PHIL AND I -

- that's Phil as in Queen Elizabeth Windsor's hubby - rarely agree on anything [a fact which I'm sure causes His Royal Highness great concern]. However, I thought, initially, that there was going to be an exception when last week he pronounced Olympic opening ceremonies to be a waste of time.

I hate all sport, so I don't watch it, follow it or heed its ceremonials. Oh, all right, I allowed myself ever such a little "hooray" when Wales won the "Grand Slam" in 2005 and I'd sing along to "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau" at the beginning of rugby matches, but that's because I like the song. Then I would switch off the TV.

But for some reason I did happen to watch the opening ceremony of the Turin Winter Olympics this year and astonished myself by cheering the Italian team at the top of my voice when they came out - not because of their sporting prowess, of which I know nothing, but because, in their Moschino shiny coats, they were the best-dressed of the lot!

So sorry, Phil - we continue to differ.

AN ELECTION RESULT AND CONSEQUENTIAL THOUGHTS

According to an article in the “Independent Online” yesterday, Sicily “has confirmed its dubious reputation” by voting Cuffaro back in as regional President. [Rita Borsellino did manage to reduce his majority, though.]

Personally, I don’t think it’s as simple as that. From what I observe [ and I appreciate that I’m a very new observer] it seems more a case of Sicily’s demonstrating its innate conservatism.

The Prodi government has scotched the project to build a bridge across the Strait of Messina which would have linked Sicily directly with the mainland. Sicily really needs the development to go ahead as the port traffic is in chaos. According to an article [not available online] in La Sicilia today, Sicilians feel abandoned by the centre-left and therefore it is no surprise that they vote for the right.

Messina, by the way, is one of the loveliest places I have ever visited, in any country: if you are fortunate enough to go there one day, do take a bus ride to the furthest point of the Strait. I wrote in my diary of a few years ago that “the water was all hues of blue and purple, with glints of silver every now and then. As we neared the Torre Faro, I found myself crying at the sight of such beauty – and at the romance, the sense of myth and the fact that time outwits us all”. I decided then that I wouldn’t mind one of the villas along that road, in the unlikely event that I one day make my fortune! I also remember sitting in the hotel restaurant, which had a fine view of the lighthouse , the Strait and the Calabrian coast on the other side, thinking of all those who had, during the early part of the last century, left Sicily by that route in search of a better life in other lands. And I thought about the tragedy of forced emigration.

Now, of course, Sicily itself is the recipient of would-be immigrants as mainly Moroccans but other Africans, too, board illegal boats in their hundreds to try to get into Europe via Sicily. Most of them are taken to the detention centre on Lampedusa and the police are overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Last year, there was a tragedy at the beach of Sampieri near here, when several clandestini were drowned during a night of rough seas. Some were never identified. How awful for their families, never to know… Sicilians, of all peoples, have reason to be sympathetic to the plight of such desperate souls, and from what I have seen and heard, most are.

As for Sicily’s “dubious reputation”, one of my reasons for writing this blog is to demonstrate that it not an island wholly populated by racketeers – though of course that side exists – but that people do live normal lives here, that it is one of the most stunningly beautiful places on earth and that the hospitality, friendship and kindness it is possible to find here are unrivalled in the world.

OUT AND ABOUT

Fast forward to the present time now, dear reader[s]. These images remind me why I came and I offer them to cheer you [and myself] up. All are in Modica Bassa:

1] Balconies in the Portico area: when I arrived, last June, I used to sit outside the Caffè Macchiato or the Caffè del Portico and look up at the people on these balconies looking down! I used to imagine their lives...

2] The Portico area

3] More balconies in the Portico area.

MOVING STORY - 6

Second extract from diary of 27.5.05
Cardiff, UK

As I said, Anita arrived with screwdrivers, which I’d asked her to bring, and cleaning materials, which I had not. Dear, kind woman, she really set to work. However, it soon transpired that my vacuum cleaner wasn’t good enough – “You should have got a Dyson” ; my cleaning materials weren’t strong enough – “You should have gone to a builder’s merchant to get sugar soap”; (I wouldn’t know a builder’s merchant’s if I fell into one and I’ve never even heard of sugar soap!) And my cleaning skills were definitely not up to scratch! None of this was said unkindly – quite the contrary – but I was emotional and panicky, waiting for the call, so it didn’t take much to upset me. And the way Anita was getting stuck in, I thought I was never going to get out of there! “I was only going to vacuum it”, I said pathetically.

Jane arrived in the middle of all this and agreed with me that we should just leave it. I eventually burst into tears and howled in Jane's arms that I wasn’t a practical person, that I wanted everything to be “normal” again, that I wanted my nose stuck in a book or a newspaper and that I wanted my dog!

Anita started with the screwdrivers, getting picture hooks down, which I must say I was more concerned about than winning the “Housewife of the Year” award.

Then Jane called the phone company for me – an hour-long performance to get through to them and eventually they agreed to cut off the phone at midday but they kept saying that I hadn’t given them a month’s notice so I would have to pay for calls till July. So there was me howling, Anita unscrewing hooks and Jane trying to get sense out of the phone company – the only utility co. that I have had any trouble with, by the way. (The phone was still on when I left the house; I’ll deal with that by cancelling the direct debit and by letter from Italy.)

After Jane had gone, I needed a scissors for something and of course, they had all been packed. So I went across the road to borrow one from Sylvia who was sympathetic and so I burst into tears all over again. She made me a cup of tea and was very nice.

When I got back to the house I announced to Anita that I was going at 2pm, phone call or not and clean or not. Then I wrenched the bloody vacuum cleaner from her hand, at which point she did stop! I paid for a taxi for her – the least I could do, bless her. It’s terribly difficult when someone is trying to help you but only succeeding in winding you up further!

One more check around the house, one more cry and I left it forever at 2.30 pm. Of course, ‘er-next-door made sure she was outside, so I just shouted, “Sorry, – not stopping or I’ll get upset” and I fair ran down the road, thinking, “I am doing this for the last time”. Just as I was reaching the bus stop, the solicitor’s call came and everything was through.

True to form, the no 8 bus did not come so, as time was going on, I hailed a taxi to the apartment. G&T and I was (almost) as right as rain. Thought, “Right, I’ve now got an hour to buy an outfit for tonight” – a meal had been arranged in the Bay with the college lot plus other friends . Dashed to “Elvi” and splashed out on a summery number in turquoise, dashed back to flat, bathed, changed and redid make-up; then a taxi to Gavin Alexander’s in the Bay for a hairdo. They have a bar on the premises now and it has a very relaxing atmosphere with a lovely view of the Bay. I got into conversation with a 50-ish man and, if he hadn’t been married - I know he was married as 50-ish men with some degree of intellect and good looks always are, in Britain! - I might have made a hit! Amazing what an expensive outfit and a hairdo will do for you! It’s because they give you confidence and confidence attracts.

So in the space of an hour and a half the wimpering, tired, dowdy woman had disappeared and in her place was a giggly female in turquoise who could still get chatted up!

Then met the friends at De Miro’s and it was quite a night! Everyone was lovely and when they put on Dino singing “That’s Amore” I was completely gone!

MOVING STORY - 5

Diary extract from 27.5.05

Cardiff, UK

9.30 am and I am here in the empty, silent house, waiting for the solicitor’s call.

I have just taken a photo of Giley’s rose and hopefully that will help me leave it.

As my friend Jane says, it is all about “letting go”. My mother was very good at this; I am not. Yet we all have to “let go” in the end, don’t we?

I was thinking the other day that what I am doing is letting go not only of the house, but of Cardiff. The city drives me mad at times, but, wherever you live permanently, you know how it works. Now I am letting go of my parameters of safety and familiarity. However well you know a place from numerous visits, it is not the same as living there and so, even with the friends and support I know I will have there, this is partially a leap into the unknown and unfamiliar. I am sure that the familiarity and security will come, but it will take time.

Partly I am writing this now because if I stop writing and sit here thinking I will cry again! I am perfectly all right in the apartment, because it is a stage on my way to a new life and there I am looking to the future. But here I am, inevitably, looking back. In this house I have loved, lost love, pined, laughed, been afraid and grieved. I have hidden from creditors in it and I have also sorted myself out – emotionally and financially – in it. And in this house I took the momentous decision that I cannot hang on to it any more and that, at 55, I shall follow my “sogno d’Italia”.

Yesterday, after the study had been emptied, I sat in its hollowness and remembered when it was 2 small rooms rather than 1 large one, and the larger of these was Mum’s room. I again cried my eyes out. I looked out at my ash tree, the leaves of which seemed to salute me for the last time and I thought, “How strange not to see this view again”. It was such a pretty little house when I moved in so long ago. I didn’t think I’d be able to hold on to it for a year, let alone 21 years! All gone now….

Friends will not “let go”. I think some of them are worse at it than even I am! It is as if everyone wants to hold on now that I am leaving. Yet many people don’t bother the rest of the time. Of course, my good friends always help if asked – but it is hard to ask when you are on your own – and they don’t say routinely, “How about a change of scene tonight?” or “Come and have a cup of tea”. This is partly to do with busy lives again, but it is also to do with the fact that there are very few people who have lived on their own for any decent amount of time – or who even spend 24 hours completely on their own.

How many times have I looked out at that ash tree and felt aching loneliness? I am good at being on my own and happy in my own company with a book but what people don't understand is that it would be nice to have a choice in the matter!

Come on, solicitor! I want to get out of here. It is not good for me to be hanging around in this shell. For the house is only a shell, just as our bodies are. “Moving is grieving”. I have concluded it is more like a kind of death.

On Wednesday night, Sue and Liz came to view my “exec-pad” and then we had a meal in “La Tasca” (below the apartment). Nice to have the company. They said I was being brave and that they are impressed at the way I’ve organised the whole thing! (I must admit, I’m quite impressed by me myself!) It felt very odd not to be going back to Grangetown with them afterwards.

12.45 Have to break off as Anita has arrived with an armful of cleaning materials and screwdrivers!

MOVING STORY - 4

Diary extract from 25.5.05

Cardiff, UK

Gosh! Over a week since I last had time to write. The time is going so fast now! I’ll try to remember last week but it’s as if all the days have blurred into one.

On Tuesday I went to see the bank. Now, when I enquired before, I was told there would be no problem with keeping a British bank account. But on Tuesday I was told it would not be possible unless I kept a British address. This is ridiculous as there is now supposed to be freedom of movement within the EU and I felt quite flumoxed. But eventually they said it would be OK as long as I give a friend’s British address – and a couple of friends have since offered. But it’s so stupid : that account has to function for at least a couple of months [as there will still be direct debits, etc and cheque payments coming out / going in] and surely one ought to be able to be independent of family and friends, especially in this age of internet banking? Surely that’s the point of it? – that you can do it anywhere in the world! Barclays and the other big banks have ex-pat schemes on their websites but I don’t have time to sort that out now. [Because I am scared of money – even when I’ve got some! – I leave everything to do with it till the last possible minute or even the minute after that!]

When I got home neighbour Joanie knocked on the door offering help, so yanked her inside and we got a lot done up here in the study. Then she found my vinyl collection and was so fascinated and excited by it that little more got done - we ended up singing Elvis and Cliff tunes instead! But she kindly took some things to the charity shop for me later and we had had a good time! How sad that we’ve been neighbours for years and didn’t know we shared an interest. This is because of our busy and stressful lives.

I’d come across a life-size photo of Dad’s dad; not only was it life-sized; it was also tatty. “Sorry, Richard E,”, said I, “you’ll have to go”. But I also had here Richard E’s Certificate of Honourable Discharge from the Navy, signed by George V and dated 1916. [RE was blinded at the Battle of Jutland.] Again, it’s quite a big, unwieldy thing, and for years I have wondered what to do with it. I even thought of giving it to the Maritime Museum at one point, but somehow couldn’t make myself do it. [I suppose it must have been mounted and framed at one time and I don’t know how it had come to be unmounted and unframed – I only came across it after Mum’s death.] So I called the frame shop in Grangetown and, because I have had things done there before and put other business their way, they said they would mount and frame it for me in double-quick time. Picked it up on Friday and very smart it looks, appropriately mounted on navy and gold with a brown wooden frame. When I got home, I said, “Well, Richard E, I hope that makes up for your photo.” It will have pride of place in my Sicilian home. So Chief Petty Officer Richard E takes to the seas again!

By Wednesday I was feeling quite ill with exhaustion: it’s been the sheer physical graft and the fact that I am just not used to having people around me all the time. – I do not say this ungratefully as I could not manage without the kind friends who are helping. But I did get some time to myself to sort papers up here: I had to make a decision about Mum’s post-mortem papers and decided, really, that there is no point in keeping them; they only make me sad. So I shredded them.

On Thursday Simi and I went to the vet to get her smart pet’s passport [her papers are much more organised than mine!] and then home – how strange that I won’t be able to call it that after tomorrow – where I did more sorting and shredding.

I decided I look terrible as well as feeling terrible. But I’m not going to Sicily looking like this – no, siree! – so have booked a facial and a hair colour for Sat am. A gal has to try!

Thursday evening went next door and had a lovely, relaxing meal and a long chat with neighbours Sue and Liz. It was good to unwind.

Friday: At 08.10 the rubbish clearance man came, as he had promised. He took away all the bags [better to pay him to do it than make myself ill with the carrying yet again] and the conservatory furniture; I went all trembly when I saw that go as the conservatory – which I had had built in 1994 – was a haven of peace and normality at a very difficult time of my life. Had to sit down for a bit after it went. Yet “They’re only things”, my mother would have said.

Then went to Tesco’s with a much shorter shopping list than usual! “Goodbye” says the sign as you leave. “Goodbye indeed”, I thought. Felt very low so purchased an Italian CD – Patrizio Buanne singing all the old songs – and thought, “Why am I buying an Ital CD when I am going there permanently in less than a fortnight?” But I knew perfectly well why, of course – because Italian music would cheer me up!

Then back to the shredding and sorting and yet another decision: you are supposed to keep tax papers for, I think, 3 years so I still have some that I should keep. But I decided “Sod it – I’d have to take another suitcase full of documents if I did that” so out they went. Then I found the death certificates again – Dad’s, Mum’s, Grandpa’s and Auntie’s – and that’s when I finally cracked; I sat downstairs and sobbed my heart out. I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. “I’m sorry”, I said to them all: Sorry for what? For having to throw some of their things out? [They wouldn’t have minded at all – they’d have wondered why I hadn’t done it before!] For not appreciating them when they were here? Yes, but everyone who grieves feels that; No, most of all I am sorry for not cherishing them enough while they were here; love them I always did.

When I stopped crying – which I had to, for Simi’s sake – on went the Ital CD and in not time at all I was dancing around! As I mentioned, it’s such a helter-skelter of emotions, and all in the same day.

Stayed up till 2 am Fri night / Sat morning filling in the Marine Insurance Proposal: you have to itemise virtually everything and work out its replacement value yourself – a nightmare! [Only received it Wednesday.] I don’t know how many bloody jumpers I’ve got in my under-bed storage bags, for instance, nor did I have time to get them out and count them. So took a guess at items like that. Anyway, I finally arrived at a figure to insure my possessions and most of it was to insure my books!

Saturday had my hair done and a last-but-one breakfast at Cibo. Then avoided the stupid cup final – matches at the Millennium Stadium and the bus disruption they cause always put me in the foulest of moods - came home and tried to have a “normal” evening for Simi’s sake.

Sunday got up at 7am and didn’t stop sorting and cleaning all day; felt my physical energy had returned somewhat, but by the end of the day was utterly pissed off with seeing something else to sort/clean/throw out every time I looked around. By this time the shredder had temporarily rebelled and I decided some papers would have to go in with the general rubbish; so I defrosted chicken stock ice cubes which I won’t have time to use all over them, thus making them nice and messy and illegible; what a good use for stock ice cubes! - Wish I’d thought of it before! By Sunday night I felt I was as ready as I was ever going to be for the removal men. Tried to have another “normal” night with Simi but couldn’t concentrate on the newspapers or anything. Just sat there cuddling Simi and telling her how much I love her whilst trying not to let her get my tension vibes! Slept, as always, with her little form moulded into mine and tried not to think about Monday morning.

Monday 23.5.05 took Simi for our last walk together in Grangetown; it seemed very strange as we know our route so well! Then just sat with her watching for the “Airpets” van and cuddling her. They came at lunchtime, as they had said they would and the driver was a nice girl who made a fuss of Simi. The latter, I have to say, was raring to go and did not even look back at her mummy!

Joanie was passing with her dog, Benji, just as Simi was going and she gave me a hug. I appreciated the empathy.

Spoke to Airpets yesterday and they say Simi is fine. Will ring them every other day.

Then got on with a last bit of sorting and packed my case and in-flight bag for the apartment. Martha [my friend and neighbour for all of these 21 years] ran me down there at 4 as there was yet another nuisance match in town and the traffic was being stopped at 6. [Otherwise, could have done with more time.] Had a bit of trouble finding the concierge in the chaos in The Hayes and Martha broke all the parking rules but eventually I did find him and now I am installed in a big, minimalist [!] apartment for the evenings until Monday. Everything is there: it’s airy and open-plan, with a big kitchen area with a load of up-to-the-minute appliances which I can’t work out how to use! I’ve never used a dishwaher in my life, for a start, and the washer-drier doesn’t have any washing symbols I can recognise on it! But found the instructions for the cooker so that is OK. The concierge laughed at me as I had a bag full of more or less all the remaining food contents of my kitchen – plus gin and Cointreau and ice cubes! Once I’d had a relaxing bath I realised it was a good idea to rent it as, quite apart from the comfort, it will help me make the break. Slept very well in the luxury of the double bed!

Tues 24.5.05 Up at 7 to come down here for the removal men’s arrival. They were supposed to come at 9 but by 10.30 there was no sign. Had to phone several times and the final time pointed out that I was paying c. £8000 for their services so I didn’t think I should have to be chasing them! Was then assured by Andrew R that they would be here and that the job would be done. My stress levels went sky high! By then Anita [ a friend who has been tidying the garden] was here which was just as well as I don’t think I could have coped on my own. Anyway, they did arrive – at 11.45! – but they are nice men and they are really getting on with it. They are downstairs as I write now [Wed 25.5.05]. Once they had started, I felt OK; it was sitting around looking at all my stuff still in place that wasn’t. In fact, it proved to be an easier day then any I had last week and I was even able to get up here and make the necessary remaining phone calls to utilities companies! [More of the hated financial admin.] - Proud of myself for doing it, daft though that will seem to anyone with a normal financial head.

Out of the blue yesterday, a former colleague rang and arranged for us to go out for dinner last night. We went to the Bosphorus in Cardiff Bay and the meal was excellent. Back at the apartment, flopped into a bath then bed.

Today – 25.5.05: Jane came this morning and not only provided much needed moral support, but did some paper-shredding for me. The men came early and got on with things and said they didn’t mind if I went out. So Martha took me to the solicitor [to arrange for the financial draft for the removal co on Fri], then the estate agent [to take in a set of keys], then the Tax Office [to deliver the P85 “emigrating” form] and finally Macarthur-Glenn to get [a] a wok [can’t get them in Italy!] – and [b] some new jeans and shirts as I am filthy! Then back here – I must stop calling it “home” – and I’ve more or less been on the computer ever since. Don’t know when I’ll get on again as it will have to be packed tomorrow. Will keep a hand-written diary!

There is one thing that makes me sad that I don’t think I have yet written about, and that is “Giley’s rose”. Giley’s rose is a yellow one in my garden that Sue next door gave me when Giley [Gil Blas], the last dog, died. The rose is called “Good Boy” and since Anita cut down the garden last week, it has been flowering beautifully, because it has more light; it is as if it, too, is saying “goodbye”. But Giley is in my heart, just like my Sandy-dog and Mum, Dad, Grandpa and Auntie [my great-aunt, who lived with us]. They are not in this shell of a house, or its garden, are they?

Oh! One last thing to be proud of: yesterday I tipped a few trinkets from the last man into the charity shop bin. Felt quite liberated afterwards.

Must stop now; starting to cry again; not over that bastard but over my poor Giley. But, as Jane says so wisely, it would be awful to have no regrets at leaving, wouldn’t it?

MOVING STORY - 3

Cardiff, UK
5.5.05
I can’t believe I am doing all these things: I couldn’t have done any of them without a remortgage and release of some of the equity on the house, I hasten to add. After much humming, ha-ing and further research, today I made yet another decision – me, the great procrastinator! I decided that, although kind friends and neighbours have offered to put me up during removal-packing-days and for the weekend after – and I am very grateful for their thoughtfulness - I will need to be somewhere by myself. – I guess I am so used to being by myself that it should not surprise even me! What I think is this: I don’t want to hang around the house once Simi is picked up [23/5]; the house without her means nothing to me. And then the removal men will be in the next 3 days; I don’t want to hang about here with the house totally empty, emotionally and sensuously – as it will be, without Simi – and also materially, as it will begin to be, once the stuff begins to be packed. And ‘er-next-door would be sure to say, “Oh, I bet you miss your dog”! or “Oh, I bet you miss your mum”! [which I could not cope with in the circumstances]. So – and I am quite chuffed with myself for having done this – I have found an exec-let apartment that I can rent, in town, from 23/5 evening till 10.00 am on 30/5 [the day I go to London on the 11.35 am coach]. So took it. It’s extravagant but the only time in my life I’ll do anything like this. I’ll be able to wash away the cares and dust of the days somewhere new and different and I can go to bed at 6pm if I need to! It’s cheaper than an hotel, I’ll be able to cook meals there and I can even watch satellite TV in the nude in the unlikely event that such a fancy should take me! The only extra expense would be the phone but I’ll use my mobile. I suppose I just don’t want to relinquish my independence at that stage of the move – I shall be dependent on friends the other end for quite some time, in various ways. Anyway, it would be kind of neat to end the [adult] Cardiffian phase of my life close to where I began it – downtown!

6.6.05
Today I did my shopping and thought, again, how strange it is to be riding on a bus through this city and thinking, “I might never come back”. It even occurrred to me that this leave-taking is a bit like dying. It is so odd to do the daily routine against the background of this life-changing step that I'm about to take!

My Mum always said, “Moving is like grieving”. Did she get that from somewhere or did Dad and I make her so insecure that that is how she felt? I think she had a basic truth there! Yet how can I compare it to the plight of some ladies I have taught, who have had no time to “grieve” for the familiar and have had to leave husbands and even children behind in their war-torn countries? How paltry my problems seem in comparison; yet few of us, I feel, are able to think so altruistically for long. Our own concerns and expectations will out.

Back to the practical: tonight I am celebrating because I have finally managed to co-ordinate the final part of our [ie Simone’s and mine] journey: It has taken a week of searching the internet and asking Ital friends if they know anyone who would drive us from Fontanarossa airport to Modica [on a public holiday] and I sent off and phoned enquiries but no one got back to me. Then, just as I was about to despair, at 5pm last evening, the phone went and it was “Holiday Taxis.com” and they will do it for £110! Said “yes” to the quote there and then and, as I don’t know the address of the “casetta” [“little house”] I gave Linda Churchill’s address again – then phoned her quickly! Again, bless her, she said it is fine. So the taxi can go there first and someone will take us to the casetta. I sat here with a G & T and told Simi all about it. “Simone Welshcakes Limoncello de Beauvoir”, said I, “your mummy is a clever girl”. “Welshcakes Limoncello”, said I, “you are a clever girl and I drink to me.” Though I say it myself, it is no small feat to have arranged a private, chauffered car from Catania airport in Sicily, Italy to transport a mad British woman and her dog all the way down to Modica at 5pm on a public holiday! Some of my friends here have been saying, “But surely there are mini-cabs” or “Every airport has long-distance chauffered cars”. They have clearly never landed in Italy on a bank holiday, much less at Fontanarossa, Catania! It is actually a much nicer airport these days than when I first used to go there: I can remember once waiting at a departure gate for over 2 hours in the heat and there weren’t even any seats, let alone access to refreshments. It was very crowded and we were packed into the gate area like sardines. Then the American woman next to me sighed, “Man, this is some airport” and I thought, “I’ll go along with that!” As I say, the place has improved but it is not LHR or LGW!

A few days later, my dear Sicilian friend Gina phoned, to say that she and her husband would pick up Simi and me from Catania. I thanked her but told her I thought it best to leave the arrangements as they were at this stage. It was incredibly kind of them as it would have been a long round trip for them both. It was another example of the warmth and kindness of all my Sicilian friends.

MOVING STORY - 2

2.5.05 – continued:

With regard to my belongings, sometimes I wish I was more like my mother, who was not so attached to material objects as I am. Poor woman – having to follow my father and then me around on our various moves [all propelled by financial necessity] she was probably afraid to be. But we are what we are and I can’t change that trait in myself now. And, as one Sicilian friend says, it has to be a “home from home”. My things will be a talking point, especially my books, once they arrive, hopefully a month or so after dog and me.

The past 2 weeks have been a real helter-skelter: the buyer had offered on my house at the end of Feb and I have had weeks of stupid questions from his solicitors about the configuration of my drains and other matters of which I know nothing. I was beginning to despair when all of a sudden the contract was signed! I asked for a month’s grace between that and completion and was granted it, as it is such a big move for me to co-ordinate. I gave my notice in the very next day [only a week being required as I teach on an hourly rate these days], got the international removal manager down from Swansea that very evening to do the paperwork on that contract, and blimey! – the dream began to look like a reality!

At this point, I thought I might have to go out to Sicily before completion to find a place to rent . Now, a Sicilian friend, Giovanna, [wife of the adventurous Marco] has had a tiny house left to her. She showed me this house when I was last there in Feb 2004 and said, if I did move to Sicily, that Simone [dog] and I could have it – provided she hadn’t sold it in the meantime - until we found somewhere to live permanently. The house is in Modica Bassa [“low” Modica, the old centre] and has a room with chairs, a table, a fridge, gas rings to cook on, an enclosed shower and a bedroom upstairs. It would be fine until our stuff arrived! But you may have gathered by now that I’m an awful coward and I have to get my courage up to ask people for help. [This comes of living alone as well as being shy, I think.] So it took me a week after the contract-signing to gear myself up for rejection and call Giovanna but when I did she was fantastic: “Of course you can have the casetta; just let us know when you’re coming; non c’è problema, Pat.”

I celebrated with a few gins that night, I can tell you! [a] It would give me more time to sort things here [b] it would give me more time with my precious Simone before flying and [c] it would save money on an extra trip out.

The next task was to book Simone’s flight, which I did the next day. Again, I had researched this and there are several companies that fly animals. [It is not a problem on an internal flight within a country but otherwise it is not an easy thing, even within the EU and with no quarantine!] The removal co had recommended “Airpets”: although I had researched other companies, the removal manager – Andrew R, for future reference – said he had 4 dogs of his own and if it was him, he’d use “Airpets”. – Whether he was getting commission or not, that was good enough for me! Well, a first call to “Airpets” produced the answer that “No one flies animals into Sicily”. Help ! Panic! Fear! I wish I’d thought to say, “But I know it’s possible as I’ve seen dogs and cats come into Catania and Palermo with my own eyes”! A second call produces the response that it can be done – on Air Malta – and they will send me their quote. The quote arrives 2 days later – only it is for flying Simi into bloody Sardinia! Aaaarg!! More fear and panic and I am thinking, “If that is the nearest they can get her, how will we ever get off Sardinia?” But when I finally get through to them again – I had been warned that they are very good but difficult to get hold of – it is all a mistake and the quote was meant to be for Catania! OK – I ask them to go ahead. They can book Simi’s flight but not mine on the same plane. So I ask them to let me know as soon as Simi’s flight is booked. I do not have an address yet in Sicily and I tell them this. They must have one so there is a slight delay while I call Linda Churchill and ask if we can give hers; yes, that is fine. So the next day I get an e-mail from Airpets saying that Simi’s flight has been booked on Air Malta for 2.6 – the first they can get her on – and then I hurriedly call the airline and book myself on it. Then I receive no e-mail confirmation, so call again the next day, only to find Air Malta have booked me all the way to flaming Malta via Catania! “No, no!” I say; “My dog and I are going to live near Catania!” and eventually it is sorted. Thank god I got off my indolent butt and checked with them! Simone will be picked up from here by Airpets on 23.5; then they will kennel her in London until we fly! That is going to be horrible but it is less stress for her – I decided after much deliberation – to be kenneled in one place prior to the flight. So everyone who knows me, get the tissue box ready for me on 23.5!

So far, so good. Then on Saturday I looked at Gatwick hotel availability on the internet and realised I’d have to get off my butt again if I wanted to book one. So I had a debate with myself and decided that, as I’ll be homeless [!] by the next bank holiday, I might as well spend that one on the coach to Gatwick. So booked the hotel for the 3 nights from 30.5 – 1.6 and then booked a one-way fare from Cardiff to LGW. And that’s when it hit: on that morning, I shall get a taxi across Cardiff – my city of childhood holidays from Bristol, my university city and my professional city since 1974 – for the last time [or for a very long period, at least]. And then for the first time in the whole process, I really did sit here and think, “Oh, my god; what have I done?” For there is no turning back; I’ve already burnt my bridges.

Later I phoned a friend who lives near Bologna, just to keep her up to date, and I must say I found her reaction unnerving! It was something like: “I never thought you’d actually do it; I never thought you meant it. You’ll find it difficult to find somewhere with a dog”, etc., etc.. She was not unkind, by any means, but god, she frightened me! What was the use of telling me that at this stage, for Christ’s sake?! But then I realised that it is probably [hopefully!] just a different attitude to animals - she has an enormous dog guarding her country house and it functions purely as a guard dog; and, because I have been procrastinating for so long, she probably did think it would never happen!

My friend Jane is very wise on this: she says I am in a heightened state of awareness and it is not going to take much to throw me and she is right!

On the journey front, the next thing to do is work out getting from Catania down to Modica with Simone. [2.6 is a public holiday in Italy, which will make it more difficult.]

I must also contact Sicily estate agents [2 of whom I made contact with last year, when I was trying to price the whole enterprise]. And I must send a card to my Italian hairdresser Raffaele. [My friends laugh at me, as I am usually off the bus to Modica and straight into Raffaele’s!]

So how do I feel tonight? Scared! Elated! Worried whenever the phone goes, in case it is Giovanna to say she has suddenly sold the casetta. And sometimes I look around my little house here and wonder if I will come back to haunt it.. It seems so many years since I stood at the back bedroom window with Mum, not quite knowing what I had got myself into. And I don’t know what I have got myself into again, 21 years later.

Yet if I have any real doubt about the whole adventure, I have only to look again at Browning’s words.

MOVING STORY - 1

On June 2nd, Simone the dog and I will have been in Sicily a whole, incredible year. Therefore it is natural, at this time, that I am in a reflective mood and am thinking back to all that happened and how I was feeling a year ago. I did say that I would tell you how I got here, so now seems an appropriate time to post a few of my diary entries from May and June 2005. Hopefully they will be of interest to anyone who is also thinking of "upping sticks":

2.5.05
I have loved Italy since I was 19 years old, and Sicily, in particular, for the past 13 years. The culture, the people, the food of this fascinating, beautiful island have just struck a chord with me and, despite its dark side, I know I am at home. Anywhere in Italy does it for me: I cry when I land, I cry when I leave and when I am at home in Wales I cannot even watch a TV programme about Italy without crying because I am not there. It is, in Browning’s words, “the land of lands”. I am crying as I write this, remembering so many times getting off the plane and thinking, “It'll be OK now. I’m on Italian soil.” Browning says it all:

Open my heart and you will see
Graved inside of it, “Italy.”
Such lovers old are I and she;
So it always was, so shall ever be.

“Such lovers old”, indeed. And Sicily? Well, Sicily surprised me in love. For a long time, I thought it would be Florence that would draw me back, again and again. But no, the old, stone towns of Sicily have finally beguiled me. And it is the people of Sicily who have shown me the greatest love.

I am not your run of the mill language teacher: a single woman, I have not been able to have the extended campsite or camper-van continental holidays so beloved of former colleagues. No, I have always had to struggle to get back to what Browning called, “Italy, my Italy”. And now that I have decided to take the gamble of my life and make “Persephone’s island” [thank you, Mary Taylor Simeti] my home, it will not be with the security of being able to buy a property outright – or even at all – and I shall not be growing a vineyard or making olive oil!

So how do I feel on the eve of it all?

I must admit that I veer between absolute elation and the most dire fear! The fear has not driven a hole into the pit of my stomach yet – it is not yet physical – but I’m sure that will come! For it will be a terrible wrench, leaving my little house of the past 21 years, where I have lived with my mother, sporadically, and with 3 dogs to date – the present one flying with me.

But at 55, it’s now or never; I won’t have the guts or the energy to do this if I postpone it another year. Indeed, I’m not sure about the energy bit now! Today, for instance, is the Bank Holiday, my last in my little house. So I decided not to spoil it by sorting things out. And what have I done with this day? – I have sat here admiring my copious collection of books! I tell myself it has been a last chance to gaze at the collection before they are packed up by the removal men, in a few weeks’ time.

For the removal men will be packing: I could not do it, emotionally or physically, myself. They are coming in on 24.5, for 3 days, and they have been told categorically that the books [all 4000 + of them], go on first! Then the ornamants – the personal things that a single woman with no family surrounds herself with to affirm her place in the world: “I may not have had a family, but I went there and here is the ornamant and – not the T-shirt – but a well-thumbed book from that place”.

I have done 4 years’ research on this venture: I nearly upped and went in 2000 but was not quite ready. Well-meaning friends try to find cheaper ways for me to do it: “Send some stuff by sea yourself”, says one. “Sell your furniture and buy new”, counsels another. It is kindly meant but they do not realise that [a] they are couples and so have not only help but each other’s encouragement [b] that I like my wonky Victorian dining table and other furnishings and [c] that once I had arranged my own insurance, very little would have been saved, anyway. And I have read horror stories of people who have tried to “DIY” it having their goods turned back at the border because some piece of documentation has not been sufficient – and Italy is a very bureaucratic country! So I will do it properly and the way it’s going there will be very little money left at the end of it all! So what? I have a teacher’s pension, I speak the language and I’ll survive!

BAG SHOPPING

Bag-shopping, yesterday; a cheerful summer style from Carpisa.

TIME STOPS AT MESSINA...

... says Linda C., meaning that the Sicilians have an even more "relaxed" attitude to time than Italians in general. She had to remind me of that many times last year, when I was waiting for various contracts to be signed, etc.

Back in the 1990s, when we brought two lots of school exchange students over, my colleague from the economics department, becoming more exasperated by the minute, enquired, "British time or Italian time?" every time we made an arrangement with someone.

If you agree to meet someone socially here at, say, 9.30 am., you have to bear in mind that that is probably the time they will leave their home, not the time they will actually turn up. Indeed, I remember all those years ago, in Northern Italy, panicking because my Italian boyfriend, who was driving me to the airport [a 2-hour journey] for my flight home, left the house at the time I was supposed to check in! Of course when we got to Milan no member of staff was yet at the check-in desk for my flight! "Te l'ho detto" - "I told you so", sighed Mario.

If a concert or lecture is billed to start at, say, 8pm., you can bet that nothing will happen till at least 8.45. There is endless standing around to be endured in these cases. Of course, some outdoor events in the summer have to start late because of the heat and I have no problem with that, except why can't they say it will start at 10 pm if they know that that is what will happen?!

Often if you have a group restaurant booking the same is true and the staff don't, as in the UK, make everyone comfortable with a drink while they are waiting. No one but me seems to mind the aimless hanging around.

The converse is the case with regard to Sicilian workmen and delivery staff, however, or so I have found: workmen will continue through the siesta hours and toil late into the evening until the job is done. [I suspect this is because Italians still take pride in manual work.] When I had to have a new kitchen installed in the apartment [when people move house here they rip out their kitchen and even the light fittings, which is illegal in Britain] I ordered it on a Monday and it was in and functioning by the end of Wednesday of the same week! Delivery men will give you an approximate time and then ring you when they are on the way - a refreshing change from the UK where, if you're lucky, you will be grudgingly told whether they intend to materialise in the morning or afternoon; then you wait all day and no one appears or has the courtesy to call you to explain the delay.

So "Time stops at Messina" but it doesn't always do so in Modica!

A POSTER WAR

There are regional elections in Sicily this weekend and great fun is being had by all sides in the matter of billsticking. On the corner here one party sticks up half a dozen or so of its posters, the next day the Comune's billposter comes along and covers them up with austere notices stating that the election notices have been placed there in contravention of Law 212 of 04-04-1956, then the day after that another party pastes its posters over these and so it goes on. It keeps someone in a job! I haven't taken a photo as there is probably a law against taking photos of notices referring to Law 212 of 04-04-1956 [which states, by the way, that election posters can only be displayed on special hoardings].

Actually it could be an interesting election as Rita Borsellino, the sister of the murdered judge, is standing for the regional Presidency. If she wins, she will be the first woman to hold the office here. She is certainly a brave woman.

PETTO DI POLLO

This simply cooked chicken breast is one of my favourite meals at L'Altro Posto. Here you do not get charged for the bread, as is the appalling practice in Britain [and even then, you usually get one measly roll]. I like the way, in most bars and restaurants here, the cutlery is sealed in a sort of envelope, so you know it's absolutely clean. Yes, that is a mineral water, not a g and t, that you see lurking there. [Oh, OK, then - I hid the g and t for the photo!]

Today it is sweltering and I was the only idiot sitting outside rather than in the air-conditioned interior. I've been here long enough now to know that that was a bit daft, but "Mad Dogs and Englishwomen...." I should also get it into my head, as dear old George Mikes said, that "Sunshine is not a miracle in Italy".

THE BEST DESSERT IN THE WORLD

If there's one thing I have always hated, it's a heavy, British Sunday lunch. Sorry, compatriots! And yes, I do know that this meal is less heavy these days.

But back in the days when the only way we Brits cooked vegetables was to drown and overboil them, my Dad used to yell at me to eat them all up and I just couldn't. And Mum would look so weary, after spending the whole morning in the steamy kitchen and straining to ensure that everything was ready at exactly the same moment. [This has always seemed to me a more complicated process than producing a ten-course banquet.]

So, when I first came to Italy, there were two revelations: the first was that you could eat perfectly well on a Sunday [or any other day] without putting yourself through this performance; the second was that you could just have fruit for dessert and that it was more satisfying than the most elaborate sweet concoction.

Above is a plate of nespole.

ANGURIA

"We're going to eat anguria", announced Lucia, the Italian woman I stayed with in 1969. I didn't even know what that was and had she said, in English, "watermelon", I'd have been none the wiser, for I had never seen one.

An hour or so later, after much convivial deseeding of the enormous slices of fruit, I tasted it - and thought I had truly found the food of the gods. It was so refreshing and energising and the soft flesh just slid down my throat [and the juice down my chin!]

On mainland Italy, particularly at tourist sites, they sell the slices, along with coconut slices drenched in water, from stalls, but I have not seen them sold like that here.

When it was time to go back to Britain, I told my Italian boyfriend that I would like to take an anguria home if I could find a smallish one. "What do you think they're like? - tennis balls?!" he exclaimed and went off shaking his head at the stupidity of this 19-year-old British girl who didn't know that there is no such thing as a small anguria.

Back in London exotic fruit was just beginning to appear in supermarkets and foreign grocery stores so Dad and I scoured North London till we found a watermelon. But the flesh wasn't the vivid pink colour I had seen in Italy and it didn't taste the same - and they still don't, in Britain.

I read that they are now trying to produce an entirely seedless variety [and may have done so, for all I know]. Now where's the fun in that?!

Here peaches, nectarines, cherries and nespole [medlars], which I have never seen in Britain, are all reappearing. I spotted the first anguria lorry last week and was immediately transported back to that first Italian summer of mine in 1969.

BARS, EATERIES - AND LOOS!

Twelve euros today for an ice cream and two gin and tonics at the Caffè del Portico in Modica Bassa. That’s up two euros from when I used to sit there last year! Their ice creams are good and come with little coloured wafers in the shape of hats and they mix a good g and t, but I could get a meal for that price up here in the Sorda district. Come to think of it, I could get the same combination further down at Bar Ciacera for about five euros. Mind you, I don’t know what they do to the g and t in there – it just doesn’t taste right – maybe they put the ice in after the tonic. I suppose the Portico can charge a higher price because it is likely to get the passing trade of the tourists as they make their way along to Santa Maria [a lovely church where there is a famous terracotta crib].

Round the corner here there is a trattoria, called, quite simply, Trattoria, where you can eat well for ten or twelve euros. [A trattoria will have a limited, local menu and / or a set menu. The dishes will usually be beautifully cooked.] On a Sunday, they serve rabbit cooked with olives, a typical local dish, and very good it is, too. I know at least one person who comes from Ragusa every Sunday just for this. However, I am not a wine drinker and they don’t keep gin and tonic there, so I don’t go as often as I used to. I do like to relax with my aperitivo, as you will have gathered.

Bar Metro, opposite the Post Office, is a pleasant place to recuperate over a lemon tea [yes, I do actually drink tea as well!] after a long encounter with Poste Italiane. They serve a nice, complimentary, little plate of cakes or biscuits with the tea and it quite revives me. If I go there at aperitivo time, their g and t is fine.

Bar Follie, right at the far end of the Via Sacro Cuore, is also very relaxing. It has a quiet, enclosed garden area and they produce good, fresh, simple salads and make a sublime risotto.

Then there is Rosy Bar, around the corner in Via Risorgimento. It is large and airy and a good place for a tea. I often meet friends there.

But my favourite bar/eatery of all has got to be L’Altro Posto, half-way along the Via Sacro Cuore. It is very popular and it is pleasant to sit inside or out. Most importantly for me, they now know me and have my g and t ready before I sit down! The food is always freshly and superbly cooked [and you know they are using fresh ingredients as you often see the staff out buying them in the mornings] and they produce glorious combinations of ice cream. The staff are friendly and the service is good. [They will not forget about you when it is busy, as the staff in many British establishments are wont to do.]

If you are not used to Italy, you may wonder at the lack of public conveniences or “rest rooms”, especially if you are from Britain, where they are everywhere. Well, here you can use the facility in any bar or restaurant - you don’t have to buy anything - but I’m afraid there aren’t many that you would want to rest in! I am old enough to remember when public toilets in France were all unisex and little more than a hole in the ground, and when I first visited here in 1992, they certainly weren’t as bad as that, but they were pretty grotty, with the bagno in the Caffè dell’Arte in Modica Bassa being the only one down there where you could relieve yourself in any degree of comfort. Now they are all much better, clean and equipped for your needs, but very few of them have a seat on the toilet! I kid you not. [Even the loo at Raffaele’s lacks a seat. Yep, pavements and toilet seats are not beloved of Modicans!] I don’t know why this is. Perhaps the average Italian male is just too busy to lift one up? – No, that can’t be right, as not all the facilities are unisex. I must ask Raffaele about the mystery one day. Anyway, you have been warned!

The photos show a complimentary plate of nibbles at L’Altro Posto, me at L’Altro Posto in the autumn and a view of Modican balconies that I enjoy gazing at from Bar Ciacera.

CARNI FA CARNI

Sicilian proverb:
Carni fa carni, pani fa panza, vinu fa danza = "Meat makes flesh, bread makes a stomach and wine makes you dance."

According to an article [not available online] in La Sicilia today, Sicilians are getting fatter and I, siciliana d'adozione as Irma calls me, am no exception: I've certainly put on weight since I've been here and this is mostly caused by eating at lunchtime, which I rarely did in the UK. Colette wrote that gluttony is one of the few pleasures left to the ageing woman, so I may or may not do something about it!

I do miss "ladies who lunch" - female friends who will come out to lunch with you [hubby, if not at work, can fend for himself] for girl-talk or, in professional circles, networking. There was an article a while back in one of the newspapers here lamenting the fact that Italian women just don't do this.

FASHION NOTE - 2

I've been shoe-shopping. Backless styles, as in the second picture, are very much in vogue.

There is lots of sparkle everywhere - on shoes, bags and in T-shirt detail.

And the Italian women have declared tights-off and sleeveless top time!

BALCONY LORE

I've always known that, once I had one of these on my kitchen balcony, I'd feel truly Italian. [I haven't treated you to the edifying sight of my "smalls" drying upon it.] Larger items are, of course, placed on the strong clothes line hanging over the balcony. Ever since the balcony drain incident I've been wary of hanging hand-washed, still dripping washing from it, though other women don't seem to worry and you can get your hair a very thorough wash as you walk down the street under their balconies.

Thinking about gaffes I have made since coming here, it occurred to me that a gaffe an Italian might make in Britain would be to hang washing on or from a balcony, for in Britain this is just not done. For those of you who are not British, this is not, as you might imagine, because of the inclement weather, but because it is deemed to spoil the look of a place. There are even neighbourhoods where you are not supposed to hang washing outside at all. How crazy is that?!

Here, on a hot day like today, I do enjoy having my washing dry within the hour.

If you are indoors you have only to look across at other balconies to know that the Scirocco is blowing or imminent, as that's the only time when nobody hangs any washing out.

At one time, in Sicily, it was considered incorrect to hang out women's underwear where it could be seen - and probably still is, in some parts.

LA CAVA D'ISPICA

Lunch at the Cava with friends today - a "lemon fest" of pasta with lemon, scaloppine sprinkled with lemon juice and gel al limone for dessert.

La Cava d'Ispica is an area of great natural beauty. It is a sort of gorge and there is evidence that it has been inhabited since ancient times. All sorts of herbs grow there.