A photo of sweet Mimo, in abandoned sleep (notice the impeccable whiteness - that takes time and dedication on his part) and a few pics of a day out to Hidcote Gardens about a month ago. xxx
It was our last night, we went up to the restaurant in summer evening clothes, we would walk back, pack, ready for a not too early start.
As we tucked into our last meal, we saw that one of the owners was carefully folding up all the table cloths outside and basically packing up...and then came the thunder, lightning and rain. It was torrential... the lightning lit up the whole horizon and sea. It was spectacular. We hung out until late, but there was no end, we would have to walk back. We would have got totally drenched in a short walk back so the restaurant owner made us get into his van and drove us home! Our towels were on the line. Usually they would have dried - this time the line was broken and they lay filthy in the dirt. So we had to wash and spin them and hang them up inside instead of pack them.
The night was incredible - the rain lashed against the window, the wind howled.. although it wasn't cold at all.
We lay there worrying - would the flight leave, would we get to the port. WOuld there be blocked roads in the woods along the way? In the morning incredibly the towels were dry, the wind had dropped, the sky was wild but it wasn't raining. We said farewell to our restaurant friends with a last (free) capuccino, a long tradition, and we set off. Luckily the drive wasn't that bad, a lot of debris in the road, but we got there. We left the car with the car hire people, you have to understand, we have been going to Elba for so long that we kiss our car hire people hello and goodbye! That must be a first surely!
They lent us an umbrella to go and get our tickets - we were naive - why? it had stopped raining. And then again.... the heavens opened and it started to bucket, I mean bucket down. So we got back to collect our bags from the car hire, and a son of the lady, we didn't know him particularly, said... you can't go there on foot, I'll drive you, jump in. He took us down to the port area and insisted that we stay in the car, and that he would wait with us. We couldn't refuse. Rain was flowing past us, people were rushing past, having taken off their shoes to negotiate the floods. Tourists were piling out of coaches, looking totally miserable, soaked.
We waited at least half an hour ...I have never worked so hard to keep a conversation going in my life, in Italian as well... He was a sailor, most of their income (apart from our car hire fee!) came from renting out yachts - so we got sailor lore.In those seas at least, the lore is that the sea is not choppy when it is raining - he reasured us as we expressed concern about the crossing.
The guy was so sweet that he broke the rules and drove us right to the steps up to the ferry. And he was right about the crossing - despite the weather the sea was calm. Weird.
Anyway, our train journey to Pisa was long and tortuous as usual - and there was some lightning on the way, but generally the weather calmed down. We had a lovely afternoon wandering around Pisa, as the sky darkened and big drops of rain started to fall just as we were waiting for a taxi to the airport. We arrived at the airport in a rainstorm, and as we waited all we could see was sheet lightning lighting up the sky. Spectacular, if you weren't waiting for a flight!
Suffice to say that as we took off up into extreme turbulance the woman next to us got hysterical and started swearing and saying - What the f.. does he think he's doing going up in a thunderstorm?!
But we survived...as you can see!
Two views of impending 'weather' and me on the ferry!
Enjoy 
xxx
Starr
xxxx
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]]>Anyway despite the laughable nature of the idea that we are leaving in three days, we expect to be going. So he'd better stay well! Our neighbours as usual will look after the cats, but in the second week my sister is going to house sit, so he gets the companionship he is used to - he is so spoilt! Of course, the other cat, Mimo benefits as well! And he's an old boy really at 15 years old! We are paying for my sister's trip down from Derbyshire and for her dog to go into kennels! What with the cancelled flights earlier this year - it is turning into a very expensive holiday! But I'm glad she can do it - it means I can relax on holiday and it takes the pressure off our neighbours. Here he is in his current favoured place - woe betide if I bung a few working documents on the sofa which is next to my desk. He moans and groans until I move them! 
We have a rather good guide - the AA guide. It had an intro section called the magazine with very useful and interesting little illustrated articles by local writers. One that amused us was about the horse dung. There are a lot of horses and carriages in Vienna and a new bylaw had been brought in to much public debate apparently. It requires the carriages to collect their own dung in what the locals dubbed as nappies. Well... in terms of the smell of Vienna there is no doubt that it is horse pee and dung! But I rather like that, having been brought up in the country - and it gives a rather oldie worldie feel that goes with the archtecture.
We did notice that for the quantity of horse and carriages clopping around there wasn't that much visible dung in the street despite the perfume of horse in the air. This was because carriages had a a rather nifty sort of canvas catch all which was supposed to catch the poo before it hit the ground. It rather depended it seemed to me on the horse pooing at the correct angle!
We were staying in the Imperial Riding Stable Hotel, which added to the horse theme. Amazing marble interior and pillars which must have been there when it was a stable! Horses are very very important in Viennese history. The royals adored them and seemed to have stables everywhere. Even one of our taxi drivers, explained that his English wasn't that good except for place names and held up a 'form' magazine for horse racing in England and read out really quite well, Goodwood, Cheltenham, Sandown Park.... He bet every day and expounded a rather scary philosophy about the place of gambling in his life - just below paying for his family's basic needs it seemed!
On our first early afternoon mooch around after we arrived, exahusted after a 3.00amish wake up to get to the airport, we stopped in a brilliant little restaurant with a garden at the back and a horse chestnut tree in the middle. We were completely dependent on the English menu, which is always embarrassing, but the waiters were lovely and we realised that we were in a real local place, We had grilled trout with delicious potatoes and a big salad. And beer of course! It was incredibly hot and we then walked across the green and tree filled Stadtpark full of people enjoying themselves, sitting on the grass, bands playing etc. There were lots of statues ot musicians, as you would expect- some rather heavily gilded.
We had a wonderful European city feel and commented that having lived in Italy for so long it all didn't seem so strange or alien to us, bur rather familiar and comfortable like coming home, even though it is a new country and a language we don't unfortunately speak!
More Vienna and art to come in a later blog.
Our first attempt at gathering the peas was gross - using the dustpan. Then we decided to do it by hand!
V
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
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]]>"The Holywell Music Room is the oldest purpose built concert hall in Europe. Opened in 1748, its elegance and beauty have played host to some of the world's greatest musicians and composers, including Haydn and Handel. Seating 250, the excellent acoustics are particularly well suited to chamber music concerts."
Imagine an amazing, charming pianist with a great website you can check him out on:
Imagine that he has been coming to play every summer in Oxford for 22 years (and that some people have come to all his concerts for all that time).
Imagine that this guy believes in communicating his total knowledge and enthusiasm for Gershwin, Chopin (and other composers that he adores) by telling the audience stories and demonstrating how they constructed their pieces.
And that then he turns from telling his charming anecdotes and stories and just plays astoundingly! All his playing is fab but his Gershwin is unbelievable as he has transcribed Gershwin's own piano rolls and plays just as Gerswhin did. His Chopin is also awe inspiring. Watch him on Youtube:
On Wednesday we saw him play Gershwin for it must be the eighth or ninth time. It never gets boring. And he is on top form. He had a standing ovation. It is unnatural the amount of music he has to memory - he is going to play a season of 11 concerts in less than two months ranging from Gershwin, to Beethoven, Debussy, to Chopin and Alkan. All from memory. I know lots of concert pianists can do this but Jack's repetoire is unique. Not only that but he plays his own compositions. We all feel totally privileged to be so close (The Holywell is an intimate space) to such talent.And there is always a great atmosphere at his concerts.
And another thing - about 15 years ago he had a car crash where he nearly died and he had to have his arm effectively reconstructed. He nearly didn't play again.
Not only this, but after the concert Jack invites anyone who wants to come along to the pub! And he stays until chucking out time.
We have become friends with Jack but we can't keep up! He is capable of staying out until 3.00am! This destroys us for the next day but of course as he is a performer he doesn't get up until midday - if that!
Jack is one of the wonders of Oxford.
Off to another concert on Sunday.
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]]>Where is your mobile phone?
bag
Your significant other?
working
Your hair?
dyed
Your mother?
ancient
Your father?
dead
Your favourite thing?
earrings
Your dream last night?
forget
Your favourite drink?
spritz
Your dream/goal?
move
What room are you in?
loft
Your hobby?
garden
Your fear?
age
Where do you want to be in 6 years?
abroad
Where were you last night?
ironing
Something that you aren't?
tall
Muffins?
wheatfree
Wish list item?
space
Last thing you did?
lunch
What are you wearing?
green
TV?
unfortunately
Your pets?
cats
Friends?
yes
Your life?
stressed
Your mood?
down
Missing someone?
no
Drinking?
will
Smoking?
no
Your car?
Renault
Something you're not wearing?
scarf
Your favourite store?
bookshops
Your favourite colour?
orange
When is the last time you cried?
yesterday
Where do you go to over and over?
italy
Five people who email me regularly?
work
My favourite place to eat?
Carmine
Favourite place I'd like to be at right now?
Elba
We bought her new album as we had heard a couple of pieces from it - good summer listening:
http://www.myspace.com/andreavicariband
Do check her out.
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Idiot, n. A member of a large and powerful tribe whose influence in human affairs has always been dominant and controlling. The Idiot's activity is not confined to any special field of thought or action, but "pervades and regulates the whole." He has the last word in everything; his decision is unappealable. He sets the fashions and opinion of taste, dictates the limitations of speech and circumscribes conduct with a dead-line.
Road, n. A strip of land along which one may pass from where it is too tiresome to be to where it is futile to go.
Politics, n. A strife of interests masquerading as a contest of principles. The conduct of public affairs for private advantage.
Pray, v. To ask that the laws of the universe be annulled in behalf of a single petitioner confessedly unworthy.
Twice, adv. Once too often.
Youth, n. The Period of Possibility, when Archimedes finds a fulcrum, Cassandra has a following and seven cities compete for the honor of endowing a living Homer.
Mad, adj. Affected with a high degree of intellectual independence; not conforming to standards of thought, speech, and action derived by the conformants from study of themselves; at odds with the majority; in short, unusual. It is noteworthy that persons are pronounced mad by officials destitute of evidence that they themselves are sane.
Love, n. A temporary insanity curable by marriage or by removal of the patient from the influences under which he incurred the disorder. This disease is prevalent only among civilized races living under artificial conditions; barbarous nations breathing pure air and eating simple food enjoy immunity from its ravages. It is sometimes fatal, but more frequently to the physician than to the patient.
Congratulation, n. The civility of envy
Taken from: http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Ambrose_Bierce
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]]>But what about the fact that to 'save' our house rental (we've rented the same house for years) we have suggested that we take the holiday off season (October) to save our landlords being out of pocket, which is nice of them anyway as we owe them the booked time. So if Oscar survives the summer - do we feel the same in the autumn? Just transferring the problem?
My sister, having recently nursed her old dog to easeful death, thinks that we have an instinct about Oscar, and that probably the situation will be 'resolved' by the autumn - to be brutal Oscar will either have died or we will have come to terms with him being much weaker and older. I can't believe I'm saying this, as we will be devastated - I mean devastated by his departure. We have had him for 22 years - that's an incredible amount of time and he is so much part of our daily lives. Such a personality.
Anyway here I am - it's half past ten, the bags will have to be unpacked, clothes unchosen, laptops unpacked, lists thrown away - and we'll have to go shopping tomorrow as the house is empty of food!
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Wuthering Heights
The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
Grey as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among the horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.