I’m in Atri again, sitting on a bench staring out across an alluvial
plain, which rolls romantically down to the sea. The sun is setting. A
beautiful wind is rustling the horse chestnut trees in front of me – who’d have
thought they had conkers in Italy. Everything is bathed in a deep treacly light.
This is one of the finest views I know. You can see for miles from up here across
a series of olive green ridges. Little white houses with red roofs cling to the
hillsides, and as the sun sets, a dusty mist descends. They’re letting off fireworks
in a village somewhere in the mountains. At this time of year, every town and
village has its own “sagra”, a festival which brings everyone out onto the streets
to dance, listen to music, and share the local pasta delicacies.
I don’t feel very well. I’ve eaten too much rich food and the
exhaustion of the last few months must be finally taking its toll.
It’s been a day of weather extremes. This morning felt like
the hottest day we’ve had here so far. We went to the beach, and floated around
on lilos, flicking cold water onto our stomachs just to try and keep ourselves
cool.
There was a suspicious dark patch in the Northern sky which
Nathan noticed first. A few minutes later all hell broke loose. A panicked
tannoy announcement told us to “close your umbrellas,” and suddenly everyone
was running around, the beach staff were knocking deckchairs to the ground and
the life guards were raising red flags and blowing whistles to get people out
of the water. It was like a scene from Jaws. And then the winds came, which
turned the beach into the site of an intense sand storm. Everyone ran for
cover. An entire beach of people found themselves sheltering in a tiny bar area
as deckchairs and towels started tumbling around and a storm surge immersed the
front row of parasols in angry sea water. The waves, which have never been more
than little watery hiccups on this holiday, were now crashing onto the shore
like exploding cans of Coca-cola. One thing I’ll say for Italy: It knows how to
stage a storm.
When it looked as though the weather wasn’t going to turn
fine again anytime soon, the sun-seekers began to leave the beach; battling
through whirlwinds of sand to reach their cars as the rain started to fall and
the lightning flashed.
Roberto, the beach owner, who has very much taken us under
his wing, ushered us into a room where a table was laid out for all his staff.
The metal hatches were battened down and huge plates of delicious-looking pasta
appeared as if by magic. There is some embarrassment associated with being
vegetarian in Italy. The Italians tend to assume things like chicken and fish are
not really meat. In fact, someone told me yesterday that she was “almost a
vegetarian” because she “didn’t much like pork.” The pasta which came around today
had a distinctly sea-foody vibe. It would have been rude to ask for anything
else, so I opted to keep quiet and munch on a few pieces of bread. Of course,
as soon as I was spotted, the all-too-familiar noises of horror began, and
Roberto’s wonderful wife vanished into the kitchen and arrived armed with a
Caprese salad, a plate of vegetarian ravioli and some kind of cheese and tomato
flatbread toastie.
Of course, because this is Italy, the storm vanished almost as
soon as it had started. The only sign of it ever being here is a glorious freshness
in the air and the sight of a number of trees which had been blown across the
road on the way back to Julie’s. I wish I didn’t feel so tired though. That
would be nice.
Pepys got up extra early 350 years ago to supervise the
workmen who were building an extension on this house. He was pleased to see how
many of them there were; “many hands” he wrote, “make good riddance...” Pepys
went with William Batten to Deptford to pay off some ships and returned to
London on The Thames after dark, a lantern lighting their way. Very romantic.
Dust storm
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