Spanish sun in a winter kitchen

Even the bronze ducks look chilly......

As the snow settles thickly on stone walls,  submerging the early daffodils,  depressing the  cheerful cyclamen and causing robins and blackbirds to stop their optimistic nest building and hover, hungrily hopeful, by the kitchen window,  the time is right to warm the house with   marmalade making.  Quite apart from the pleasure of slicing orange peel and squeezing the gelatinous juice out of the muslin bag of flesh and pips, it is satisfying to know that every pot of marmalade will be eaten.

The combination of snow and marmalade brought back memories of celebrating our 40th wedding anniversary on our honeymoon island of Majorca, when we stayed in a little house amongst the orange trees on a finca in the northern hillside town of Soller.  (See Valiant Women: notes from an orange grove). 

Whilst we were there, the temperature plummeted far below the December norm and the surrounding hills were covered with snow, an occurrence so unusual that the local roads became clogged with people from Palma and other towns collecting the white stuff in cooler boxes to carry back to show their urban neighbours.

The finca is owned by a sculptor and his elegant wife, who combine farming a wide variety of oranges, grapes and other fruits with providing bed,  breakfast and dinner for up to a dozen people and producing their own marmalade in pretty hexagonal jars with stylish labels. The marmalade is delicious, but a far cry from the dark, chunky wake-up call stuff that is our breakfast preserve of choice.  The Finca Ca'Sant marmalade is more of a compote of finely minced sweet oranges, and indeed it transpired in conversation with our hosts that the Mallorquin consider the bitter Seville orange not worth bothering with - for marmalade or anything else for that matter.

Silent and snowy valley

But back to the snowy hills of Gloucestershire, where worktops are cleared, jars are brought down from the attic and the preserving pan from the top of the larder. Remembering the comment made by one son some years ago,  watching me standing hot and sticky over bubbling preserving pans at 10 pm, that 'marmalade can be bought in shops these days, mum,'  I decide to cost out the exercise this year.   

Also recalling my 5th form domestic science lessons under the rigorous eye of Mrs Blampied, I include a generous amount for fuel in addition to the cost of the organic Seville oranges and lemons and Fairtrade sugar.  I do not cost my time or the glass jars, which have been accumulated over years of  recycling duty.

The calculation is an interesting one. Taking into account the variation in jar sizes of shop marmalade (which means that supermarket own brands are almost the same price by weight as  branded products) my marmalade computes out to half the cost of top-priced Waitrose or Tesco Finest,  and the traditional Frank Cooper's Oxford. 

This means the budget could take the indulgence of lacing one batch with a generous slug of whisky. The smell that swirls up as the spirit is poured into the pan of marmalade is almost as good as drinking it. Vintage 2009 with Talisker - labelled  the Tartan Toreador - was a particularly enjoyable weekend indulgence.

The Tartan Toreador: Seville marmalade with malt whisky

However, another taste has been introduced this year,  perhaps triggered by hearing Leonard Cohen on the radio and recalling his song about the tantalising Suzanne, who "gives you tea and oranges, that come all the way from China". 

Or maybe it was remembering the Irish tea party hosted every Boxing Day by our wonderful neighbours Allen and Olive Synge, following the traditional 20-a-side (roughly) hockey match on Blackheath.  Cold and muddy protagonists and spectators were revived with  Lapsang Souchong, liberally laced with Jamesons whiskey, served in fine china cups.

So as one batch of Golden Seville marmalade is left to cool in the pan before potting (to allow the peel to settle evenly) a couple of Lapsang Souchong teabags are added.  The smoky aroma released from the tea (created by drying the leaves over burning pine needles) is as fragrant as whisky - and rather less costly.   So in 2012 we will enjoy our malt whisky in the glass, rather than on our toast.

 

Flights of festive fancy

It seems extraordinary now to think that roast chicken was an annual event when I was a child, served at Christmas with that other rare treat, a bottle of wine (usually Graves). Then as rationing was phased out and food stocks and family budgets began to increase, roast chicken appeared at Easter too and then turkey became popular for larger numbers at Christmas.

But some thirty years ago, goose became our festive bird of choice. Friends would often tell us how much more meat per pound we would get with a turkey, but we are happy to savour smaller quantities of really tasty and distinctive meat on Christmas Day.  Not to mention those pots of pure fat stored in the fridge for the coming months, to transform Kind Edward potatoes into crispy, waist-ruining pleasure.

It was the cookery writer and restaurateur Robert Carrier who converted us to goose. An American fluent in French and German, Carrier came to Europe with the US army during the Second World War and stayed on, living in Paris and Rome and then London. He began writing about food for Harpers Bazaar and then the Sunday Times before becoming a television personality and  rescuing the ruined Hintelsham Hall in Norfolk to create a Michelin two star hotel. I bought The Robert Carrier Cookbook in 1969 and used it so much it fell apart. His recipes were as demanding than Elizabeth David's, but were delivered in a rather more flamboyant style (he had also worked in musical theatre).

Carrier's description of his French grandmother's roast goose, with home made sauerkraut and brandy soaked prune stuffing, was irresistible. But the real showstopper was stuffed goose neck - the long skin filled with a rich fragrant mixture of minced veal, goose liver, walnuts, apples and breadcrumbs moistened with sherry and then gently roasted to create a delicious Christmas Eve appetiser that was part sausage, part faggot, served with winter salad and cornichons. I prepared this tasty treat every Christmas Eve for years until the bureaucrats of Brussels decreed that selling geese with their complete necks was a risk to citizens. 

After experimenting with various sources, we always buy our goose from the redoubtable Judy Goodman of Worcestershire. It arrives beautifully packed in a strong box with handles, the ivory fat in packed in its own carton, the glistening liver and lights sealed in a bag, the bird exuberantly garnished with sage and lovingly swathed in crisp, white paper.

On some Christmasses Past, I would prepare a three bird roast, boning and stuffing the goose with a large chicken which was in turn boned and stuffed with a pheasant. These days you can buy such a treat ready for the oven.  But I have decided that I prefer to keep the goose fat pure, rather than filling the roasting tin with the  fat of three different birds. So I now usually cook a tasty corn-fed chicken separately to give white meat to complement the dark, gamey goose flesh, and hold its own with the slow cooked red cabbage, crisp sprouts with chestnuts and pancetta, bread sauce, cranberry sauce and roast potatoes.

However, a boned and stuffed bird - a Gresham duck or a free-range corn-fed chicken - is a regular dish for special dinners in our household.  The effort is well worthwhile, not only for the delicious flavours but also because it is a luxurious but efficient way to feed eight people from one bird (and cold left-overs are delicious).  

"First, confront the duck!"

Which brings me to another great American cookery writer and tv presenter, Julia Child, whose Mastering the Art of French Cooking describes how to bone a duck before stuffing it, trussing it and then baking it encased in pastry. 

Essentials are a sharp thin bladed knife (a filleting knife is ideal), poultry scissors, a trussing needle, butcher's sterilised thread, a thimble and plenty of time. To reduce panic, do the boning the day before you aim to do the cooking until you become adept. Anyone who has seen Julie & Julia, with the wondrous portrayal of Julia Child by Meryl Streep, will remember the moment when cooking duck en croûte becomes the crowning glory for Julie Powell  (the New York administrative assistant whose 2003 blog about her year long effort to cook all the recipes in the first Child volume helped inspire the film).

...and then flatten it.

Boned, stuffed bird
According to Julia Child, the average time to bone a duck is 45 minutes but regular practice can reduce to around 20 minutes (a gratifying discovery, as this is the time I generally take.)  There are written instructions on the web including Edward Smith's step by step guide at InterSite or the Smithsonian Museum homage to Julia Child. 

Having liberated the carcase, break the bones up a little and roast them for 20 minute or so in a little oil in the oven, to caramelise before popping into the pressure cooker with water and vegetables to make a rich stock for gravy and soup.

When it comes to filling, let your imagination run riot.  One of my favourite combinations for duck are a pork or veal forcemeat, layered with whole chicken fillets, interleaved with natural dried apricots and pistachio nuts. In a large chicken, use duck fillets in the centre and prunes and almonds.  The colours and textures of the different layers are particularly attractive when the bird is sliced (and of, course with no bones, it is a joy to carve.) 

Alas, I have just realised that a chicken stuffed with duck fillet and sherry soaked prunes has just been devoured, without a photograph being taken. So, dear readers, I will remedy that in another installment. In the meantime, bon appetit!

Love and food in the Apennines 6

Sniffing out the best
 

Spot the dog

Every evening at around 5.00pm the warm, still atmosphere of Casa Barile is shattered as the pack of hunting dogs kept in the village above the house demand their dinner. This part of Tuscany is a hunter’s paradise, with boar in the hills, duck in the lakes and best of all, truffles in the ground. The ancient Italian breed of dog, Lagotto Romagnolo, is believed to have been used for hunting for 3000 years and an image of this woolly haired,  stocky animal with its cheerful face features in Mantegna's  picture The Meeting, painted in 1474.  The breed is regarded as the original stock from which many of today's hunting dogs are descended, including the Portuguese water dog chosen by President Obama and the golden retriever so beloved by British families. 

A Lagotto Romagnolo, or truffle hound 

The Lagotto is a natural retriever, particularly in water, but has to be trained to seek out the truffle, that elusive tuber that is worth more than its weight in gold. Some traditionalists believe that sows have more sensitive snouts than dogs for this lucrative job (because the truffle has a similar smell to the natural sex hormones of the male pig) but recognize that it is easier to train dogs than pigs not to eat the truffles they find. 

Every October there are festivals all over the Garfagnana to celebrate not only truffles but also those other, more affordable fungi found in the dense forests of the region -  porcini mushrooms. The harvesting and sale of mushrooms is tightly regulated in Italy, both to protect stocks and to try to reduce accidental poisoning. (Some 40,000 people suffer mushroom poisoning every year in the country.) 

Anyone wishing to gather mushrooms on land they do not own themselves is required to buy a permit and is also required to take a test to show knowledge of the poisonous varieties. There is a limit to the amount of mushrooms gathered, the days on which they can be gathered and also the manner in which they are collected. Baskets only, to allow the spores to be distributed through the chestnut forests - no paper or plastic bags allowed. The redoubtable Claudio, down at the bar/restaurant Il Ponte di Ceserana, is the official provider of the  permits for mushroom gathering in the Fosciandora commune. 

Porcini from the fores

This morning, after a night of torrential rain that brings cool relief after weeks of unusually hot weather,  Alina arrives to give me an Italian lesson.  Alina is the girlfriend of Francesco, a licensed mushroom collector and mountain guide and  son of the gardener who looks after Casa Barile. (And whose mother Maria has cooked and delivered wonderful homegrown four course dinners for us from their organic farm. Chicken or rabbit cacciatore,  vitello tonnato,  home-made ice cream.... what a place.)

I ask Alina if Francesco will be out mushroom gathering  now that the drought has broken. She tells me that according to local tradition, it takes 13 days after the first serious rain of the autumn before the mushrooms are worth gathering. Too late for us this year. So I buy 100gm of the local dried porcini from a shop in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana,  to enhance a risotto, enrich an omelette or transform a slow cooked leg of lamb and bring back sunny memories of Italy on dark days in London.

Slow cooked lamb with porcini and white wine
(based on a Waitrose recipe)

Leg of lamb
large onion, roughly chopped
two cloves of garlic, cut in slivers
lemon thyme sprigs
300 ml white wine
40 gm dried porcini
250 gm fresh chestnut mushrooms, halved or quartered
2 tablespoons creme fraiche
seasoning 

Pour warm water over the porcini to cover and leave to soak whilst preparing the meat. Cut small slits in the lamb and push in slivers of garlic. Season with salt and pepper and sear all over in hot oil in a frying pan. Put on one side, and fry the chopped onions in the same pan until soft and coloured. Put the onions into a slow cooker or ordinary casserole dish, add four or five sprigs of lemon thyme and top with the leg of lamb. Deglaze the frying pan with the white wine, add the porcini with their soaking liquid, bring to a bubble and pour over the meat and vegetables. Either cook in the oven at Gas Mark 4 (180 degrees) for 2.5 hours or leave in the slow cooker and go off for a long walk, write the chapter of a novel, or catch up with your Italian homework (Alina is offering to teach me by Skype).

When the meat is cooked, keep warm on a carving plate.  Reduce the sauce by half over a high heat, then stir in the chestnut mushrooms and simmer for 5 minutes.  Stir in the creme fraiche and heat gently, test seasoning. Carve the lamb, and serve the mushrooms and sauce separately. Good accompaniments are potato and celeriac puree, or grilled polenta, with green beans.

Closer to (any) God in a garden

Rowan berries glowing in Clerkenwell

The end of September is an important date in our pension planning diary, because it is new tenancy time for the three bedroom maisonette in Clerkenwell which gives a far better return on capital, plus growth, than anything else in our portfolio. 

The flat is just a few minutes walk from the Barbican, the wonderful St Luke's (home to the London Symphony Orchestra) and Whitecross Street market which has become a Mecca for lunchtime foodies seeking the ultimate artisan loaf, french cheese, Thai noodles, wild game pasties, indulgent macaroons and pastries, plus coffee shops and Mediterranean restaurants. Not to mention, joy of joys, a Waitrose store at the end. What's more, there are still hardware shops, dry cleaners, newsagents, barbers and florists.  It is not surprising that people enjoy living here.

So two days after returning from holiday I am deep into long spells on the telephone listening to muzak whilst trying to reach a sentient being to organise landlord gas safety certificates, untangle the byzantine thinking of the council tax department and arrange for this year's treat for the flat - sanding and varnishing the wood floors in the ground floor kitchen, hallway and living room.

One of the particularly attractive features of the flat is that in addition to its own paved and planted front area, it also has a south-facing back garden that overlooks the tree-filled and historic Bunhill Fields and the pretty building that was the first Quaker meeting house in London.

The only drawback is that whilst every tenant loves the garden, not one has ever been an active or knowledgeable gardener. So while the floor sanding is under way I plan to attack the jungle, arriving equipped with long armed pruners, secateurs, green sacks and gardening gloves.

The grape vine has gone berserk, dangling dozens of shriveled bunches of aspiring sultanas over the patio door. The roses too, which were severely pruned two years ago, have responded vigorously to the " treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen" principle and have sent whippy stems loaded with bright scarlet hips all through the vine, passion flower, viburnum and choisya.

Hidden harvest in a City garden

As I untangle the thorny growth, I discover that the vine stem branching off to the west facing wall is carrying bunch after bunch of ripe and juicy grapes hidden amongst the leaves and flowers of the other shrubs fighting for light and air. Small and sweet, but with thick skins and lots of pips, they are not dissimilar to the baskets full given to us in Italy earlier in the month.  Impossible for two people to consume in a week, I turned them into grape juice. See (An embarrassment of riches)

When Manjik the floor sander steps into the garden for a breath of fresh air whilst he waits for the first coat of varnish to dry, he spots the pile of grapes on the garden table. His eyes light up, so I offer him some. As he eats, he looks keenly at the tangle of vine stems and foliage.

"These are grow too much," he says in his slow, accented English. He touches the fat rose hips, and tells me that his grandmother used them. "She not really doctor, but she made medicine for children from these."

Manjik then nods at the two bags full of vine prunings and asks if he can take some, for his garden.  "Before I come to England from Iran, " he says, "I was farmer.  I grow grapes and all fruits."

He carefully chooses and then ties together half a dozen vine stems, some green, others thick and brown, and puts them in the plastic bag that contained his lunch. Then he looks up at the jungle and reaches for the pruners. " I help you," he smiles, " I love this work more than sanding floors.”

So for the next hour, whilst the varnish dries, the Iranian refugee and I work in companionable silence in the golden autumn sunshine of an English garden. 

Grape jelly with lime and tarragon

The haul from the exuberant Clerkenwell vine is well over 2 kilos, so the grapes are carried back home on the Northern Line for processing. As I have plenty of sugar and glass jars to hand, I will make jelly rather than the grape juice solution of the previous week in Tuscany.  White grapes have sweetness but a less pronounced flavour than black ones, so I decide to add the sharpness and colour of limes plus the aroma of tarragon, to make a jelly that will make an excellent partner for roast chicken or grilled fish.

Remove grapes from stems and wash thoroughly and put into large pan with the juice of two limes and the zest of one. Cook gently until juices run freely and fruit is soft, mashing firmly from time to time. Put into a sterilized jelly bag and suspend over a bowl overnight.

Measure juice and for every litre add 750 grams of sugar and stir over a gentle heat until thoroughly dissolved. Add the zest of two limes and a bunch of tarragon tied in a square of muslin and bring to a rolling boil. When it reaches 105 degrees, remove from the heat, remove the tarragon bunch and any scum. Pour into hot sterilized jars and just as it begins to set pop in a sprig of tarragon. Seal in usual way.

Photographs by Sandi.

Love and food in the Apennines 5

Trains, sheep and other diversions

The station halt at Fosciandora

En route to see the structural wonders of Pisa (see Towering Genius), we find the level crossing closed at the foot of the mountain and the red light flashing.  We are about to witness another pride of Italian engineering, the railway system. The station at Fosciandora is on the Pisa to Aulla line, one of the early beneficiaries of Benito Mussolini's programme of efficient rail networks throughout Italy in the 1930s.  (Although it is said that the widely trumpeted reputation of Italian railways for punctuality reflected more the fear of admitting failure to Il Duce than the reality.)  

Aulla is a town in the mountains not far from Carrarra, at the strategic junction of two rivers, and was virtually destroyed during the Second World War, as this part of Italy was a stronghold of resistance by partisans against the Nazis and the Fascist Government. Today the station at  Fosciandora does look rather like an abandoned set from a film featuring resistance fighters, purloined artworks and a guest performance by Donald Sutherland, but despite appearances, it is fully operational.

Passing through

In fact it is possible to travel by train from the mountain halt of Fosciandora to a station in the UK within the day, or on a smaller scale, make a trip to the centre of Pisa without worrying about where to park. Admittedly you have to read the timetable with care to ensure that you are on one of the trains that stops, rather than hurtles straight through, rattling the glasses and crockery in  Claudio’s bar and restaurant,  but still a useful alternative mode of travel. Next year, perhaps...

The splendour of  the Duomo in Pisa

Back to Saturday morning. The train passes through, the barrier rises and we continue on our way to Pisa, taking the scenic route through the mountains. After enjoying the sights of this wonderful city, we decide to visit the coast for some respite from the unusually hot September sun.  The lovely Alina,  girlfriend of the son of the gardener who looks after the house where we are staying (and who is giving me Italian lessons) suggests that we avoid the designer-heavy resorts of Forte di Marmi and head to the sand dunes and birdsong of the nature reserve to the southwest.

This proves to be easier said than done. After driving several miles through the nature reserve, part of which appears to be occupied by a military camp, we pull over in the shade of a line of trees to take a birthday greetings telephone call from son in Pakistan. After exchanging just a few words, the conversation is interrupted a loud blast on a horn.  The driver of a very large garbage trucks gesticulates for us to move out of the way. We realise that in all the vast acreage of the reserve we have chosen to pull over in front of a collection of large waste bins,  hidden in the shade of the trees.

We finish the transcontinental conversation and decide to find our way out of the reserve and head back to Fosciandora for dinner.  As we drive through increasingly smart clusters of stylish houses towards a road that should take us to the motorway, there suddenly appears a cluster of dark, rippling shapes, filling the carriageway. A man in a grey shirt materialises, wielding a stick and with a black dog weaving around and in front of him. It is a shepherd, in the middle of a smart Pisan suburb, moving his flock to a new pasture.

The dust settles, we find the motorway and drive back in time for a shower and change before dinner at Claudio's place. No fresh wild mushrooms yet, he says,  because of the hot, dry weather, but there is lamb is on the menu this evening.

Love and food in the Apennines 4

Grand opera meets jam and Jerusalem

The long awaited announcement

Il maestro torna a casa, says the headline in the newspaper being read by the man at the next table in the more popular of the two coffee shops in the square in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana. When he leaves, we pick up the paper and pick our way through the Italian. It transpires that il maestro is the operatic genius Giacomo Puccini and tomorrow is the grand opening, with open air concert,  of the house in Lucca where he was born. 

What greater incentive could there be for tearing ourselves away from the terrace and the views and the pool and make that long awaited expedition to Lucca.  Despite not being able to identify on either of our city maps the location of the Piazza San Lorenzo, where Puccini’s house is sited and where the open air concert is taking place, we set off.

On reaching Lucca’s impressive ramparts that completely encircle the city, we find somewhere to park and have the right change for a four hour stay. By chance, the nearest gate into the city is the Porta Elisa, named after Napoleon’s sister Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi whose story I recounted last year. (Elisa Bonaparte and Lucca). She commissioned the construction of the gate in 1804, piercing the eastern wall that had been kept intact for defence against Florentine invasion since the 16th Century.

The walls saved the city of Lucca in 1812 when a massive flood of the Serchio River inundated the valley. Elisa was governing Lucca at the time from her villa outside the walls, and when she tried to get into the city for safety, the people didn't want to open the gates for fear of the surging waters. Lest they let their princess (and, more important, the sister of Europe's emperor) drown, they hoisted her highness over the walls rather unceremoniously with the help of a crane. Like most of Elisa's life, the tale is reminiscent of grand opera - a reverse of Tosca throwing herself over the battlements.  

Local audience

 We find a city map that pinpoints Piazza San Lorenzo and after a little while we simply follow the sound of music through the mediaeval streets,. An orchestra, resplendent in full uniform, is playing under the hot sun in front of a fine bronze statue of Puccini in a square crowded with attentively listening people. We manage to find two chairs at a pavement café, all the tablecloths printed with Il Maestro torna a casa, and order the local speciality of lemon sorbet floating on chilled sparkling mineral water. 

All ears and standing room only

A succession of local dignitaries and representatives of the Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio, who acquired the house and paid for its restoration, give speeches before the orchestra completes the concert with a rousing rendition of the Te Deum from Tosca followed by that universal crowd pleaser, Nessun Dorma from Turandot.

Buoyed by the celebratory atmosphere and a reminder of wonderful musicianship, we explore more of the fascinating city before returning home in fine spirits to find another of Natalina’s baskets on the doorstep. This time in addition to tomatoes and grapes, there are 1.5 kilos of fresh and very ripe figs. Not the large black figs that are sold individually at an exorbitant price in the UK, but smaller brown figs with pale creamy stripes which reveal wonderful juicy, pinkish purple seeds and flesh. 

Even the most dedicated fig fan (husband is definitely not) would have difficulty in consuming this quantity but I  cannot bring myself to throw away such bounty.  I have one large glass jar with a screw top, a full bag of sugar and a couple of lemons, so it's time to make jam. Of course there will be room in the suitcase......

Fig jam

1.5 kilos of figs, washed with stems removed

500 gm granulated sugar

juice and grated zest of one large lemon

Put all ingredients into a large pan and bring slowly to a simmer, stirring to dissolve the sugar and then let cook gently for about an hour until the fruit is soft and breaking up. Test for a set and pour into hot sterilised jars. 

The mixture filled a 687gm jar  plus a dish that held a further 300gm and which we ate fresh, keeping it in the fridge. The lemon juice and zest gives a welcome sharpness to the rich, sweet fruit. Highly recommended for regularising holiday digestive systems - and tastes good too!

Freshly pressed grape juice and fig jam.

Photographs by Rod and Sandi

Love and food in the Apennines 3

Marriage Italian style

At the bottom of the mountain, just before the railway line, sits the bar/restaurant/general store called Il Ponte de Ceserana, otherwise known as Claudio's place. We met Claudio for the first time last year, on our return from four hours in the local hospital having my broken wrist set in plaster from fingertip to armpit.  He bustled around dispensing cold beer and warm sympathy in fluent English disconcertingly delivered with a  broad Scots accent. He then put together a selection of pasta dishes and fresh salads as a take-away lunch for us and our hosts the Cloke-Brown family and their three hungry sons.

When we returned to have supper later that week we discovered that Claudio was an innovative cook and indefatigable host. Not only does he eschew a printed menu, he doesn't write the menu down at all, simply regaling each table with the wide range of local dishes that he has produced that day. Dishes such as gnocchi with lemon and hazelnuts with a beef jus, or rabbit with olives and tomatoes, or penne with crabmeat. Sparkling white wine is on tap, there is a very quaffable local red and at the end of the meal, Claudio puts a selection of weird and wonderful looking bottles containing homemade liqueurs, ranging from deep purple myrtle, through brilliant green menthe through to a clear grappa.

So this year we look forward to renewing acquaintance. On our return from shopping on Friday, we call in at Claudio's bar for a restorative beer and to find out if he is cooking the next evening. Sporting a natty new apron (fake waiter's waistcoat in scarlet and black), he beams from ear to ear when we walk in, welcomes us warmly and assures that he is certainly cooking dinner on Saturday and books us in for 7.30.  But why don't we come down around 6.30 he suggests, and have a ringside seat for part of the wedding celebrations of two couples in the commune that day.

We had noticed posters fastened to posts and railings along the roadside, and on walls and notice boards in the villages above the house. Some featured the smiling faces of Serena and Nicola, others those of Agnese and Eduardo, announcing their weddings that weekend.  

Claudio explains that a tradition has grown up in Fosciandora for bride and groom to come down the mountain following their church ceremony, to cut a white ribbon that has been strung across the road just before the bridge and to raise a glass of celebratory Prosecco. Although the two ceremonies next day are taking place at different churches, at different times, the couples insist on gathering for a joint ribbon cutting.

Community spirit

We duly arrive on Saturday evening at 6.30, after a four hour walk in the mountains to justify a four course dinner, and sit down on the terrace. Strung across the road just by the level crossing is a large white banner, looking suspiciously like a kingside bedsheet, which has been adorned with a message announcing the gratitude of the inhabitants of Fosciandora for the great sacrifice of Eduardo and Nicola in relieving the commune of two spinsters.

Claudio’s wife Clementina, anticipating a spate of weddings that summer in addition to their own daughter's, has invested in enough ribbon to mark out several miles of carriageway. Claudio and son have created two flamboyant bunches of looped ribbon on one side of the roadway and stand ready to string the lengths across at the appropriate moment. But true to form, both of weddings in general and Italy in particular, the timetable shifts somewhat. The ribbons are taken down on three occasions, to allow cars and trucks through. We try to slow down our wine consumption and Claudio provides interim entertainment by showing us the photographs from his daughter's wedding the week before.

Then a bridesmaid arrives, a forerunner of what turns out to be a stream of incredibly slim, attractive young women on impossibly high heels and wearing incredibly short dresses. One bridal couple is definitely on its way, she announces, so the ribbons go up again. Then comes a report by mobile phone that the other couple are on their way too, so out come bottles of Prosecco and a tray of glasses.

A stream of cars begins to flow down the mountainside, accompanied by much horn blowing augmented by a strange contraption that looks like a tyre pump, but which emits a row as ear-splitting as several zarzuelas. A whippet thin cyclist in spray-on Lycra suddenly zooms through under the bedsheet and then wobbles perilously as he spots the marital ribbon booby trap. But he safely dismounts and decides to linger to watch the fun before tackling the mountain.

Eduardo and Agnese, Serena and Nicola

Just how the wedding couples are going to reach the ribbon cutting through the stream of cars that has now effectively blocked all traffic, does not seem to be of much concern and sure enough, suddenly the brides appear. One is wearing a classic ivory satin gown, the other in warm rose chiffon adorned with swirls of roses. Did they confer, I wonder, knowing that there would be a double photo opportunity at Il Ponte de Ceserana? 

Two pairs of scissors are presented on a velvet cushion and to much cheering, the ribbons are snipped, the Prosecco popped and car horns sounded. The two parties then disappear to the next stage of the celebrations in chaotic scenes of reversing cars, near collisions but universal good humour and Claudio retreats to the relative calm of his kitchen to prepare the usual impressive selection of dishes.

We are introduced to our fellow diners and chairs rearranged so we can all have a good blether, as Claudio puts it. Then to put a final seal on the marriage theme of the evening, it turns out that the parents of one of them were not only married in the same town as Rod and I, Colchester, but just two months earlier in the same year. 

Cin, cin