the local Coopérative Agricole, saying the prices were keen and the apples, in particular, were excellent. Today being definitely not swimming weather - high seas and a very cold wind - we decided we would take her up on her advice.

The locale was somewhat nondescript, like one of those temporary car parks occupying wasteland whilst planning permission is being sought for a building. Inside, though, it was an Aladdin's cave of odds and sods useful for farmers, from bales of twine through to rubber galoshes of a kind I hadn't seen in forty years. There was jam, too, and wine, along with olive oil, soap and large quantities of orange flower water (what for, I wonder?).

At the checkout, with a strange assortment of items, we watched as a customer tried to pay for a hefty pole, about two metres long and maybe three or four centimeters in diameter. He knew what he wanted it for, but the caissière didn't know what it was, and asked the other checkout operator.

Quick as a flash, and manifesting absolute certainty, he cried out, for all the Coopérative to hear:

"C'est un manche de fourche à fumier, ça."

Good to know there's an address where you can still buy one, should the manure turning urge come on suddenly.

Real and imagined pleasures

Antibes offers all kinds of pleasures. Some of them belong to dream peddlers, who basically tell you what you need for the good life and happiness - such as having not one, not two but three monstrous outboards for your permanently idle yacht tender. Others are just unbelievably simple, like these seniors just chattering with a glam, bikini blonde whilst taking the mid-October sun on the beach, raising their voices to be heard over the surf.

Villefranche sur Mer

Today demanded somewhere different. After a couple of glowering days, the Sunday weather forecast sounded good. Blue skies, clement winds, smooth seas. We decided to head for Villefranche sur Mer, erstwhile Mediterranean base for the Tsarist navy.

Villefranche is a deep bay just after Nice. A wonderful sight for tourists, but an exceptional haven for ships. Today, for instance, there was a meeting for lateen rigged boats: they sailed prettily in the roads, and their crews wined and dined copiously on the quayside (paella and rosé by the look of it).

Our visit was more strenuous. Starting from the sea-level railway station, we headed almost vertically up to the Mont Alban fort, some seven-hundred feet up the cliffs. We started in what was effectively a tunnel; la Carriera Scura, the dark street. Afterwards, it was just the equivalent of staircases in the open air. We lost count of the steps. Once down, we dooked ourselves in a pellucid sea before heading for an indifferent lunch in the lanes of the old town.

Visually, Villefranche sur Mer is one of the prettiest towns of the Riviera. The kind of place which makes you wonder why you have wasted so much of your life not living there. But once back in Antibes, we realised that picturesque cliffs aren't everything.

Psalmody Antibes style

Just round the corner from our house, just beyond the Archives Municipales, there is a nondescript house with an arched doorway. There are many of these arches in Antibes, and this one didn't look too special. However, when the sun slants across the limestone at the right angle, shallow, crude epigraphy reveals itself.

The spelling is barbarous, and this is what I think it ought to be saying, corrected, in rhyme:

Ecce quam bonum
Et quam iocundum
Habitare fratres in unum

Oh how nice, and oh how jolly, that the brothers live together

Trite, until you realise it is a quote from Psalm 132 (133), often set to music during the reign of François 1er, and certainly sung by Savonarola's supporters during their holy hooliganism. Not an innocent text. So perhaps a more appropriate biblical rendering is in order:

Behold how good and joyful it is for brothers to live in unity.

By the way, there appears to be a date on the chamfered underside of the lintel. Can anybody decipher it?

Looking the part and walking the walk

Back in the Esterel, this time with boots and hiking sticks. Last time, though we enjoyed the spectacular, Colorado in miniature scenery, we had had some pretty hairy moments coming down scree paths, wondering when mincing steps would turn into involuntary skiing down the unstable gravel. This time, we were equipped. It felt fairly self-conscious, but the extra kit proved its worth almost immediately. All the other oldies on the trail were sporting it too.

We didn't backslide once.

This evening called for a walk along the port. The Better Half had strained her vocal cords instilling bibliographical skills to the equivalent of Secondary Ones, whilst I had tempted my luck in warm, ideal swimming waters, but had not counted on a close, groin-centred encounter with the dreaded meduses.

So we were both in need of flanerie. During this pursuit of inner peace through outward, meaningless displacement, we passed all kinds of yachts. Those clearly closed up because of death/taxes/financial ruin; those in search of a more active owner; those whose crew just hope they can go on waiting and polishing; those whose days in the port are numbered.

Various scenes stay in the retinal memory. A group of Germans, perhaps gay, trying, ever so seriously, to look as if they were having a good time on the quarterdeck of an obviously medium-sized yacht; a Swiss chap trying to look happy... whilst drinking himself, panama-hatted, to oblivion on a sailing yacht - completely alone. His reading matter was the floor plan of a flat, not of a yacht.

Suddenly, a spark of hilarity lit us up. A Canadian yacht was berthed at the end of a pier. It was a very ordinary yacht (at the going tariff of a million quid per metre) but it had just the most impressive 'equipment' we have ever seen. No aircraft carrier has a 'bollock' like this, which is so big there is a man-hatch approximately man-sized. Difficult to imagine, apart from the usual 'mine is bigger than yours' playground ritual, what such a big sphere might contribute to.