Summer Villa
In august the heat grew heavy, the beach overcrowded, the
roads shimmered with haze and cars became ovens....it was
time for the family escape...we left the old house sleeping
behind its green shutters and headed for the mountains.
Hair pin bends led higher and higher, in and out of cool
dark forests and past small waterfalls gushing over rocks,
grasses mixed with wild flowers edged the steep little
road. suddenly there it was...the perfect mountain retreat,
a flight of graceful steps leading up to the old blue door,
delicate lacey railings wrapping the edges of the foot-worn
steps.
the days took on a dreamlike quality, cool dawns, smelling
of
pine trees, breakfast on the terrace to the sound of the
tumbling stream behind the house, the smell of fragrant
coffee drifting comfortably in the warming sun. mornings
were spent catching freshwater langoustines, sometimes
lunch would be in the local trattoria, loud with italian
chatter.
afternoons were spent on the mountains, where silence was
made perfect by the gentle sound of cowbells, these gentle
animals munched happily all day, and at milking time would
walk down the hill on their own,
followed by a small boy and his sister, usually holding
hands.
each cow was named, long lashed brown eyes would gaze
gently,
and as they huffed, their breath was grass sweet.
sometimes we would take an old basket from the collection
in the hall
and search for wild strawberries, the red berries hung like
small lanterns
below their dark green leaves. this was such a special
time. we would chatter happily, talking of nothing very
much, companionship wrapping
us close
if the mist rolled down from the mountain tops, candles
were lit and a contended peace settled, books were
everywhere, huge sofas and arm chairs invited adventure,
romance.... tragedy.
Tea signalled revival, the lightest of scones, whose warmth
gently melted the butter from the cows in the meadows
beyond the stream, little pearl handled knives spread jam
made from wild strawberries...
and then....the lightest of cakes, topped with icing,
snow-soft...!
evenings fell gently here, lamps were lit, throwing pools
of golden light on the tiled floors, lighting the colours
in the frayed old rugs. tall jugs of wild flowers scattered
petals like confetti on windowsills and tables... laughter,
teasing and happy argument... .cards music, and impromptu
dancing.
all too soon September brought an imperceptible cooling, it
was time to leave, the drive down the moutain silent with
sorrow. arriving at the old pink palazzo was like being
clasped in loving arms, the rooms glowed with comfort,
nothing, but nothing had changed. we were home!
pim claridge
