on viking heritage and speaking english slowly.

Saying you have a quarter Italian heritage is laughable.  I mean, then I should probably mention that, from long ago, I probably have about a millionth Scandinavian from an old Viking conquest not to mention my old Anglo-Saxon ancestry.  So yes, I do ask for my coffee in slightly louder English and I totally have to shoot panicked expressions at my Nonna every time someone talks to me in the hope she will translate, but I still don't feel like a tourist in Bevagne in the same way I do in other towns and cities, even in England.

I think it has something to do with the way Nonna prepares the town for our arrival.  As she gleefully informed me, she has told everyone about becoming a great-grandmother (or Bisnonna).  I realised last week, she hadn't been exaggerating.  
Everywhere we walked, someone stopped to talk to Faelen.  Whilst waiting outside of a shop for Nonna to buy bread for lunch, two women I have never seen before approached me, talking at me (my inability to speak Italian is seen as no barrier to holding a conversation) and stroked Faelen's hair and squished his cheeks.  They clearly knew us.  At the restaurant at lunchtime, not only did the waitresses coo over him but the head chef left her post to come and visit Faelen; waking him up to ruffle his hair and talk Italian at him until he beamed.

So I may not be Italian, and Faelen's heritage is even further diluted, but we were certainly welcomed into the small town of Bevagne. 
And that is it, I promise I am now done on over sharing pictures from my holiday last week!  

four generations, one roof and a bidet.

I am back from Italy.  Last week was wonderful and exhausting in equal measures.  Travelling with a baby was an insane juggling act, which without my mother around to carry coats, organise passports and buy pizzette, I don't know how I would have managed.  Not to mention her saving the day from the attempted car-seat theft palaver (turns out I am not too proud to still shout mum very loudly in an airport in times of crisis).

I feel so lucky to have had a week of four generations under one roof.  My Nonna sang Faelen Piedmontese drinking songs and tickled his chubby belly for hours.  And, perfectly, Faelen smiled every time he spied her.  We had time to read, to sit by the fire in the evenings and talk, to drink coffee and to eat more cheese than I thought possible.  It was a bubble of family time uninterrupted by the real world, jobs and to do lists.  



It is good to be home again though.  Back to James helping with the night duties and, because I am just that exciting, back to having a washing machine (travelling with a babe and only hand-luggage is madness)!  

And, to finish on my favourite picture of the week.  Below is Faelen enjoying bathtime in the bidet, a long honoured family tradition for all babies descended from the Fenoglio name!

Umbelliferous plants and Turkish luck.

Umbelliferous plants are my weakness, whenever I see their spindly arms I can't help but sneak a few into my bag to dry.  Umbelliferous; umbella meaning 'sunshade' in Latin and ferre meaning 'to bear'.  Sunshade bearers. 

They are stored in my Brass Elephant.  The Brass Elephant is an oil burning lamp I got given in Turkey.  A long time ago a friend and I, having between us worked hundreds of hours in cafes, supermarkets and a fairly unpleasant pub, bought two tickets to Europe and spent a perfect summer meandering, catching unknown trains and getting lost.  
In Turkey I found perhaps my soul home, a small cafe tucked behind a door as magical as the one in the secret garden.  The threadbare seats were covered in blankets and throws, the place was lit by cracks in the tin roof and candle light and the only thing you could buy were glass thimbles of thick sugary tea. 

Everyday, after exploring, we would hunt for the hidden door that led to the cafe and drink syrupy sage tea.  I think the owner was just so tickled that we turned up evening after evening, despite perhaps being entirely unwelcome - you know that moment in the film were the slightly clueless tourists walk into the dingy pub and everyone stops talking to stare at them - that on our last night stay, he sat with us and drank tea.

When we got up to leave he handed us a gift for good luck and walked away.  The Brass Elephant has lived with me ever since and now houses my Umbelliferous collection.

The lonely lighthouse at the end of the cliff.

It is moments like this that make me realise quite how well James knows me.  We spent the weekend in Cornwall, him visiting family, me visiting friends.  On Sunday morning James came and picked me up early as the drive back is a long one.  I was so tired from the previous night's dancing that within minutes of snugging up under my coat, I was fast asleep in the car.  I assumed he was taking me home.

When the car slowly pulled to a stop, I woke.  I couldn't be sure how long he'd been driving but it didn't feel like we could be home already.  Perhaps we were getting fuel?  Shrouded in drowsiness I looked up from my coat blanket, expecting to see cars or buildings.  Instead I was met by a bleak view.



James had parked the car right at the edge of the cliff, from the window all I could see was fog and the stormy weather beating the sea into white horses.  

Slightly confused I got out of the car.  The wind was so strong I had to fight the panic that I might be blown into the sea and my ears were filled with roaring.



And then I saw it, the point of the journey.  A white lighthouse at the very edge of the cliff.  



I have wanted to see a lighthouse up close my entire life.  In my mind they are not simply a beacon of hope for boats lost at sea, but also a beacon of warmth and safety, a refuge from the elements.

Strangely I found this one eerie.  Its yellowing lamp spun eternally, its rhythm sluggish and unchanging.  We saw not a person (nor lighthouse keeper) watching for boats, just the empty lighthouse churning away.  I felt like it had been forgotten, at the end of the country, still spinning and no one to tell it to stop.

James and I stood side by side until we couldn't bear the wind any longer and we went back to the car to get warm.  The lighthouse continued to spin.

A perfect weekend hiding.

James and I went on holiday this weekend, a city mini-break, to ... our own city!  It was a wonderful brainwave and the perfect way to celebrate our four years together.  Before Christmas we bought a weekend deal through a voucher website for a boutique hotel in Cardiff (Jolyons no. 10 if you are interested), so this weekend we simply walked to the hotel and hid away from reality for an entire three days.  It gave us an opportunity to see our home with new eyes - we switched off our phones, we ate somewhere new, drank wine in an establishment that was not simply the closest one to our house and re-discovered what Cardiff had to offer.

It was so perfect; there was no stressed packing, no worrying about the cost of petrol, nothing extra to consider, just a pleasant stroll across the park and into our luxury suite - leather sofas, posh coffee, plunge pool and all!  (I may have sat in the plunge-pool-bath-tub-thingy for approximately 70% of the weekend away, oh my gosh do I need one in the flat).

 

I never thought that, with all my nomadic cravings, the place that most deserved exploring would be right on my doorstep. 

Do any of you holiday at home?  And did you feel at all weird/sneaky hoping you didn't meet anyone you know?

An old adventure - Nepal dreaming.

Life round here the last couple days has been a little essay filled and lacking general excitement.  Don't get me wrong, things are good; stew is cooking in the oven, James is making an apple crumble in the kitchen and the Christmas lights are twinkling, but things have been a little unphotogenic.  So I thought instead today I would share some old adventures.  The ones that these cold, quiet nights make me nostalgic for.  

These pictures are all taken on my old Nikon point-and-shoot, so the quality isn't always great and I can't size them the same as other photos on this blog (which is driving me a little mental) without making them all pixely, but I love each and everyone of them and I feel they deserve their moment.

Disclaimer: I really don't want to become one of those people who endlessly discuss their worldly experiences as - firstly they annoy the hell out of me and secondly I still have a long way to go before I can feel worldly.  For the most part I just wanted to share these photographs.

 

From endless leeches and monsoon rain to washing elephants and climbing mountains, Nepal is the most beautiful place I have ever seen.  We outran landslides and ate more bananas than I ever thought possible, befriended stray cats and got mugged by a monkey and had the best adventures.

 

We were fortunate enough to stay with the most wonderful family in the Himalayas, three days walk from civilisation whilst we helped teach English in the local school.  The family lived in one tiny room and cooked all their meals on a small woodburning stove, they ate nothing that they couldn't grow or trade (think pumpkin curry three meals a day) and maybe once every couple of days, for thirty minutes they would have electricity.  

In celebration of our arrival they had traded rice for dried yak meat (if you're curious - try chewing on the oldest pair of leather boots you own) and from that moment on we spent long, dark evenings sat around the log stove talking in broken English and our even more damaged Tamang.  

There is one moment especially I treasure.  Within minutes of our arrival, Maya asked us endless questions about how big our ovens were, how many rooms our house had, how many clothes we owned and how many 'technologies' we owned.  Eventually (using the small English-Tamang dictionary we all coveted at such occasions) I managed to ask Maya why she shook her head at each of our answers.

She responded that we would die young because of all our worries and stresses.  If you have less you need less choices and become happier.  

 

Nothing like being direct I suppose..

 

 

Frosty adventures and a hero's welcome.

Somerset was glittering with frost whilst I was home.  The leaves and grass were brittle with it and crunched underfoot.  My mother's dogs love it, they roll around like puppies in the cold and then lovingly rub their damp faces on your legs.  Three piebald horses had escaped from their tethers and found their way into the long grasses (terrifying our dogs) and you could see their hot, steamy breath in clouds above their heads.

But the best bit of these cold walks always is the return, stomping to the sitting room, scrunching knees up in front of the fire and scorching icy paws bright red on hot tea.  Then, prickly with heat, curling up on the sofa and reading.

I love visiting family but it always passes by too quickly.

Dear poor abandoned blog...

Dear poor abandoned blog, I do still love and cherish you, it is just the last few days have been a little busy with some true adventures.

Saturday morning (aka early afternoon when everyone finally could be bothered to get out of their PJs) we set out - a merry band of adventurers.  We laughed as we strolled, ate cheese and bread and drank hot black coffee.  Trees were climbed and stones were skimmed.  It felt like a magical adventure.

 

Then, as the light began to fade, our previously joyful party fell into a concerned silence.  The dog whined as the mist descended.  Soon we were unable to see our feet on the rocks in front of us and the sickly light of the moon only stood to make the shadows more sinister.   The sound of unfamiliar, quiet chatter was just audible within the dark woods.  Our brave group of stoic twenty-somethings had become a rabble of lost toddlers; when the source of the chattering voices was identified, the relief that it was simply two lost girls and not the death call of lost souls was palpable. 

 

Wrong turns were taken and blames were laid, our pleasant amble had become a dramatic march.

Eventually, in the distance, we saw the white glow of the car.  A beacon!  We cheered and ran the last half mile.  And, as we turned on the engines to bathe in the yellow warmth of fluorescent lighting, we sheepishly noted the time,  5:30pm.

Thank gosh we prevented Joe from phoning mountain rescue.

Autumnal Gold.

This Sunday was supposed to be a ten pound date day but en route we found something far,  far better.  We were walking through the park as planned, arm in arm on the dull concrete path, when an ethereal glow from within the trees caught our attention.  Intrigued, we pushed through the hedge to investigate further and walked into this gold carpeted clearing.  It glowed and our faces shone with reflected yellow.  We never made it to our date, we played and danced in the leaves and dozed under the sun for hours without ever seeing a single other being.