Italy is the picturesque place that everyone writes about. I remembered it correctly from when I travelled there many years ago with my parents.
I was amazed at the roses. There were roses everywhere: in gardens, in churches, in windowsills, along the road, in vineyards, just everywhere. Rich reds. Deep pinks. Mingled with Bougainvillea and Fuchsias.
We stayed with Susan Armstrong at Casa Turrita. She lost her husband a few years back and decided to move to Italy. She has a deep passion for the culture, the language, the art, the cuisine, the people and especially Umbria. The doorway to our apartment was arched with Jasmine. Its fragrance sweating its way into the night each time the doorway crushed its petals.
Susan has an insatiable love for books and her house and our cottage was full of them. I read one of the most depressing, but excellently written books by an Italian author in one sitting. It is the story of a woman who loses her husband to another woman. It describes in detailed accuracy the spiral of depression she slipped into and than recovered from. I was in the book when reading it and today its realities and metaphors still linger within me.
We chose the local shops over larger food chains and the fresh pasta and cheese we enjoyed can just not be come by anywhere else. One day while we were travelling to a neighbouring village we bought two truckles of cheese and a kilogram of cherries. Feasting is an understatement...
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