Memories of Italy Part One

The sight of the coast of England being left behind against the blue sea of the channel as we climbed upwards over France in the aeroplane

Leaving behind Milan, the motorway, smaller towns and then climbing higher and higher into the mountains before stopping. the engines cutting and the sound of grasshoppers, of wind in the grass, of dogs barking, of nothing.

The sound of the church bell across the valley striking the hour, a slightly higher pitched 'ting' denoting the half-hour, one church chiming the time about 4 minutes before the other.

On Sundays the haunting sound of choral music drifting across the valley in waves of sound, sometimes loud and clear before tailing off into a murmur on the wind, barely audible before rising again. It was a service, perhaps being broadcast to the workers in the fields.

Walking back from a beautiful meal in a restaurant with no menus and no prices, you ate what they offered you and drank their selection of wines. the road was so dark when a car came one of our party held up his lit blackberry so that we could be seen, even in white trousers on a still, cloudy moonless night we would have been no match for Italian drivers. feeling small in comparison to the blackness. seeing fire-flies darting around, dancing in the darkness to an unheard song, their tails like LEDs.

The low slung mist which wrapped the tops of the mountains as if in cotton wool and hung, ethereal, in the valleys, turning Italy into New Zealand or Japan, the dark greens of the mountains furring in focus as the lower clouds moved past

Truffles on pasta. local fizzy wine. espressos for one euro, glasses of wine for little more. cannelloni, meringue, home cooked beef, coq-au-vin, bread sticks,

Juliet's house in Verona being covered in graffiti with bunches of 'true-love' padlocks fasten to the gate like bunches of wine.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn

An article in the Times today imparts the sad news that John Betjeman's muse, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn died last Friday aged 92. I know that I have written about both Betjeman and this poem before, but as it is the end of their era here it is again.

A Subaltern's Love Song

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

-- John Betjeman

Clear out

On Sunday afternoon I went for a walk on Hampstead Heath. The sun was clear and still warm and the light was beautifully autumnal. Some of the trees had begun to lose their leaves and as I walked I scuffed them out of the way. Looking at my feet I did not see my own 25 year old feet in their Ugg boots, rather my 9 year old feet in their blue start-rite T-barred school shoes, scuffing through the leaves on the way to school.

My 25 year old self still has much in common with that 9 year old school girl. I am still always late, bad tempered when hungry and a terrible horder of possessions. That 9 year old lived in a small bedroom where her father had built her a ‘ships bunk’ in the wall with cupboards underneath and a ladder to reach the bunk. This gap quickly became full of possessions and then the room followed suit.

That 9 year old did eventually learn to keep things relatively tidy but she never perfected the art of de-cluttering. Take for example, the art of shoe purchasing. Most people would buy the shoes, take them out of the box and throw away or recycle the box and the carrier bag. Not me. I keep shoes in their boxes and if the bag is plastic it joins its sisters and brothers in the kitchen, if it is paper it is folded up and allowed to join the vast collection of other paper bags.

When I arrived home on Sunday afternoon having watched the Grand Prix, I realised that I could no longer function in the state I was in. We moved into the house in May yet many possessions were still in their boxes, I had not unpacked any of our pictures, ornaments, photographs or even some of our clothes. I had unpacked as I needed things rather than trying to create a new home.

I unpacked the winter clothes from their suitcase and then packed up all my summer ones. As I sorted through the clothes, despite having sorted them when I moved, I made more piles – clothes which I actually wear, clothes which I know M hates, clothes for washing, clothes that were clean and so on and filled two bags to be taken to the charity shop. I cleaned and dried all my summer shoes and packed them back into their boxes and managed to throw away a large number of boxes and bags. When I put the recycling out last night it appeared that not only had we had a massive party but that we had been on an enormous shopping trip.