In the pockets of quiet between now and when I last logged a post, when the cement mixer, angle saw and core drill have been unplugged, I’ve been downloading some brain flotsam and working on first drafts of those downloads.  But in that process I’ve neglected to feed and water the blog.  It doesn’t appreciate a deprived stomach or a dry throat.  Who does?

Thought a boot of beer wouldn’t be a bad way to make amends.

Our next door neighbor’s dog, Bless, begins his day with breakfast, a pee, and a howling session. The morning howl routine is a recent development, pretty much since spring sprouted in our part of the world.  God only knows what’s compelling Bless to face the mountains in the distance and call out as he does, although I think it’s something in his DNA.

I often hear the first howl erupt when the sun still hasn’t cleared the top of Cap d’Or and a sliver of the moon is still visible in the sky.  They sound, these howls, like they start in the belly, like the tension in his body is nearly unbearable until he tosses back his head and lets one rip.

The release must be heaven.  Sometimes I’m sorely tempted to join him.

Rain Leads to Shoes

Monday was a rainy, dismal day in Florence.  We walked around for as long as we could stand it, visited Santa Croce, and then Tim and I decided we’d be happier dealing with the crappy weather in our own way.  He ducked into more churches; I shopped for a sweater.  But wound up with these shoes – always had a soft spot for patent.

Hello, new shoes.  Your life will be spent in the very close company of my feet, but rest assured you’re in good hands.  If you get wet, I’ll only use a soft towel to dry you, and you’re definitely worth regular changes of socks.  So, no worries there.

(Do you talk to your shoes?  If so, I’d love to know about it.  Shoe communicators like company.)

I delighted in my shoes all day yesterday, especially as we made the pilgrimage to Michaelangelo’s David on our last morning in Florence. The new shoe shine has not lessened today as I took doggie for his morning walk around Ferrara, our home for the next two weeks.

Ferrara – “The City of Bicycles”

They aren’t kidding.  They’s everywhere.  I will have to hoist myself and my new shoes upon a bike while we’re here.  If it weren’t for the cars and buses and bicycle riders far more confident than myself, I’d be more excited about this.  As it stands, I’m a little on edge about riding helmetless on cobbled streets amidst traffic.  But, I’ll get over the edge and the nerves and peddle with joy around this lovely town…when the day comes.

The apartment we’ve rented in Ferrara was once a hospital.  Until a few years ago, the building was a wreck but has since been converted into apartments, offices and swanky shops.  I’ve uploaded a couple of pics to Flickr, including one that shows the original beams on the ceilings.  More photos in the days ahead.

“One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats.” – Iris Murdoch

My fingers are having a typo figary,  producing “Irish” whenever I want to type “Iris”…

At any rate, with the exception of a nice, long afternoon walk if the rain holds off, we’re taking it easy today.  Even though we’re very excited about where we are.  Because we’ve been hither and thither for the past four weeks and have caught colds and need a little non-sightseeing time..

Plus – and it’s a jim-dandy of a “plus “- we have an EXCELLENT broadband connection which means we can send emails with 21st century speed, upload photos, make phone calls, have multiple tabs running in Firefox.  Finally!

AND – this is a jim-dandy of an “and “- there’s enough juice in the ADSL that I can listen to a live stream of RTE 1.  This morning I heard an interview of and some poetry read by Paul Durcan on the Pat Kenny show which is followed by the ringing of the Angelus bells at noon.  I love Irish radio.  I also love Spanish Radio 3 and Radio Clásica.

I can’t tell you how happy I am to be cooling my jets in one country while listening to live radio from another – station hopping between the stations of two different countries to be more exact – within the four walls of a very, very old building with old ceiling beams but new plumbing.   Small treats.  Big happy.

* * * * * * *

Side note:  If you’re more into the touristy side our travels, mosy to my other blog, Flying Ready for that kind of commentary and photos.  So far, I’ve only covered the Tuscany leg, but the Lake Como/Florence stint is next.

So, life’s been a little crazy in my world as of late.  (Hence the long blog pause.)  We moved house and said a sniffly good-bye to Pool Duck, our faithful little swimming pool temperature checker for the past seven months.  We experienced mad amounts of rain.  We dealt with internet outages out the yin yang.  We hosted visitors.  We figured out what we’re going to do with ourselves now that we’re homeless:  Italy, here we come.

Huzzah, we have an itinerary:

October 6 -  long-ass drive from Moraira to Aix-en-Provence.  Find a hotel with secure parking and forget the car for a couple days.

October 9 -  San Remo or Genoa or somewhere in between.

October 10-17- Lucca, a city not far from the Tuscan coast. Visit Florence and Siena while we’re in Tuscany.

October 17-30 – Argegno, a village on Lake Como.  Visit Milan and Verona while we’re in the area.

October 31 – November 2 – No plans.  Playing it by ear.  Will get to celebrate All Saints Day somewhere.

November 3 – 16 – Ferrara, which sounds like a gem of a city.  Visit Padua and Bologna, too.

After that we’ll return to Spain, and on the way will stop over in Roquebrun and Barcelona, but might also try to squeeze in a day or two in Marseille. Or, we’ll just get a ferry from Livorno to Barcelona.  It all depends on how travel jaded we are at that stage.

If you’re betting people, start wagering about the collective weight gain of our little trio, and yes I’m including the dog in this.  It’s bound to happen, because if salami is in the vicinity Rufus will not rest until we give him at least a suggestion of it.  Frankly, I could use a food minder on this trip myself, because I’m half resolved to eat my way through it.  And why not?  I’ve packed clothing that forgives.

Luckily, the Italian dictionary (Oxford, Beginner’s Italian Dictionary) I ordered from Amazon UK arrived in time, so I’ve been leafing through it looking for words that catch my eye.  These trend towards being phrases I’m least likely to need, like l’acqua si rivesava nella cucina or “the water was pouring into the kitchen.”  Funny how disasters sound so perfectly lovely in certain languages.

Between the rented accommodation search, the power outage causing our wireless network to go apeshit, and an ongoing battle with ant (home) infestations it’s been a busy week so far.  But busy in an empty-handed way.  Except for the wireless network, which is back to behaving nicely.   As for the ants, they stoke the raver and ranter in me.  It’s not pretty.

Anyhow, I have six Rufus/wall photos left, but I’m not enthused about extending the series through the rest of September and into October even though I have enough photos to do so. Flying ready itchy for something else.

In five out of six cases, you’ll have to trust me that the location is as labeled.  The exception is a no brainer.

Minerve

Rufus, Minerve, May 2008

Minerve is an old, old, old village built alongside a gorge.  The catapult Simon de Montfort used to lay siege in the 12th century still stands.  He got it into his head to lead a crusade against the Cathars, and Minerve was most definitely a Cathar town while that lasted.

Terrible, terrible things were done to the Cathars in the name of God.  In the nearby city of Beziers, every one of its inhabitants – human and beast and irrespective of age or culpability – are said to have been executed in front of the main cathedral because they defended the Cathar citizens amongst them.  If this is true, it’s ranks among the hideous-beautiful stories of the time.

Minerve is well worth a visit if you happen to find yourself in the Minervois part of the Languedoc.  There are cafes serving very good food and beautiful views, a nice bookstore and some artist ateliers.  The local wine is tops.

On one side of the amazing man-made bridge that stretches across the gorge and takes you into the town, there’s a natural bridge under which runs a river for much of the year.  (During the warmer months, the river dries up if there isn’t much rain).  The river bed itself is shallow enough that you can probably just wade your way under the bridge, that is if your feet to freeze off.  Tim tried to do that and didn’t get very far.  He said it was some of the coldest water he’s known.  Ever ever.  And he’s Irish, so if he wimped out on wading any further then you know the water’s effing cold.

Collioure

Rufus, Collioure, 2008

Collioure is beautiful.  It just is.  It’s a somewhat glitzy French Mediterranean town of yachts, people walking around in bathing suits that are a few centimeters away from being birthday suits, and outdoor cafes packed with snazzy people sipping snazzy drinks.  But also a town of artists, and simply, naturally stunning coastline.  Southwest of Perpignon, Collioure remains on our list of places we always said we’d go back to for a weekend and never did.  It’s about six hours north from where we are now, so we can still make good on our yapping if we have our druthers and feel inspired to take the steam iron out of hibernation because we want to dress like semi-mature adults who take an interest in our grooming. It’s not a town where you feel that it’s fine and dandy to traipse about all rumpled.  Don’t let that scare you away, my rumpled friends.  It was one of the loveliest towns we saw along the French Med.

Millau

Rufus Butt, Millau, 2008

En route to Fontainbleau last November (where I hugged a fireplace) we took the motorway that includes the Norman Foster bridge near Millau.  The A-75 cuts through the stunning, spectacular Massif Central.  So, even without the added splendor of the bridge across the river Tarn, the scenery is worth a looksee in and of itself.  Going north, once you cross the bridge you can pull over to a rest stop area.  On the far side of the parking lot there’s a path that takes you to a viewing spot where you can pause to take a thousand pictures in pursuit of the perfect shot of the bridge in all its glory.

Maybe you’ll get your perfect snap, or maybe you’ll have to make do with a good one,  Or maybe you’ll get the equivalent of this one here where my dog’s butt shares center stage with the bridge itself.  Sorry about that. It’s the best of the bunch, though.

Bordeaux

Rufus, Bordeaux, 2008

Last Decmeber we stopped in  Bordeaux for two nights on our way to Cherbourg where we would catch the ferry to Ireland.  The weather was cold and gray, exactly as I like it to be in late December because it makes all the Christmas lights stand out that much more.  While in Bordeaux we drank warm, spiced wine (blech) at the Christmas market and got to see a student demonstration, two items that have never appeared on my to-do list.

And yes, my dog was wearing a doggy jacket when this photo was taken.  He doesn’t have a whole lot of fur on his belly!  It was really cold outside!  I bought it on sale at Old Navy before we moved!

He’s always a hit with women when he wears it.  Which makes it a hit with Tim, too, though he pretends otherwise.  The big faker.

Roqeubrun

The first photo is actually one of the last photos I took of Roquebrun, the lovely Hérault village in which we lived for 10.5 months and that nearly killed us with boredom and drafts towards the end.  Slight exaggeration.  Only slight.  That house was cold 24/7.  So we fled to the warmer climate of Spain in March, and have spent the past couple months trying to not expire from heat and boredom as we ride out the soaring temperatures and the tourist season.  I’m sensing a pattern….

Rufus, Mimosa Fete, 2009

At any rate, this first photo was taken during the annual Mimosa festival in February, a rollicking good fête that I cannot believe I didn’t recap in this blog.  God, I must have been in a funk.  The crowds were amazing, there was food and music and wine, and a parade of bands and floats.  There were one or two displays of public drunkenness, and apparently one incident that necessitated calling the gendarmes.  It’s not a party unless the gendarmes arrive, you know.

Rufus, Roquebrun, 2008-ish

In this very last photo of our darling dog posed atop a precipice, Rufus smiles for the camera on the bridge leading into Roquebrun.  He trotted along this wall many, many times, never a worry that he might slip and fall into the river far below.  He left all the heart-pounding worry to me.  Because I’m an expert on that.

If you’re wondering, as any sensible person would, why we let him trot the bridge as he did, there’s a simple explanation:  he won the battle.  Too many times, he’d be walking alongside nice and quiet, and then without warning he’d hurl himself onto the ledge.  We decided we’d have more control over the situation if we facilitated it our way rather than leaving it to Rufus’ own devices.  That’s very similar to the argument made by the legalize-pot crowd.  They might be on to something.