Winners and Losers

Hello World,

And how are we today? Today' s random topic has cropped up due to the sweltering temperatures we are suffering keeping us all effectively shut up indoors, with the shutters drawn, in order to escape the heat.....it does seem a little unfair as we are confined indoors in winter too, due to the pouring rain. However, in order to while away interminable, hot summer afternoons my boys have got out the old board games and I must say that they are much better company than any computer game. We all interact with each other and family fun is a precious item of stock, one of those things that when we are all older we can look back on and say "do you remember?". Our memories are all that is left of our Life as we come to the end of our journey along its road so the more we clock up the better. Of the happy sort, of course. We can throw them higgledy piggledy into our mental store cupboard and either pull them out haphazardly or else pick them out for some specific reason, therefore, here goes folks, here is one of Helene's moments to look back on, and a silly one at that!

Sons, Board Games and Passion


I wouldn’t say that we are fanatical board game players but we do, on occasion, organise ourselves for a long afternoon, or evening, spent around the table, facing each other with the calculating eye of a pistolero, ready to shoot to kill.

Of all the games however, Monopoli has to be the most spectacular to witness. Diego, my eldest, sets out the board, deals the cards, places the playing pieces, which are usually anything we find lying around, as, with all games, those get religiously mislaid and herds us all gently, but firmly, like any good sheep dog to our places. He is the orchestra director, enthroned in his place of honour behind the Bank and calls the tune. He does have a (short) lifetime of experience behind him, dating back from the days when, as a minute, grasshopper of a boy with his blond, page boy hair style he would desperately try and keep back the tears as he pulled at his hair, bit his lower lip, sniffed his snotty mess up his runny nose while he gave his running commentary on how the game proceeded as he slowly but gradually lost. When he finally lost, his heartrending, violent sobbing would have got him a role in any Greek Tragedy. But, if he won, then the elation would keep his running commentary going well on into the night!! Now, thank heavens, he has got over all of that, but has retained an astounding ability to maintain a running commentary on just about anything for all of his waking hours.

Nico, my youngest, is not moved by passion like his brother, but for being such a sunny young man, he has always been easy to offend, touchy and, were I to allow it, moody. He is also a bad loser, which is a trait of his of which I thoroughly disapprove, especially if the winner turns out to be his brother, who doesn’t help matters by literally crowing his victory, in blatant, condescending and spiteful superiority. Which is when we get a lot of thumping of angry fists both on the table and on each other.

Having said that, Monopoli isn’t a free for all. The rules are strictly adhered to and it is fast.
I preside at my place, and that is about all. My only action is that of rolling the dice and my duty is to actually remain for the duration of the whole game. If any of you have ever seen The Incredibles, you will know who Flash is, that little boy who moves at the speed of light. Well, Diego is Flash, one and the same. By the time the dice has stopped rolling, my playing piece has moved, my rent has been paid or my property purchased and I have my card in its place. Diego will comment on each move each one of us makes, on how it is possible some people have all the luck, on how our move was absolutely brilliant or else sadly disadvantageous, willing himself to throw a six, stand up raising a fascist fist with a yessss when things go his way, shaking his head, lips pressed tightly together when he is sent to prison for his fifth round in a row. The analysis of the game is always precise, foreseeing and brutal. The throwing of the dice executed so that it rolls “just so” in order to prevent devious techniques of rolling a desired number.
Nico, on the other side of the board, huffs and puffs as he never manages to collect all three colours, necessary for placing a property and thus incrementing the cost of his rent. He sends his brother to the Devil as this last enjoys his discomfiture with a smug smirk on his face and every trace of Nico’s spontaneous smile is replaced by a dour, grim mulishness of jaw. But when the wheel of fortune starts turning in his favour, then the sun shines again, his eyes sparkle, he hums away as he moves his piece along, claps his hands in glee, counts his money and intimates his opponents to hand over the lolly when they land on his property with a “come give it here” movement of his fingers.
And me? Well, as I said, I preside, unmoving, hands in my lap, nodding to one and then to the other, uttering platitudes at the appropriate moments. Diego “monopolises” my game, encouraging me to roll the dice when my turn arrives, saying “brava Mammy” as he buys and sells for me, gently reproving me when I protest that I never get to do anything myself with a simple “don’t worry Mammy, you are far too slow Mammy” and when I think on how long a game of Monopoli can last I agree, how many precious seconds would I lose as I laboriously count the boxes with my playing piece at every move, and even more laboriously count out the money? Therefore I sit, like a great sack of potatoes, heavy and still in my chair, smiling vacuously to those eager, intent boys of mine. My eyes glaze over as boredom sets in, the game far beyond my comprehension, instantaneous mathematical calculations and the speed of sleight of hand gradually numbing my brain to sleep, Diego’s voice droning in the background. Sometimes I try and stimulate my nervous system and get up to make myself a black, perculated coffee and the boys groan at the delay (they won’t carry on without me) and Diego declares that all coffee drinkers be shot so that they will no longer be able to interrupt important activities for such trivia. In fact I tell him that he has a future in the Stock Exchange as he thrives on pumping adrenalin, split second decision making, money changing hands in the blink of an eye and the nevrotic tension connected to loss and gain. He misses nothing and can take in the content of the board at a glance. It is impossible to cheat or make a mistake. He is honest to a fault which could also, come to think of it, allow for openings as a croupier too.

As the game slowly draws to a close and we start to see who has now become destitute, destined to live as a tramp under one of Rome’s bridges, who has brilliantly conquered its real estate market and who survives in a scornful state of mediocrity, various emotions begin to surface. According to which of the boys wins or who loses we have the resignation of futility, the fury of unfairness, the cries of victory, the nonchalant indifference of a loser, the odious purring of a winner over a brother. And if the winner were myself? Somehow, losing isn’t quite so bad then.

And with the words of The Winner Takes It All running through my head, which I know has absolutely no relevance whatsoever with Monopoli, Helene wishes you all a wonderful day.

Ta-ra World.

Free of charge

Hello World,

I am doing my best to “produce” although having said this, it rather sounds as though I have problems in the bathroom, which I don’t by the way. But although I have been told that one can, and should, write constantly whether one feels like it or not, I have come to realise that anything of worth that I have ever written has been “produced” under a spurt of inspiration. The font of this particular inspiration is my divorce, which in itself could be promising material as Italian divorce law is about as slow and frustrating as trying to climb a sand dune about the size of Everest, and if you go judicial, you may be trying to climb up for the rest of your days. But as it happens, the crux of my matter isn’t the divorce itself as much as how much am I worth as a mother?


The Value of Being a Mother

I have always wanted children and in this respect I take after my own mother as for all the rest I am my father’s daughter. I remember trying to secretly suckle my own sister, upstairs in my parents room although my small, pig snout, thirteen year old breasts were firmly spat out of her mouth in disgust as she had been reared on a bottle ever since her entry into this world.
The family and house and home have always been my ideal life, even though I had to pretend that I wanted something else from it otherwise I would have been labelled as boring or as someone with no ambition and certainly not as a Modern Independent Woman.

If it had been for me I would have made a baby on my wedding night and when a close friend of mine fell pregnant herself, I remember sobbing miserably, horribly jealous of her and wanting a baby myself so badly. My (ex) husband did try to placate me and by bribing me with a holiday in the Maldives got us to wait another four months for our baby making. My eldest son was born just over two years after we were married. Not a moment too soon in my opinion. A week after I fell pregnant I already knew, and I will swear to that, unbelievable as it may seem.
I bloom in pregnancy and for my first one, well, you know how it is with first babies, you read all the books, look at baby pictures, count the days, look at yourself constantly in the mirror, impatient for that bump to “show”. As it ripens your hands caress its roundness, waiting for that first kick, waiting to feel the contour of a fist or a heel, or even that slight feeling of alarm when, once space inside gets cramped, the baby decides to do a somersault and your tummy rises in a huge hump at one end and goes concave at the other, looking nothing like a tummy and more like something out of X Files. Talking to your baby, thinking about him constantly, dreaming about when you will be finally able to hold him in your arms and say to yourself, “he’s MINE”. My pregnancies were almost identical, barring the fact that I only weighed about 16 kilos more at the end of the second one. I was one very large woman.

As for the having of the babies.
Painful.
Labour is excruciating but the actual birth is a moment of miracle. When my babies were placed on my tummy, still attached to me, grey as little mice, their eyes tightly shut, so small and so perfect, I think that those moments have to be the most precious and most beautiful of my entire Life. Of any woman’s Life. A child is part of us, is made up of what we are and is our immortality. We continue through our children and our children reflect who and what we are.

That is why a child is such a responsibility. Not only do we have to feed and clothe his physical self, to keep his body alive, but we have to Love him. The easy part of loving is the kissing and cuddling. When the boys were little, I don’t think I ever passed by them without kissing their chubby cheeks, or giving their bottoms a squeeze, it was impossible to resist. Give them a glass of water…..with a kiss, give them a toy…with a kiss, put food on their plate…..with a kiss, put their seatbelts on in the car…..with a kiss. Spending time on the sofa watching a video all cuddled together, discussing the film together, maybe even dozing off together. I know that nowadays it is said that it is the quality of time that you spend with your kids that counts, not the amount of time. I don’t know if I am going to get heaps of criticism for what I am about to say but in my opinion, lots of time with your kids is best, if you can, naturally. My not working allowed me all the time in the world with my boys, allowed me to take my time with my boys, to dawdle and not have to rush. We were more often then not at home, enjoying the simple fact of being at home, without having to go anywhere. I kept their lives easy: school, a twice weekly sporting activity and home. Books, lego, colouring pencils for drawing, out in the garden and yes, too much telly probably. I have enjoyed every single second spent with them. I have not lost a second of their life and by my being so close, so always there, I know them. They don’t need to say a word for me to know if something is wrong. One look into their eyes, at the expression on their face and my sixth sense comes into action. Which is why I often shake my head in complete mystification when I hear of youngsters having done something dreadful and their parents saying how they would never have imagined their child capable of such a thing, that they did not know that there was even a problem. Although, hang on, I am not out of the bushes yet, they are teenagers now and could still spring some unpleasantness onto me, but for the moment, I know my chickens. And them having been with me allows me to take the merits and obviously to the same extent, the blame of how they will come out as grown men.

Which is purely and simply what parenting is all about. Transforming a fragile, unformed defenceless human being into an intelligent, friendly, socially respectful and loving young adult, which is what our society needs and sadly lacks. Our children are tomorrow’s adults, tomorrow’s politicians, tomorrow’s administrators, tomorrow’s doctors and teachers, tomorrow’s parents. But there are so many pitfalls, our world has become so dangerous, especially to the naïve, to the gullible, to the kind, to the young. We can’t wait for our children to grow before telling them what dangers they face. We have to start when they are very young, using language that won’t scare them but will make them aware. We start when they are very young, and we carry on repeating our warning, our language maturing along with their years, cautioning them as each occasion arises.
Communication as always is the secret to any relationship, mother and child included. Talking and body language are so important. There is no topic that is off limits. Why should there be? We have to teach them to think, and I have often said to mine that they have to do as I say because I am Mamma but they don’t have to necessarily agree. We have to teach them to want to be independent in order for them to strike out on their own with confidence and guts. We have to teach them to dream, to have a thousand dreams, because if out of a thousand only one becomes reality it is still one more than none. We have to show them a good and beautiful world, to teach them to look always for that goodness and that beauty, because it is there to be found. And if they are able to see this, they themselves will bring goodness and beauty to it and perhaps lessen by a fraction the ugliness and the evil that surrounds us too. We have to teach them to be happy. Because there are ways to be happy, tricks to be learned that help us get through this life of ours with a smile. And it is through our words and by our actions we convey the meaning of Life to these wondrous children of ours.
Just as my mother’s arms will always be there to protect and to comfort, no matter how old my children are. Just as my children will always know that they can come to those arms, can always call “Mamma” and know that I will be there for them.

This is all the lovey dovey stuff. How about the flip side of the coin now?

We have to have authority over our children. Oh yea, oh yea, parents around the world, have you ever heard of the word NO? What is this fad that has overtaken us that we can’t spank our kids any more? That we don’t have to deny them anything anymore? I was spanked as a child and I haven’t come out cowed and with existential problems. We are not talking about beating here, we are talking about spanking. And boy, have I spanked. With two sons, what do you think? I have chased them around the dining room table wacking away with a wooden spoon, I have yelled the roof off, I have numbed their brains with endless, furious monologues.
And I have also apologised when I was wrong.
Rarely.
And be honest, mums, how can we keep sane if we don’t get mad with them? Children can drive you up the wall and after having tried to explain, tried to be patient, having threatened and given due warning, once we have delivered a slap, a wack and hysterical diatribe, tell me, how good does that feel? We are better mums than ever after having let off steam. We are flesh and blood mothers, not nut and bolted programmed robots. And we have to say no.
A lot of the time.
NO to teach respect, NO because wrong is wrong, NO because it is dangerous, NO because life isn’t easy, money doesn’t grow on trees and we have to respect those that go out and earn it. Society begins in the home. And educating a child is hard, round the clock work.
There is so much of it. So many different facets of it. And we still have the rest of our daily chores to complete too. And if we feel sick? Who cares, our duty calls.
Cooking, cleaning, school runs, P.T.A. meetings, sports activities, chocolate cake for tea, friends over, bed time stories, praise for when they are good, ticking off for when they are naughty, a reward for when they do right, a punishment for when they do wrong and if I may say so, punishing your child is actually harder than it may seem. But it is a lesson and if we want them to learn, sometimes we only have the hard way.

I taught my boys to ride their bikes, I took them to their swimming classes and taught them to lie down on the bottom of the pool at the deep end when they were five years old, I taught them to ski, I taught them sex education and bought my eldest his first pack of condoms, my first pack of condoms come to think of it! I talked to them about God and whether he exists or not, about the Universe, about good and bad, about wrong and right. If I were to have recorded all that I have ever said to them I think that there would be enough spools of tape to fill up all the shelves in every single registration studio on this planet.
Now that they are young men, I don’t so much talk to them as with them. The balance between us is beginning to change, as well it should. I don’t want them to be me, to think like me. I want them to have their own identity, their own thought processes and come to their own conclusions. I really feel as though I have done all that had to be done in preparing them for their adult life. Now my role is more that of monitoring, a bit like controlling the tiller now and then to put them back on course when they start to veer off at a tangent, when the wind gusts from an unexpected direction.

Of course, our role as mothers will never end. My sons will probably always remain my “babies” even when they will be in their fifties and I in my seventies. They are my children, they came out of me, biblically described as “in suffering and in pain”, and I have earned the right, therefore, to see through those sturdy, virile figures, back to the little boys who ran to their mummy with a grazed knee, into whose bed I got when they had nightmares thus waking up with a broken back, who I had to console when big bullies on the beach purposely harpooned a crab they had lovingly cared for in their big, green plastic box only waiting to release it back into the rock pools when it was time to go home. I would inhale the pungent, “wild animal” smell of their damp, sweaty necks as they slept, revelling in it, I would feast my eyes on their bodies, noticing every detail, as I would give them their shower, and if they fell asleep in my arms I wouldn’t move for the sheer, physical pleasure of having their dead weight upon me.

My eldest son never learnt how to walk, he went from crawling to running. He has also always been an eccentric, even now interested in anything but the usual teenage trends. He lives somewhere up in the clouds and never stops talking.

My youngest son had a lisp until he was nearly seven.
He has been practical and competent ever since I can remember and usually takes charge of his elder brother. He’d like to live on the back of a motorbike.

They are as like as chalk and cheese, but my greatest satisfaction is that, barring the usual mental deficient sparring , both verbal and physical, that unfortunately for me takes place on a daily basis, my sons, these brothers, love each other, look out for each other and have even got as far as being friends now and again.

Being a mother is the woman’s experience by definition. It overwhelms us, exhausts us, gratifies us, satisfies us, gives us a purpose, a reason to exist and makes us complete. Being a mother is all about giving, nurturing and protecting. And is, or should be instinctive.
I am immensely happy to be a mother, I am proud to be a mother and I am a good mother.
But what is being a mother worth? Does it have a value? Can it be evaluated or is it something priceless?
The value of being a mother is most probably best calculated by an analysis of the end product. On how our children have turned out, on our relationship with our children, on how happy our children are and maybe, but not always, on how few grey hairs our children give us. Some of us may be lucky enough to have children who actually realise that they have been the recipients of a lifetime of dedication, of sacrifice and of so, so, much love.

And when my son says that the most beautiful word in the world is “Mamma”…well, what more can be said and how much richer can I get and whatever more could I want?


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Gosh, aren’t I wonderful?

I am only joking, but hey, listen World, I haven’t written a single word that I don’t believe. This incredible role, this incredible job, the enormity of what a child entails, the responsibility and the sacrifice, how on earth does one quantify how much we are worth and how much our work has been and is worth?
Now, I have written about mothers, because I am one and I love being one, and fathers are welcome to write about their side of the matter. But as I said, I am in the middle of a divorce, and it has been said to me that being a good mother is only natural (one wouldn’t want to be a bad mother now, would one?) and is not therefore entitled to any monetary recompense.
So, seeing that I am divorcing and that somewhere along the line I should receive something to validate 19 years of marriage, 17 of which as a mother, I’d like to know if the mother status has any economic value and how can it be established. Would it have a scale: great mum, mediocre mum, so-so mum and have a salary accordingly? Do we need close circuit cameras in our homes to prove that we are as good as we say? Should we have a Good Mother’s Guide to follow to the letter so that our qualities and competences can be ticked off should we be put to the test?

It was my choice not to go to work. My dream had come true and I had my children. My going to work would have meant leaving my children under someone else’s responsibility. Not on your nelly! My children were mine and mine alone, I wasn’t going to have someone else bringing them up. Of course, I could afford not to go to work, but it is here that we have the question to solve: was I effectively working? Or is bringing up two young sons and running a home not classifiable as working?

Of course I did a lot of nothing too. I am not a fanatical Italian housewife. What I didn’t do today I could do tomorrow and if all I did was be with my boys on some days, lolling around, playing, chatting and cuddling, well, what of it? I was with them, not lolling, chatting, playing and cuddling with other people. Just as long as food was on the table at the required times and that their clothes were cleaned and ironed, anything else was extra. All this, in my opinion, is called investing. Investing in my children’s future and I am one of those lucky parents who was actually able to do so from morning until night.
But a lot of nothing isn’t really “nothing”. It is very much a “something”. In the world of today, what is perhaps lacking, even more than money, is time. We don’t have time for anything or anyone anymore. We always have to be rushing somewhere and this I have never understood. People are no longer happy to be at home. My boys used to say that their friends were never home, that we were the only ones who ever seemed to stay home. For example, kids do not want to go shopping, certainly not mine. Then who does want to be shopping? The mums of course. Nor do kids always want to be doing things. I have noticed that, here in Italy at any rate, parents seem to want SuperKids. After school they have catechism, football or ballet, private English lessons, music lessons and to round it all off the usual fashion plate shopping. Whatever happened to plain staying at home? To going for a walk in the woods (if you are lucky enough) or down to the park? To making tents in the garden or just playing in your bedroom with your toys?

Is home life boring? Yes, it can be. Household chores are the pits and having to provide meals twice a day becomes a heavyweight chain around your neck. Once I had cleaned up the kitchen from lunch I was already preparing for supper, peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables and stirring sauces at two in the afternoon. Not fun.
But being with my boys was not boring. Their security and comfort was knowing that I was in the kitchen, or in the garden, or reading a book on the sofa while they were playing in their room. Knowing I was around and that they only had to call “Mamma” and I would be there. And that is how I wanted it to be. This is the childhood that I wanted to offer my boys. This is the childhood that I gave to my boys. And it has paid off as I now have a very special, very intimate and confidential relationship with them. We discuss, we bicker, we laugh together and we still (but nobody knows!) cuddle up together.

I do not classify myself as their friend under any circumstance. We can have loads of fun together, whishing down a ski slope, ducking each other underwater and having diving competitions in a swimming pool. I let them talk their brainless nonsense to me or let them rant and rave when the need arises. They will hopefully have hundreds of friends in their lifetime but I, I am unique as I am their mother. And this role is mine and mine alone. If there is a problem they turn to me. When they are excited or have fantastic news I am the first to get a phonecall. When they are sick it is me they want.
Let it be clear, however, that my little boys are now young men and as much as I wanted to be their fulltime, henclucking (and henpecking!) mummy when they were children, I want them, and am preparing them, to become independent and enterprising adults. A good mother also has to know she has to let go, a good mother has to encourage her children to let go, a good mother will let go. Because that is still part and package of loving your children.

Fly high, fly far my darlings, just never stop loving me and remember to come back to me now and again. And be happy.

So, here we are back at where we started from. Just how much value is given to being a mother? I chose not to go to work because I wanted to bring up my boys myself and also, let me be honest, because I could not bear not to be with them. They were my little boys, I brought them into this world and I wanted to live my life with them. Because, for old fashioned me, mummies are supposed to stay at home with their children if they can. But now, encircled by the wrangling of bitter divorce I am being accused of being a mother. I am accused of not having gone out to work and earned euros and cents, seeing I was in a dodgey marriage. I am accused of having had it easy, of not having worked because being a mother is not a job, because being a good mother is something to be taken for granted and because one shouldn't have payment for being a mother.
So, guys and gals of the world, I would be curious to know some opinions on this subject. I really haven’t done much else in my life other than be a mother. It has been, and still is hard work but it has fulfilled and beyond, all my expectations of the joys of maternity. Should this joy be enough? Should I say to my ex that I don’t want his money for having been nothing more than a mother to our children? Or have I earned the right to some recompense for having carried out my role as a mother?

What am I worth?

Think about that World.

Helene

Apples Galore - August 2008

Hello World,

And how have you all been this week? As for myself, never a dull moment. Probably I have a little too much on my plate at the moment, but better busy than bored. Now, if you actually managed to get through what I threw at your last week, here is nother biggy. I must be truthful, I have had this saved on my computer for ages, it was actually the first thing I wrote after I had decided to get into writing and that was at the end of last summer. It is light hearted and records a very happy memory, I can't possibly be profound all of the time a) because I would become the greatest bore on earth b) I don't always have things to be profound about and c) being profound can actually be very exhausting.

So, away you go and have some fun. I did.

Apples Galore

I plan my holidays meticulously. They may not be executed as such but all the necessary details are there. Obviously one must allow, for the non completion of all the “things to do” factors such as; inclement weather, closing days, wrong or obsolete information and naturally, sheer laziness, from other members of my family, of course.

This trip was no exception. I had given my family a choice: or in Germany on the North Sea, otherwise in our Italian Alps in Val Venosta on bikes.
The bikes won.
Not so difficult to understand when you have two teenage boys around you, is it? Not that I minded. I had picked up both destinations from a series of travel magazines that I have collected over the years. Only that Germany had been on my agenda for years and Val Venosta only popped up in August 2007’s edition of Bell’ Italia. And caught my eye. The period was perfect too, just when I had my week off, just before the harvest. Harvest? Yes indeed. Val Venosta is the heart of Italy’s cultivation of apples, which, being August were just ready to be picked off the trees, therefore the article seduced me with the idea of pedalling 80 kilometres down a valley amid hundreds of apple laden trees. So, with no more ado I booked ourselves a week in an agriturismo on internet.

What’s an agriturismo? Well, here in Italy they are very popular. They are a mixture of hotel, self-catering, biological or agricultural farm/establishment and are usually family run. Therefore the imprint is definitely in being closer to nature in one way or another than ones usual hotel with all its formalities. Having said that, I chose self-catering for the extra freedom it gives us as a family. We can have relaxed family meals around a table without the rush due to the limited time that we have at home and we have a sitting room in which to lounge around in total relaxation (stretching out on a sofa in underpants and watching DVDs on the telly). Do I mind the having to cook? Not really, these small apartments are a bit like playing at dolls’ houses and I do come prepared with most of the actual culinary preparation done beforehand. I am most organised. I have to be if I am to enjoy myself too.

Seeing as the area is renowned for its apples, I opted for a fruit growing agriturismo in the village of Lasa, around half way up the valley. Perfect for organising our 2 day descent of the Val Venosta. Because, honestly, this bike ride is perfectly structured. You buy an Event Card, from automatic ticket machines found in every station up the valley which is inclusive of the renting of a bike and use of the train as many times as you like for a day. It costs 14 euros for an adult and 7 euros for children up to 16 years of age. A bargain, right? And the agriturismo was slap bang right next to Lasa station. I was actually a touch worried about that , for nothing as it turned out in the end.

So, as I said before, this holiday was chosen by the boys for the cycling aspect but what is so particular about this cycle path? Apart from the apple orchards, the path follows what was once a Roman road coming down from Switzerland to connect with the Via Postumia and thence on to Rome. It was made under the Emperor Claudius’ rule and therefore called the Via Claudia Augusta, so already I was imagining myself following in the footsteps of the legions as they marched up and down the Alps towards this or that battle, their studded sandals thumping the stone surface, left right, left right, left right. Being obsessed with ancient history, the idea fascinated me. The path also follows the course of the Adige river, the longest in Italy after the Po, and last but not least was the fact that the Val Venosta is the driest valley in the Alpine range. It receives on average about as much rainfall as in Sicily and I can’t remember how many hours of sunshine. That’s why the fruit grows so plentifully and is so sweet, the sun adds to the sugar content. I can assure you, rain is a constant in the mountains and to have a guarantee that you won’t get any is like hanging a carrot in front of a donkey. Irresistible! Then, there is the whole point of this adventure. This path, according to the article, is downhill all the way, you hardly need to peddle, if anything you may have to brake now and then. An alpine Holland, by the sound of it. That was the clinching factor for me. I will climb a mountain if I have to, and probably enjoy it, but do NOT expect me to cycle uphill. Uphill cycling is beyond my physical and mental capacities. I am literally not up to the exertion. I do not even desire to exert myself. I see no pleasure in exerting myself on this particular mode of transport. I’d wheel my bicycle uphill. Therefore this would be my second trip on a bike, the first having been, needless to say, in the Netherlands themselves. Credit me with some sense please, I did say that I chose my holidays with care. Downhill cycle riding has the thumbs up for me.

Hurrah ! Saturday 23rd of August dawned and we were off in our Fiat Multipla. Terribly ugly car, I call her our rubbish tip on wheels, but we are fond of her. You can pack as much as you want and still have room to spare and the windows are just perfect for savouring the scenery. It is almost like being in a Gullivarian coach. The evening before was: PANIC STATIONS EVERYONE! Bossing, yelling, rushing, last minute packing and cleaning. I have this manic need to leave the house spick and span before going on holidays. I know, I know, I seem boring and extreme, but believe me, by Italian standards I am lax.

However, once we left we all relaxed although I was rather silent as the men folk seemed only to talk relentlessly of motor Grandprixs. I was concentrating on getting to destination. The traffic on the road was very heavy. Most traffic was southbound, thankfully, as the last of the summer tourism was heading back home. We crossed the Apennine mountains and descended into the Po Valley, the largest plain in Italy and our agricultural bread basket. We passed fields and fields of maize and wheat, some harvested and some not. It is so flat and interminable, especially to those of us who come from the La Spezia province with its green hills, beaches and deep blue sea. We passed Parma and Reggio Emilia on the A1 motorway and turned north onto the A22 just before Modena in the Brenner Pass direction. We went up through Verona, Rovereto and Trento and we continued up the wide, U- shaped valley towards Bolzano. I don’t think much of this valley. It doesn’t have character and seems just a continuation of the hot, sweaty Po plain although we saw all the vineyards on either side of the motorway. At a certain point, the traffic began to build up almost to a standstill and we decided to get off the motorway and onto the “Statale” or b-road road running parallel. A bad idea as traffic was heavy there too and being on the bottom of a valley there was no alternative road to fall back on. We did eventually crawl onto the Bolzano ring road until our exit towards the spa town of Merano, set right at the entrance of the Val Venosta and where we were set to have lunch.

We had left La Spezia with fine weather but as we arrived in Bolzano clouds had appeared and by the time we were minutes from Merano we were in the middle of a torrential downpour.
So much for no rain.
Ever the optimist I concentrated on talking about the old town and the short walkabout we had planned.
Enrico just snorted.
And I had the last laugh.
As we entered Merano the skies cleared and that was that. For the whole week as it matters. Believe me, attitude is stronger than the weather.

Merano too, just about comes under the Val Venosta micro climate. This is one of the places that the Empress Sissy of the Austrian-Hungarian empire frequented. One can visit the Castle Trauttmansdorff botanical garden and walk along the Passiria riverside walk. The Passiria river rushes through Merano until its confluence with the Adige. The town has a compact meander of medieval porticos under which commercial activities flourish. We would see more of porticos during our weeks stay.

After lunch, served with the Forst local brand of beer which we later found everywhere, we left straight away for our half hour ride to Lasa. At this point, all we wanted was to arrive to where would be our home for the coming week.

We started to climb up the valley, only a very slight gradient, and it was then that the staggering amount of apple orchards hit us. Hundreds, thousands of apple trees stretching across the valley. All that I ever saw apart from apples were cabbage fields. There were lovely houses with balconies glowing with bright, scarlet geraniums. This place gave me the idea of industriousness, prosperity and love of the land as it was kept so trim and tidy. This can be hard to find in Italy. There is so much beauty in this country but so little is done to preserve and enhance it, almost as though it is taken for granted. This is so frustrating for someone who grew up in an Anglo-Saxon country where rules and regulations are meant to be respected for the collective well being of the people rather than be got around for personal gain together with this ingrained, almost genetic urge to get the better of the system.

After lots of oohing and ahhing (from myself, not the boys) we finally drove into the village of Lasa or Laas in German and into the Fohlenhof agriturismo where we met Rudi and Maria, our hosts. My sons were most taken aback by the fact that the inhabitants of the valley speak German as a first language and Italian as a rusty second. My son Nico, in fact, was downright offended by the fact. “We’re in Italy, mio Dio” he’d mutter on and off during the whole week.

In many frontier regions, the population speak the languages on both sides of the border, but never as much as in the Alto Adige region. It used to belong to the Austrian-Hungarian empire (Remember the Empress Sissy?) and was annexed to Italy after WW1. However, the people never fully integrated and Italians almost feel that they are abroad for the same reason that Austrians and Germans abound because they almost feel at home. The region’s architecture reflects its origins as does it’s administration. I rushed off to the supermarket to buy basic bread and milk at 6.45 p.m. to find it already shut. Closing time 6 p.m. What ?
Closing time is at 7.30 p.m. by my knowledge……. but this isn’t really Italy is it? The transalpine tradition dominates and as overall I appreciate the precision, punctuality and order of such tradition I tried to regain my equanimity by going off to beg a jug of milk from Maria.

The Fohlenhof is a wonderfully easy going, comfortably run establishment. It reflects it’s owners own friendly disposition. We hit it off straight away with Rudy. He is a perfect example of how people are busy doing things to get on in life. He teaches Agriculture, runs an agriturismo where he grows both the standard apple and the sweetest, tastiest apricots I have ever eaten, has a distillery, was vice mayor of Lasa and took an active part in getting the Val Venosta or Vinshgau railway line from Merano to the Resia Pass running again. He is an inexhaustible font of information.
The railway was built by the Austrian-Hungarians and was opened in 1906 and ran until its closure in 1985 by the Italian National Railway deeming it an obsolete, unprofitable branch. Rudi and his colleagues promptly began to see about bringing it back into use, so successfully that on the 05/05/2005 it was inaugurated again after 20 years. Apart from the effort made for this project I suppose a little luck came along under the aegis of the UE funds designated for this precise purpose. The old fashioned stations have been given a face lift and this modern, bright, two wagon train runs like a Swiss clock up and down the valley, allowing the local population to move around at will, as us tourists with our bikes. The idea is to broaden the railway network (privately run) across all Alto Adige. I say “good luck” to the idea, rail travel is to be encouraged for all the usual reasons, less pollution and road congestion etc.

Anyway, having got off to a good start with Rudi, Maria and their lovely German shepherd dog, Alija, we got settled into our gorgeous little apartment with its small balcony looking onto the garden and across onto the marble depots. It had its stube or oven style radiator for real winter warmth as you walked into the bedroom, and a snug kitchen, perfectly kitted out, immediately on your left. The boys loved the telly as it rotated on a plate and was therefore visible from the bed, from the sofa and from the kitchen. Wow! The bathroom was up three steps on the far right of the bedroom and it was furnished in such a welcoming style that we all felt at home straight away. There was another double room right in front of ours so there was no problem at all going to and fro. Before supper we all wanted to explore as the Fohlenhof seems a little like a labyrinth at first with landings and corridors at different levels, a pool room and a reading room full of books (German I’m afraid). Enjoying our home from home is also part of holiday experience, especially for me who gets away from all the boring household chores, as here everything is so easy. How wonderful to fall asleep at night feeling far, far away from responsibility which is days and days away…ssnnzzzz!

Lights out had been at 10 p.m. so I was up and about at 8 a.m. getting breakfast ready anticipating our first day out. I have so much energy on holiday, so many things that I want to do that I must keep on remembering that I did promise Enrico that we would take it easy, not transform each day into a tour de force….oh dear, would I manage? Well, I wouldn’t worry about it today, it was our first day, with that totally relaxed feeling of having time stretching endlessly out in front of you.

Right then, I got us all into the car and off we were for our first excursion of the week. I had found another agriturismo on the internet, set at about 600m a.s.l. offering a spectacular view while savouring meals based on home grown and raised produce. We could get up the mountainside using a cable car and from there it would be an hour and half’s walk. We arrived at the Laces cable car station and caught one up with only minutes to spare. Up we went with the typical initial lurch squashed against the usual group of German speaking tourists. From the top we had an amazing view up and down the valley with the orchards covering the valley floor like a patchwork quilt. The neatness of it all was so satisfactory to behold. The walk to the agriturismo was easy and pleasant. On our left we had the valley dropping away below us, while the path wandered before us through a forest of firs and sunlit open pastures. Nothing steep and strenuous, just a lazy: look at this, look at that walk, the boys all the while keeping an eye out for adders. Fortunately for me we saw a squirrel instead. Finally, when hunger was setting, in we arrived for our lunch, served on this wonderful terrace overlooking the valley floor. In full sunshine, under an awning, drinking blackcurrant juice, a magic moment can be created.
Then I got my lamb (pot roast) and the boys and Enrico got their three fried eggs( I call that exaggerated, talk about serious cholesterol ) and sausages.
We tucked in.
Silence reigned supreme.
On very full stomachs we had to face the descent back to the car. Enrico and Diego absolutely wanted to be back in the flat in time for a grandprix race on the telly while Nico and I had no intention whatsoever of consuming all of those calories. So the two Formula 1 fans raced off downhill, never missing a step down the stony path and effectively managed to conclude and hour and a half’s descent in only forty minutes.
It took us a full hour and a half.
Back down in Laces, after a refreshing Coke, we got the train back up to Lasa and set about relaxing……. which means we all had a siesta!
The rest of the day and evening was spent pottering around, reading my book, preparing supper and getting psyched up for the big event on the morrow.

So there we were, rise and shine on Monday morning, ready to catch our 8.40 train from Lasa to Malles, the alpine terminus of the railway line. This was what the boys had been waiting for, to finally be in action on their bikes. We had our leisurely breakfast and only had to stroll 100 metres to the station. Right on time, the dinky, little train arrived, we got on and settled down for the journey, all 17 minutes of it. Once at Malles we rented our bikes (having previously bought the Event cards on the train) from the bike depot but then we waited for the bus, included in the Event Card service, to take us up to Resia where we would physically claim them as the cycle path begins precisely at that locality. As we had left Lasa, I had noticed how the composition of the valley gradually changed from orchard fields into alpine pasture. The Resia pass is at 1500 m but we got off at Resia village, two kms before it and promptly dived into the bike depot which is at the bus stop itself (I told you that it is a great system). All we had to do was grab 4 bikes. The boys got mountain bikes while I waited for a wide, padded saddle, lady’s city bike, thank you! A young man was serving an Italian woman ( I specify Italian even if we were in Italy because it felt as though we were not) who was complaining in an obnoxious fashion that the saddle had not been fixed tightly enough. Seeing as she was doing a good imitation of the twist on it and indeed trying the poor man’s Teutonic patience I began tapping my foot myself in irritation. In the end she went and got her own bicycle while I serafically took charge of the offending vehicle, did a little twist myself and found it unexceptional. It took good care of me for the whole day, so there, you silly woman.

So, with our bikes and no helmets ….oh yes, on the whole bike ride, we were the only unequipped riders on the path. I felt terribly irresponsible, especially when the boys were being totally and manically un-road safety wise. I would sporadically exclaim about how we were the only un-helmeted people around and the boys would groan back at me and tell me how boring I was. I mean, how can anyone hurt themselves on a bike? Our neighbour only went into coma and almost died after being knocked off his one.

Where was I ? Oh, yes, with our saddles beneath our bottoms, and our totally useless rain gear stuffed into the back clip we were off on the Claudia Augusta cycle path around Lake Resia. From the first second, cycling was not the correct term for the men folk’s form of peddling, it was more in the terms of whizzing. I was always sedately in the rear, contemplating the scenery which one squinting eye on my family, awaiting catastrophe….. no helmets, such fools, hospitalization, why on earth didn’t I think of hiring helmets, I’m an idiot. While exhorting the boys to stop overtaking each other and the large Italian group of which the obnoxious lady belonged to, at breakneck speed we wound our way around the lake, past the church tower of Curon which rises out of the water. The village was submerged in the 1960’s in order to create the lake and the tower is a feature of the area.

Where Lake Resia finishes Lake San Valentino begins and we were frantically trying to keep ahead of the “Italians”. What happened next was the highlight of the boys descent. We basically hurtled down a steep incline following the side of the lake for about 2 or 3 kms. Enrico was shouting at the boys to slow down. They were not listening so he accelerated in order to overtake them, I was forming the rearguard enjoying the wind on my face while keeping the water bottle from flying out of the basket, praying that we wouldn’t meet oncoming traffic as the path is very narrow but runs both ways. Would you believe that we saw most people going uphill? We also had the serious cyclists coming up at pumping speed behind us and we would hear the low rush of their wheels as they came up all very professionally geared up, dark glasses and all. Quite intimidating really.

Without realising it we had descended the alpine pastures through which the bus had taken us up. Ever since I had entered Val Venosta and seen the orchards I had been commenting on how I would just love to harvest the apples. I had visions of myself up the ladders picking the apples one by one (they are truly handpicked, cross my heart) companionably with other like harvesters, enjoying the fresh air, the nature, the rural satisfaction of physical labour. Well, on the bus we saw quite a few people, lost in the middle of those same wide, empty, sunny pastures cutting the long grass (for fodder I gather) with a scythe in sweaty, backbreaking solitude. I didn’t like the look of that at all. I quite reversed my daydreaming of bucolic bliss and thought that my actual job was really very pleasant after all.

Anyway, we finally arrived in Burgusio with its castle and the milky white monastery of Marienberg up above it. It is the highest, working Benedictine monastery in Europe. You can find the most amazing Carolinian frescoes in the crypt but only by appointment. At this point everyone was hungry and so we continued following the perfectly well signed cycle path to Glorenza (or Glurns), one of the 50 most beautiful villages in Italy, but, in actual fact, it’s the smallest “town” in Italy. It is set in a strategic position, and was an economic focal point during the Middle Ages. Salt was the major product that transited through it, coming down from Austria’s salt mines . From Glorenza the salt left for Italy, down the Claudia Augusta and for Switzerland through the Taufer Ofen Pass.
It also has a very curious story attached to it. We all know the famous “Pied Piper of Hamlin” fable. Well, here too we find mice as protagonists. Due to the mice eating or destroying the wheat bags in the storage rooms in 1520 the citizens of Prato allo Stelvio began a lawsuit against them. They were duly represented by a lawyer from Glorenza and the trial lasted a whole year. At the end the judge passed sentence that the mice had every right to exist by being one of God’s creations and were therefore not to be harmed but, seeing the damage that they provoked to the citizens’ economy they were to be accompanied out of the town. The mice had won!

Glorenza is situated at the end of the high part of the valley and at the beginning the valley floor, with the Adige rushing and gurgling past it under the guise of a cheerful and musical torrent. It overflowed in the late 1800’s, the water level is marked on the town walls. It is a gorgeous little town, totally encircled by walls interspersed with little round towers with conical roofs. Outside the walls the locals have created kitchen and flower gardens now in full bloom. I just couldn’t tear my eyes away from it all but having seen the Grunen Baum hotel restaurant in the main square we were ready for a long lunch to regain our energy for the afternoon before us. We parked our bikes in the rack just next to the restaurant entrance we got ourselves an outside table where we could eat and watch the busy town scene in front of us. Heaven.

One does eat better in “Italy” but all things considered we ate well (grumpy service though, although fast) and noticed how the tourism in this area is not in mass. Lots of people, fair enough, but not enough to cause a crush, either to each other or to the locals. The majority were cyclists like us “doing” the cycle path and the others were motorcyclists. Mountain roads with all their zig- zagging are a biker’s dream, the more extreme the better, so you can imagine how many there were all in their black leather.
When we got to the end of our meal we saw the “Italian” group cycle in. Thank goodness that it was our turn to leave, still ahead of them. We got back on the bikes and had a wonder through the town’s streets, all lovingly litter free and flower full. We swerved in and out of the old, crooked portico’s in Via dei Portici. All are brilliantly whitewashed and make a striking contrast with the vivid oranges and pinks of the flowers. Portico’s are often to be found in Alto Adige as they allow for strolling and getting around town in spite of the bad weather which is often to be had with a mountain climate.

Anyhow, we finally headed east, the cycle path now following the ice-born, ice-grey, bubbly Adige along it’s course. This is when things began to get harder. Afternoon activities are always heavy going and it was hot and our bums were getting sore. There was no more downhill incline. The path ran flat, initially under the trees but on the last leg of the day under the August sunshine. The kms lengthened and the moaning began. When are we going to arrive? How much longer ? I thought you said the path was downhill all the way? Morale grew lower. The plain widened at Prato allo Stelvio and at that moment the apple orchards came into their own. They path wound its way among them, orderly row after orderly row, the apples glowing like green and red baubles among the leafy branches creating an almost Christmas tree affect. My mouth watered at the sight of them. But, would you believe it, when I had popped into the supermarket early that morning for supplies I had immediately gone to the fruit section in order to get us some wholesome, local apples and I stopped aghast at the sight of the tag declaring the provenance from Chile. NO!! I found out that the apples begin their harvest season from around September 10th and that therefore until then….tough luck! Those tantalising fruits were only there for the beauty of the eye, not the palate. We always fiercely desire what we can’t get, and “bah gum” I wanted that apple!! By this time we all knew that Lasa was drawing nearer and I had to drop my bombshell that we wouldn’t be consigning our bikes at the station. It doesn’t have a depot. We had to go to the next town down, Silandro, therefore, with a regretful glance towards the Fohlenhof we passed our village and began (fortunately) another exhilarating, cool and leafy descent, to the boys’ joy. So with a “Gernonimoooooo” we bombed it down, at this point, only really wanting to get the day over with. Having said this, we had to do some penance first. Once in Silandro (or Schlanders), in order to get to the station it is almost all uphill and after hours on the saddle that is the last thing you want unless you are masochistically inclined. We almost threw the bikes at the collector and then mercifully sat down to wait 50 minutes for our train back to Lasa. I just relaxed with a coke looking around me at the renovated turn of the century style station just rejoicing in my being still. The train slid into the station, bang on time and in five minutes we were back in Lasa and our apartment. A shower and supper on the table with lots to talk about made up a good evening and we even got around the snooker table in one of the public rooms, popping the balls into the pockets only that at a certain point the only place worth being in was bed.

We had categorically decided that there would be no biking the next day. This was a holiday, remember? The boy’s leg muscles ached as did my unmentionable paraphernalia and so we decided to take advantage of the Fohlenhof’s family holiday, free voucher to visit the freshwater aquarium “Acquaprad” in Prato allo Stelvio. Nico was the really keen one to go while I just went along in family spirit, not really much interested and was therefore astonishingly surprised to find that I was thoroughly enjoying myself. It belongs to a series of museums, each regarding a diverse aspect of mountain life and culture which can be found in different locations around the Val Venosta (Alps?). This unique aquarium, although not very large, gives us an in depth understanding of life in alpine lakes, torrents and rivers. The guide was extremely detailed in her explanations, and very friendly, making the effort to translate the tour into Italian for us as, guess what, all the other visitors were naturally German speaking!
Nico was transfixed by the water snakes(totally harmless but ugh), but the focal point of the aquarium is the big floor to ceiling tank with catfish, a huge 1 ½ metre pike and an Italic-Siberian sturgeon. I know that they are the ones who produce caviar but I associate them with prehistoric fish and I never imagined that these monsters swam in our rivers. Jaws put an end to my off shore swimming and now I realise that even placid, inland waters have their beasts………such as trouts. Did you know that some can become absolutely enormous with razor sharp teeth? Fair enough, they won’t eat you but they can give you a nasty nip, as our guide had experienced. All in all we spent an interesting, slow paced morning which was just what we needed. We decided to go back to Glorenza for lunch and we all had a long nap in the afternoon. I took my book out in the afternoon, down by the ping pong table, while the boys were messing about on the house bikes (they could not resist getting back on them) and soon got talking to Rudi.

He told me of the Fohlenhof’s origins, back in the days of the Empire. The emblem of the agriturismo is of a rearing horse dating back to the days when it stabled the horses necessary to the construction of the road up to the Stelvio Pass, to which we were going the next day. It was here that a new crossbreed was founded between an oriental stallion and a native mare from whom Folie was born. For 19 years Folie was used as a mounting stallion being therefore the ancestor of this new breed of mountain horse which rapidly spread and is now found all over the Alps. The breed’s name is Avelignese in Italian and Halfling in German which inevitably brings to mind the Hobbit and is actually adapt as it is a pony size horse reaching to 137 cms at the shoulder and is usually a bay colour.
He explained how the Lasa marble is quarried, way up the mountain above us in a cavern quarry, less environmentally detrimental compared to open site quarries and how the blocks are sent across the valley suspended by a cable onto a small narrow gauge railway down to the marble depot right in front of the Fohlenhof, on the other side of the railway line. This white marble is older and harder than the famous Carrara marble that is quarried in the Apuan mountains, not far from where we live. A local sculptor has a workshop in the Fohlenhof where he produces his forms of modern sculpture and participates in the most important event in Lasa which is held at the beginning of August called Marble and Apricots, naturally dedicated to it’s two most renowned products.

The Stelvio Pass is THE biker’s Mecca with it’s 49 hairpin bends to the top and has seen many a Giro D’Italia cycle race. To get up to it one has to go up to Prato allo Stelvio, pass the aquarium and then the road starts to climb. The mountains are grim, dirt grey and very intimidating with many scree slopes, witness to the disastrous receding of glaciers. They are part of the Ortler group whose highest peak is the Ortler at 3.899 m. Each bend is signposted in a countdown to the top and I can tell you that we saw many motorbikes zooming effortlessly upwards and many, many cyclists who put a lot more effort into their ascent. At a certain point the gradient rose almost perpendicularly and the zigzagging of the road could be seen all the way to the top and I can say that it certainly merits it’s acclamation as one of the most incredible mountain roads in Europe. Once at the top we went to have a snack at the Tibet refuge, looking down onto this amazing road. As I said, it isn’t a welcoming place but one must just admire both the audacity of the road and what it must have cost those who built it plus the stark austerity of the rock all around. There is summer, morning skiing on the Stelvio Glacier so there were many coming off the cable car in all their ski gear. Although I ski I did not fancy the idea myself, at this time of year and with such an austere and menacing backdrop.

The fun part of the day came when we went back down again. We had brought the Fohlenhof’s bikes along in order for the boys’ ride down, one at a time, behind their dad. I was not too keen. Being a mother can have its drawbacks, as I thought that too much speed would be picked up on such a steep gradient or else that the brakes would overheat from excessive braking and end up not braking at all and there was a lovely panel by the roadside indicating how many bikers had lost their lives down this road. Great. Therefore, the rule was that I would go down first with Enrico and one of the boys behind me. Off we went, with grumpy boys who thought that I was taking all the fun out of the ride and so therefore went so slowly as to allow me to get much further ahead so that they could accelerate in order to catch up with me. Enrico was shouting all the way down I think, so I do believe that he did do the dad bit. As they gave out victory signs to up bound cars they hugely enjoyed receiving the admiring thumbs up for having conquered the Stelvio. Impostors!

Back at the agriturismo we had a nap, I told you that we were relaxing, and then all on my lonesome, I went to find myself a waalweg. What’s that, you say? One may find many variations on this theme in drought plagued areas all over the world, from Peru to Afghanistan. A waalweg is a manmade canal that channels water from its source down mountain sides and pastures where it eventually empties into a torrent. Here, this practice dates back to medieval times and Charters were even drawn up regarding their use and maintenance and those who looked after them were regarded as important figures in society. I went on a walk to follow one up that runs above the town of Burgusio, which has, by the way, one of the best preserved castles in Alto Adige, Castel Coira. The paths are marked but notwithstanding I wasn’t quite sure that I was going in the right direction and as I was quite alone I couldn’t help of thinking of films like the Blair Witch Project and it was therefore with a sigh of relief that, after having quite exhausted myself in a long and steep climb I came onto the waalweg, rushing away in its shallow, narrow bed following the mountainside’s contour. I was disappointed that it did not last very long as at a certain point I lost track of it. I should probably have had a better map, as I came to the end of my walk having put in a lot of effort for the very little waalweg that I saw.


Having perfectly recovered from the first three quarters of our valley descent, early next morning we asked Rudi if we could use the house bikes for the last run of the Claudia Augusta cycle path. We were not running it till its end in Merano but were going to catch the train back up from Naturno. This is the part of the valley where the apples really reign supreme. It was, as it had been for the whole week, gloriously sunny and we left the Fohlenhof in high spirits revelling in the freshness of the day. We flew down to Silandro again and then progressed kilometre by kilometre through the orchards. We had noticed that all through the Val Venosta, potent water sprinklers were irrigating, alternately, different areas, be they orchards or pastures both night and day. Water does not seem to be a luxury in a valley with a notorious lack of rainfall, and I am not sure how much the waalwegs contribute nowadays. What I do know is that we got a good dampening riding though these immense sprinklers as the droplets cascaded all around us. Being already overheated from our exercise we could only squeal with delight and hope that there would be some more up ahead of us. There were a few farmers about with tractors and contraptions on wheels that looked like something decorators use going about their business. Some were cutting the grass along the rows with special mowers that are made for getting around the small tree trunks, probably cropping the grass in order the facilitate the forthcoming apple picking.
Quite a few different types of apples are grown, although the most famous are the Golden Delicious. It is a double coloured apple, green with a red blush and although the cultivation here is extensive, it is by no means on an industrial level. The farmers wish to produce, and are renowned, for this healthy, natural and above all tasty product. Supermarket chains are actually not as keen on purchasing these high quality products as they are more delicate than industrially grown ones and need particular care in handling as they can bruise easily.
The quality of the Val Venosta apples is due to the altitude, which acts as a refrigerator by night and prevents the breeding of parasites, and to a remarkable anti- freezing system. The trees are irrigated even during the cold periods and therefore the water freezes on them but actually keeps them warm on the inside, like a form of insulation. Isn’t that clever? This way the delicate buds are protected from the cold rather than destroyed by it.
By now we were almost at Naturno, we could see Castel Juval up on our left, above the village of Ciardes. This renovated castle belongs to a famous mountaineer called Reinhold Meissner who has transformed it into the Museum of the Mountains, with relics of his days climbing the Himalayas and other mountaineering memorabilia. It is open only in the spring and the autumn although it is impressive to look at even from the valley floor. There is even a waalweg walk up to it.
We were pedalling furiously away as we had a train to catch back to Lasa and we did not want to miss it. As we rode into Naturno and headed for the station we noticed that the Adige had become a fully fledged river, wide and fast flowing. We caught our train and sat down satisfied and content. We had completed (well….almost) the Claudia Augusta cycle ride and it had been entirely worth it. The combination of scenery, exercise and efficient organisation had worked together to provide an excellent recipe for a holiday. It had lived up perfectly to my expectations and I had a happy family around to prove it. Definitely an experience to pass on, don’t you think?

Anyway, our last afternoon was spent sleeping and relaxing and beginning to prepare for the next day’s departure. We ordered a crate of fantastic apricots, some grappa and chocolate to bring home and share with the grandparents and I signed my appreciation to the Gartner family in the house book. The boys had their last rides on the bikes, racing up and down alongside the railway track while Enrico and I savoured the last tranquil moments of a well deserved holiday. As always, at the end of a holiday, home isn’t such a bad idea and one looks forward to getting back and getting on with the usual routine with recharged batteries. At least, that is what is should be like. And so with light hearts, our head full of memories and our tongues eager to tell everyone what a wonderful time we had had, we set off back down through the Val Venosta, the valley of Bolzano, through the Po plain, across the Apennines and back to our little corner, in the province of La Spezia, called home.

Don't tell me......I write too much. If it comes to that, I talk too much too.

I'd say that this is more than enough for a blog so until next week,

Bye bye World.

Helene

1st June 2009, starting an adventure

Hello World,

How is everyone out there? I am feeling full of beans today and I always seem to have such a lot to say. Which is also because I have such a complicated Life but it has resulted in such a reward that I can do no less than thank God or the Universe for all that has happened to me, as at the end of it all it has been worth all the effort and all the tears. And in fact all one can write about, fundamentally is about Life itself because everything that we do both exciting and boring, is Life, with a capital L, as you can see. We should probably always live in capital letters, boldly and in eternal proclamation. Presumpteously even. Always presuming that Life will be good. I have discovered that disconcolancy and pessimism gets one nowhere and we all have somewhere to go to. How much better for us when we are happy, bright and optimistic. Why can't we all look for our rainbow because it is out there. I looked for mine and I found it, how about you? Haven't you found it.....or haven't you looked? So, come on World, open your eyes, tune your senses to your heartbeat, dance a merry jig, love yourself for a change and you may even find that you can love others too.
Today is a bit of a presentation and as age, sex, profession and hobbies seem a bit trite, if not boring up to the eyeballs here goes for a taste of what my Words are all about : good luck!!!

Fear, Courage, Love and Joy

Life is such a funny business.
The word life itself has so many different connotations.
Life is the world as a whole, life is nature, life is our heartbeat, life is our sorrows, life is our joys.
Life is, or should be, as easy as the air that we breath in and out of our lungs. And yet life can be as difficult and as impossible as trying to walk on that same air.

Take people for instance. For some, life IS as easy at it should be. Is it a question of character, of circumstance, of intelligence maybe? Or is it destiny? Fate?
For some, life is a perpetual obstacle course over which they stumble, fall, rise up and try again, time and time again. An exhausting existence. And yet those same obstacles can come up in the lives of those whose living is easy and flows as naturally as a river runs from its source to the sea. That same obstacle is crossed with the same effort as an athlete leaps over a hurdle, while others, like myself for instance, came to a halt even before reaching it and could not even begin to imagine how to simply start lifting that foot from the ground.

I have swum against the current of life for most of mine. Everything has been difficult for me, and, now that I have finally begun to understand something of the significance of what the living of a life ought to be like, I start to face up to the fact that in my particular case, all my problems and my sorrows have been of my own making. This in itself is not an easy toad to swallow but like many other human beings, owning up to ones own faults and frailties takes a courage of its own. It was much simpler to convince myself that all that went wrong in my life derived from something or someone else. Or that I was unable to change a situation because of x, y and z reasons. I had knotted myself into an intricate mess and remained trapped inside. Or another analogy that I have often declared to others was that I found myself in front of a an endlessly long and endlessly high stone wall that for years I had sat in front of in impotent resignation. But when I realised that all it had taken to get through that solid, unmovable barrier was a simple knock which had opened a door that had always been there only I had never been able to see it, I remember feeling weak with relief...or was it disbelief? All it took for me to open a door to the other side of my problem was to grab a handful of courage, take a deep breath and talk. It doesn't seem like much does it? And yet, our lives are not about inanimate things but about people and relationships. Our difficulties and hardships are often due to the lack of the means with which to communicate, to the fact that harmony and understanding are not always possible between human beings and, as in my case, an ingrained dread of hurting someone else. And an unhealthy tendency to prefer to suffer myself in the cause of others happiness and serenity. Martyrdom, may I assure you, is no fun at all and above all does not receive the appreciation one would think. This realisation was also a step that led me towards understanding what was and what was not important in life.

I always needed to be liked by everyone and thank goodness that I have kicked that need out of the window. I also desired approval from all and sundry and basically lived my life according to other peoples doctrines. This was since I was a child. A very good child. I almost wish that I had been a bit of a rebel, it would probably have resulted in less heartache as an adult. But we cannot reason along the lines of ifs and buts, our life is one only and we have to make the best of it. That isn't to say that we don't make mistakes. We all do. But what makes a difference is how we face up to them.

I made a huge blunder when I got married, one of epic proportions. I married a very good young man, hard working and honest and, at the time, my best friend. Which was the whole point of the subsequent disaster of our marriage .Our relationship should have remained a lifelong friendship and instead I confused that friendship with love, which just goes to show, as I said before, how much I knew about the facts of life. Not an awful lot of knowledge about the birds and the bees and an almost childlike approach to adulthood. Considering that I was always considered a mature teenager I find that the extent of my immaturity was actually quite frightening. In order to compensate our lack of coniugal complicity we had not one, but two children. We thrust ourselves into the busy vortex of family domesticity and I think that for a certain period, we may have been quietly content. But an ill assorted pair cannot continue to live side by side. The law of nature, in my opinion, forbids it, and our body, mind and soul eventually wants out. There came a moment when I had to find my own means of survival in order to be able to continue to present at least the external trappings of a marriage. My children were paramount and it is only in time that I came to see that to seek my happiness in them, and them only, would have been detrimental not only to myself but to them too. They would have had to be my crutches, and should they not have accepted this millstone around their neck, as well as they should have not, I dread to think what repercussions that could have had upon me. We must encourage our children to be free to choose the life they wish to lead, not tie them to apron strings and clip their wings. We must be an example for them to follow, we must always emanate strength and confidence and a great delight in life. Never must we appear as victims….or fools.

For many years I lived totally absorbed by my own unhappy circumstances, unable to see a way out without hurting all those around me. I was enveloped in a tightly laced straight jacket from which I was unable to wiggle even my little finger. Oh yes, I made the best of it. I did all that I could to present and provide a happy, relaxed atmosphere in the home and among my loved ones. I had always promised myself that my misery was mine alone and that others should not be made to suffer for it....hence my penchant for martyrdom! My only saving grace in all those years was the fact that I could talk to my dear friends about the situation and it really is true when they say that a problem shared is a problem halved. Nothing is quite so bad once it is out in the open. Sometimes I received comfort, sometimes an outside opinion which is always positive, even a rap on the knuckles now and again and always, at the end of a good chat that feeling of warmth generated by the knowledge that someone dear to me in any case kept me with them in their thoughts. Whoever finds a true friend has actually found a treasure trove, believe you me.

But the solving of my intricate and seemingly unsolvable problem came when I realised (better late than never) that courage is not, not being afraid, it is proceeding notwithstanding the fear and understanding, after having faced the music, that I had created some sort of monstrous creature from my fear, something far worse than what I actually had had to face. It made me see myself from without and see that if I only took the effort to see how insignificant my ordinary life was, compared to the enormity of humanity and its weight of suffering how could I have wasted time and energy just concentrating on how unhappy and frustrated I was? How could I have not seen it before? How could my own infinitesimal actions have any bearing upon the world? I felt very small, very selfish and very stupid too, if I have to be honest. When I started to wake up to what is and what is not of great relevance at the end of the day, I began to wonder at how I could have ever endured all the past years.

I have changed profoundly and times of change are never easy. There are harsh moments in life and unfortunately we can't do anything about that. What we can do is always put things into the right perspective, bearing in mind that not all people's perspective coincide.
Therefore, it is not possible to avoid conflict. And this fact is one that I have had to come to terms with as I have tried to avoid it all my life. Conflict comes in all shapes and sizes, we have conflict in the form of wars, genocides, family feuds, political disputes, you name it, it'll be there. Conflicts can stem from hate, from money and from love too. There is loud, bombastic, publicised conflict and silent, self-effacing, private conflict. That is why there is a moment for everything in life, even the moment of conflict, be it a difference of opinion, disappointment, anger or pride. But in order for us to go forward, if there has to be conflict, let it come, get it over with and then be able to carry on, forging ahead on this wonderful path that is our life. There is always the sunshine after the rain, sometimes resulting with the most brilliant and inspiring rainbow. But we have to be able to see that this is the way life goes on, to always go through our days thinking of the good times which will in turn help us get through the bad. We have to strive to live the good in our lives and cross the bad times as quickly as possible, get them over and done with in order to return to joy and happiness.

Which is what life is all about anyway. Without joy and happiness life would not be worth living and that too is another message that I have finally capted and understood. Being unhappy has no sense, to ourselves and to others. Being unhappy is tiring, bogs us down in self pity, and it is like being in quicksand, it sucks us in and paralyses us. Happiness instead is like moving around with a pair of springs beneath our feet. It gives us energy to face everyday with a smile, with equanimity and with confidence. It is also, by the way, extremely contagious and I find that there is nothing better that a human being can do than make another person happy. And the more people the better.

Of course, the major emotion that triggers off happiness is love. And of love I could write reams and reams and possibly never stop. What would we all do without love? How can any of us survive without love? Once we have it, how on earth can we ever let it go?
Love has many facets. The first of which is no doubt the love between a man and a woman. All other loves descend from that one. I have to admit that a major component of this progenitor of love is trust. And trust nowadays is not easy to come by. But, if you are lucky enough to stumble across this component, love emanates such joy that it spreads and permeates into every single thing that we do, at least, it does for me. The phrase "my heart almost feels as though it will burst with the love inside" is quite true. I love so much that sometimes it almost hurts inside. And when I feel all that love boiling around inside me I feel that it is coming out from my pores and it makes me want to share it with the others in my world. There is so much of it that I feel as though it is selfish not to. Loving, like life itself, once you know how to do it, is so simple. When difficult situations crop up, it is always because we have decided to mess things up. Because we stop swimming with the flow and don't focus on what we have but rather on what we haven't. Bad mistake that.

Of course, in any relationship, we are talking about more than one person and therefore the element of compromise is not only necessary, but fundamental. Although I sincerely believe that in order to love others, we must also love ourselves, love is a shared sentiment.
And love is always projected to the other, it should be anyway, as what is given will always be returned. Love is an act of giving and receiving which frees subsequent emotions such as the desire to cherish, nurture, protect and elevate the object of our love. Let us also remember that we are not perfect, heaven forbid! Not one single one of us. And with this knowledge let's not be too punctilious, lets not split hairs and let us talk. The greatest defect that mankind has this day and age is its incapacity to communicate face to face. We probably don't know how to talk anymore, full stop. Couples are no longer able to express their feelings, we have forgotten how important words are. Instead of clearing passing clouds as soon as they peek over the horizon, they are allowed to build up. The importance of the simple joy of togetherness has been swamped by all the material things that are now done nowadays. Couples no longer remember that they were ever in love, if ever they were. The same with our children, although thankfully, I can personally say that though I made a mess of my private life, I have made a great success of my sons due primarily to the fact that I have always talked extensively to them, and maybe to the fact that I am one of the few modern women of today who have had the possibility of having reared them for every day of their childhood. Being a full time mother can at times be extremely boring, and can have negative consequences regarding how she has to eventually confront the real world outside the hearth and home. But it does reap a priceless reward. I know my children, they don't even have to speak in order for me to know that there is something wrong. There is no topic that is out of bounds, anything can be discussed and if they have a problem they know that they can come to me. Children need security and strong, confident parents that will imbibe them with strength and confidence too.

Being strong can be very hard to do. Again, we are not all alike. Some people just are strong, others are weak and others, like myself have to drag their strength and courage up from the soles of their feet with tremendous physical and emotional effort. I used to think that my strength lay in my endurance, at how good I was at keeping up an act in order to maintain a status quo and keep my sons and family serene. Well, my endurance cost me a frozen shoulder and pain as I had never experienced before. I really touched the bottom of the barrel or perhaps was it an abyss? The only good thing about touching rock bottom is that there is only one direction to go from there, and that is back up. And that is what happened to me. I made a conscious decision to be happy. I was tired of being miserable and tired and desperate. Everything that I was unable to express had come out through my shoulder and finally I listened and started to live. Very slowly to be sure, but as surely as a house is built brick by brick I, day by day, determined to get myself out of a rut that I had cut further and further into the ground myself by a mixture of fear, cowardice and basic immaturity. Growing up for me has always been a hard business, I grew up very late and for having always been a very mature, responsible child and teenager I really managed to mess up my life. One of my excuses is that I have always been responsible for others and never for myself, but if I have to be honest, I just wasn't capable of making the right decisions and I certainly did not really know what I wanted from my life. I sort of drifted along with a vague rather, childish vision of what my life would be. This cost me my happiness for about 20 years and unfortunately the life of others too. We do not live alone in this world of ours and all our actions have consequences on those around us. Having said that, I was not alone in my world and others too made their own mistakes, their own wrong decisions. But I took the brunt of the responsibility, avoided confrontation, suffered in silence and dropped into a black hole.

I suppose that having made it out is quite an achievement and in the achieving I have hurt all those people that I wanted to protect for all those years. Conclusion? At my ripe age, I have discovered that my actions have not been of cataclysmic destruction, and that after having finally acted and made my great decisions the world is still revolving around the sun, the sky is still blue and life does go on as usual. I, like thousands of other people have lived in a grey limbo land. But then, necessarily, there are no absolutes. If there were we would all have to see life in exactly the same fashion like an army of clones and so having a different opinion of the world than my neighbour is not a sin, and when conflict is necessary it is not the end of the world. I have to admit that going forward in life is easiest when I am convinced of my actions, which is exactly how I have proceeded since my "decision" to be happy. Nothing will make me budge from the idea that each and every one of us subconsciously knows when we do right and wrong. When we do right, even the most difficult and unpleasant circumstance can be faced with a fairly easy heart, we just have to brace ourselves against the impact, whereas when we do wrong, our gut feeling tells us it is so and if we continue it is because we do not wish to acknowledge this unpalatable fact or we do not have the courage to do what is right. Sometimes doing something right is harder than continuing to do something wrong. I tell you, I have learned much in this complicated life of mine, but my tests and trials have led me to have such an appreciation and respect for the lives that populate this planet of ours, of the striving to live in dignity, honesty, respect and mutual love. To this end we should all strive and I would like all of us to face our lives head on, to get rid of our secrets, regrets and envy and accept that we all have to find our own happiness. In order to do that we may have, like myself, to encounter a few rough moments, suffer some sacrifice at times, but if we follow the light at the end of our tunnel, and each one of us has our own personalised light, feel that our goal is right and good for us without damaging too much those around us then let us live this one opportunity we have to walk the earth and live it to the full. There is no sin in wanting to be happy as happiness shines forth like a beacon to those that live in darkness and can only generate happiness in those around us, and I think that happiness makes us better persons, and one better person is what this world of ours needs each and every day.

Fear, for me is best described as paralysis. Are not animals paralysed when caught in the glare of headlights on a road? That is a physical paralysis in the face of imminent, bodily danger. There is also a paralysis of the mind and soul. When fear cannot be overcome it turns into some sort of cannibal, it feeds upon itself and grows and grows until it engulfs us completely and prevents us from being able to use our brains, our good sense. We are unable to see things as they really are and when the cause of our fear makes a move, or we ourselves set off an expected reaction, I can assure you that our fear really does knaw at our entrails, making us feel nauseous, that faces do blench as the blood drains from it making us feel light headed and faint. It is an appalling sensation, and when you live, as I did, in the constant fear that my “real identity” would be discovered and that I would be accused of being an imposter, you can imagine what a weight I was carrying around. Of course, in a way, I was that imposter. In order to play a role that would answer to everyone’s exigencies I had to develop certain traits and suffocate others. My behaviour had to result the same all round. That way no difference could be discerned between how I acted socially as opposed with how I acted more closer to home. In this way, a certain image of me emerged and it was an image that hurt me profoundly. And I began to resent that the real me, a much warmer and affectionate me, was not allowed to emerge. It is only when I began to live a tiny, fragmental life of my own, and built up a miniscule social circle of my own friends that my real personality could finally come out into the open. I could start to joke, allude to sex, confide, give an opinion regarding somebody else’s delicate situation seeing as I had some experience of my own to share or give warning. And slowly, slowly my beginning to be who I really was began to reflect in my home life too. It was inevitable. And probably not appreciated by those around me who preferred that my old, self contained self and controlled situation would perpetuate into eternity. And when we allow ourselves to show our true colours, we become automatically stronger, better able to face others and the world. Because we see how others have reacted to the real us, more often than not in a positive fashion. And consequently, we begin to like ourselves more than we ever did before. Liking ourselves gives us more self confidence on one side and perhaps less tolerant on the other. We become more impatient with other peoples failings and, as we proceed on our long and often difficult journey towards gaining our identity and defeating our fear we begin to ask ourselves why the others don’t do the same thing. There is such satisfaction in expressing our personality to the full and if it is a fundamentally expansive one we want to reach out and stretch to those around us whereas, if we deny ourselves we tend to clench ourselves up in a tight, hermetic ball which is of no use at all to those around us and very damaging both bodily and spiritually to ourselves. Which brings us back to courage. Courage is not only facing a lion in its den or a soldier facing the enemy across a battlefield. Courage is getting up every morning and facing the day to come. Courage is getting your priorities right and stopping after having taken a wrong turn. Courage is doing the right thing even at the cost of hurting someone. If you don’t do the right thing that person will get hurt anyway further along the way, and hurt even harder. Courage is literally taking a deep breath, slapping your cheeks, muttering encouragement to yourself and getting through the unpleasantness that must be faced. It can be terrifying or anguishing but the relief once it is over is not quantifiable. And the sensation of that weight off your shoulders can make you giddy. And the pride you feel in yourself can be the first step to becoming more courageous in the future and as you gain confidence and courage you actually find that you need less courage as you go along. As in all things, the first step is always the hardest.


There is a saying that love can arrive in mysterious ways, well, that is very true. Love can creep un on you unawares or blind you in an instant. I have experienced both, with the same man. I fell in love, slowly but surely, with a man living on the other side of the world through our letters, or to be precise for this day and age, our emails, our having connected, a completely random and accidental event (or so I thought, I later found out that he had been looking for me all of his life, as we had met fleetingly more than 20 years ago). Only I didn't realise that I had fallen hook, line and sinker for the man until a midnight phone call transformed a rather sweet flirtation into a seething cauldron of flaming, incandescent and burning emotions. The most gorgeous, sexy voice uttering sweet nothings reduced me to a mass of collapsed muscle and scrambled brains. And I had never met him. I must be potty I told myself. And yet, against all the odds this love has flourished and has become reality. And Real love, what is that? When you get it you just know. Your mind knows it, your heart knows it, your soul know it and your body knows it. It is such a simple thing really. It is finding “home” within another person, home in his personality, home in his body. Where nothing else matters except being with that person. Which doesn’t mean that the love is going to eliminate all of life’s problems and its nastiness only that facing them will be easier when hand in hand with the one you love. Loving makes life easier and when you love and see how it is, you wonder why the rest of the world cannot see it and make life easier for itself too. How much of life we waste without love. How much more we have to give when we love, how love is self generating, the more we love the more we are loved. Of how we mustn’t be scared to love as love is the greatest natural phenomena in the Universe. If only love could be like a huge meteorite that hits the planet, rocking it off its axis, invading it, conquering it, pacifying it………..utopia, I know, but at least let us strive for it, strive for something better, strive for the best why not, and stop striving for misery, depression and destruction. Why is it human beings always choose the hard way and never see the easy way? We have an ingrained knack of wanting the worst, it must be some perverse, genetic defect that we have as a species. And yet, and yet, a few of us are granted grace and I am one of those few and never will I forget to say thank you, never will I not be grateful for having been given a second chance in this wonderful entity that is Life. My life, unique and precious.

And the greatest consequence of this love is the joy. Love has to bring joy otherwise it isn’t pure. Living joyfully is actually what life is all about. Love is mostly about giving and the receiving is its boomerang effect. Because you can’t give expecting to receive. There is no joy or satisfaction in that. The giving and receiving of love is so powerful that this joy pours into you, out of you and radiates all around you. You can even give out joy and not realise it, not know that your smile, your attitude, your words can have such a powerful effect on those around you. Let us not be jealous of our joy. It takes so little to give a tiny piece of happiness, sometimes to someone that you don’t even know. Joy is contagious, so why not diffuse this disease into the air we breath, into our drinking water, into our food, into our relationships with those who inhabit this world with us? Let our joy be a font of joy to others. Let us declare it and show those who haven’t found it yet that it exists. Let us live our lives to the full, thinking of our good luck, thinking always of those less fortunate and then, when least we expect it our love and our joy will knock on our door. All you have to do is recognize your love and your joy and then never let them go. And once you have them go out into this wide, wide, world of ours and give your infinitesimal drop in the ocean, your drop of love and joy as witness to the beauty of Life.

Have a nice day World.
Helene