Jelly legs.

Last night we set the smoke alarm off in our apartment. It was quite a surprise, as we think this is the first place we’ve stayed in that actually had one fitted. As the screeching beast drew our attention to the charred steak on the stovetop, we frantically waved tea towels (in the fashion of my dear mother) at it, opened the doors and windows and tried our darndest to placate it. Nothing seemed to be working.

As it continued bleating, panic set in. We are staying in Atrani, a minute (possibly Italy’s smallest) village perched on a cliff top in the Bay of Salerno (Amalfi Coast) and I’m sure the wailing monster could be heard as far away as Naples. We wondered whether it needed to be reset by the fire brigade or perhaps it was malfunctioning.

Almost defeated, I turned the aircon on while Mick prodded it with broom handle. Then as we turned to each other, looks of exasperation spread across our faces, me on the verge of tears (lie), it stopped. Just like that. If not for the buzz of the air conditioner, the hum of the range-hood and the gale force ocean winds battering our worldly possessions around the apartment, I’m sure a sense of calm serenity would have washed across us.

As I mentioned earlier, we are staying in Atrani on the Amalfi Coast. A spectacular coastline where mountains, ravines, lemon orchards, white washed towns and terraced vineyards all meet black pebbled beaches and the inkiest blue ocean I’ve ever seen.

Our research prior to arriving was minimal and although Mick has proven himself a very capable driver we were not at all prepared for the hair-raising drive along the coast road. It follows the curve of the coast and is two lanes wide. Not Australian lanes, small Italian lanes, which to my eye appear about 70% of what we are used to. Adding to this, people park their cars all along the road, in the curves, lengthways, sideways or anyway that fits; making a tight squeeze even tighter. If you are ever offered a free upgrade for a hire car in Europe- politely say “No thank you, that is unless it comes with a complimentary prescription of Valium”.

Our knuckle-whitening experience went like this. We turned a corner and saw a coach stopped in an upcoming bend. It seemed to be parked, as all of the cars on our side of the road were driving past it. As we got nearer, the space between it and the opposite cliff face shrunk before our very eyes. It seemed impossibly small for our luxuriously sized Citroën C5 Exclusive (Thank-you very much!). So much so, that I pointed out the obvious to Mick “Babe, we ain’t gonna fit through”.

By this time we were blocked in, the coach on our left (it was now painfully obvious that she wasn’t parked, she was stuck), a queue of cars behind us and a merciless looking stone wall out the passenger side. Even after folding in the side mirrors the space was still gut wrenchingly tight. I was envisaging a gaping tear down my side of the car, much like when the iceberg hit or when an alien, in an alien movie decides it’s high time he meets his prey.

We got through, like Destiny’s Child we survived. We didn’t give up. At one point, my side of the car was so close to the cliff my hand could not have squeezed through the gap. Fo’ realsies. A saintly ambulance driver (one of the growing audience) helped guide us through, millimetre by millimetre. We only started breathing again once we were well past the growing line of traffic on the other side. I wonder what became of the coach.

There are a lot of stairs here. That’s why this blog is called jelly legs.

Peace out.

Tainted love.

I am sure that we are sleeping on the hardest bed in Tuscany. It feels like stone bedrock covered with a sheet. For the last six nights we have woken up, time and time again throughout the night with achey limbs and clickey joints. This bed is essentially an old age virtual reality synthesiser.

Now I don’t want to whinge too much, but the bed has tainted our week in Tuscany. When I asked Michael what he thought I should blog about, he yawned. I yawned back. We just aren’t getting enough kip.

We thought we’d found a solution to my travel sickness on Wednesday. I would take the wheel. I was naively convinced that it couldn’t be all that difficult.

I only hit one thing.

Just a car; side mirror to side mirror, no damage done (to our car, I was too traumatised to stop) but I still hear Mick’s voice sometimes... “you’re too close, too close! TOO CLOSE!!!” *THUNK*

At least it wasn’t a puppy, right?

So, yes we are in Tuscany, staying in an otherwise lovely villa just outside of Chianti. The region is home to dirt roads, terracotta sunsets, Florence, loud Americans on vaca and a vast and mouth-watering selection of local food and wine specialities.

One of these I experienced last night. Out to dinner in Siena, I ordered Papardelle con Tartufo (it’s white truffle season FYI). As the dish was served Mick and I locked eyes and exchanged a “wow that’s a whole lot of truffle” look. Then the waiter returned to the table, at first we thought he had a parmesan grater but he proceeded to micro-plane sliver after sliver of whole fresh truffle over the already monumental pile. We had to stifle our smuggles (smug giggles) as we guestimated what the dish would cost to prepare and purchase in Melbourne.

I believe I acquired a taste for them way back when I first visited Tuscany with Ma & Pa. Excerpt from E-vine 1993.


Tuscan cheese on toast
A villa in Greve in Chianti. Our hosts, the Anichinis, invited us to dinner and offered an entrée of what looked like grilled cheese on toast. Absolutely delicious, and my ravenous eight year old daughter scoffed three or four pieces in a couple of minutes. I asked Signora Anichini for the recipe. 'First you lightly grill the bread, then drizzle a little olive oil on it, then you add generous shavings of fresh white truffles..." 

We drank:

Castel Giocondo, Brunello di Montalcino 2005. C- brick edge, heart of ruby red, N- anise and red capsicum, P- dry and velvety with just ripe strawberries and a herbal finish

Like a whirlpool that never ends.

So, dear friends, the inevitable has happened. Within a week of one another, my betrothed and I have both fallen ill. Not seriously so, just enough to ruin sketchy plans and annoy us.


Mick just has a cold.


Pfft.


My childhood motion sickness has reared it's ugly head and joined leagues with a bout of gastro. Unpleasant. Combine the two with a rather insensible ride on the Grand Canal water bus in Venice and the result has been three days of constant dizziness and "whirlpool" gut.


Not ever having suffered from motion sickness before, Mick asked what it feels like. I replied "You know when you've had FAR too much to drink, you lie on your bed and close your eyes and the world starts moving around you." "yeah, that's the feeling". Maybe I'll look into psychiatric treatment or hypnosis therapy when we get back. In my (medically educated*) mind, motion sickness indicates a weakness of character. Why can't my stomach, brain and the horizon just sort it out?


Onto more pleasant things. Lake Como was stunning, much larger than I imagined and we found ourselves once again in the good graces of Zeus. On Tuesday we took to the Greenway del Lago di Como, walking about 8 kilometres along the curving coast roads of the west bank. The paths take you down steep cobbled alleys, past crumbling stone piers and extravagant villas (George Clooney has a place on the lake).


On Thursday we drove east, through Lombardia to the region of Veneto. Veneto covers most the northeast corner of Italy, including Verona (where they laid their scene), Padova and most famously Venice. Somewhere in the middle of all that is the hillside village of Arqua Petrarca, a spot that has been inhabited since the Bronze Age. It is currently (the locals have their fingers crossed, or the Italian equivalent) on it's way to becoming world heritage listed.


Venice was one of those places that fell on my "Should probably visit, but can be sacrificed if necessary" list. I'm super pleased we didn't sacrifice it. Despite the tourist throng and the nasty tourist targeted shops, the city itself was lovely. Slightly worn looking, in a pre-loved way, the buildings lining the canals looked warm and sun drenched in spite of their cool blue roadways.


Taking a hand drawn map our host made for us, we headed off the beaten track and wandered through the Jewish Ghetto, visited Madonna dell'Orto (church with divine frescoes) and hunted down an antique jewelery store in the Dorsoduro. We sipped Spritz; prosecco, Aperol and soda (I think) while munching tiny tiny single ingredient panini's in a Campo for lunch.


Gaja Sperss 2000 (nebbiolo, half bottle)- C- deep purple, with a garnet edge, N- surprising rose petals and smokey oak, P- amazing length, liquorice and herbs


*high school biology

Salute!

We have a half bottle of Gaja Sperss 2000 breathing downstairs, I’m wrapped in a brand new cashmere (the real stuff) shawl, we’ve just been sipping Prosecco on the banks of Lake Como and I'm about to tell you how we are having a difficult time splurging. After scrimping and saving for so long, we are finding it extremely difficult to spend our money. Truly.

I guess that means our parents (and our Dolomite Accounts) trained us well.

Today’s wine and shawl aside, our trip has been riddled with moments of indecision. Pros and cons weighed and in most instances the object of desire being left behind (and quickly forgotten) for the next cashed up tourist. I think we are trying to find a balance.

We left Burgundy on Sunday morning and drove through Lyon towards The French Alps. We spent the night at a chalet style apartment with divine views of Mont Blanc.

The mountain seemed to make a mockery of Australia’s cherished peaks. Epic is overused in current vocabulary but I’ll use it here with no hesitation. Straining our necks skywards we could just capture the sheer immensity of the Mountain. For me, it made the scale of Everest and K2 inconceivable. Everywhere we turned cried out to be photographed and framed. It’s like we had view-finder goggles on. The valleys were scattered with timber framed alpine villages, some rising steeply up the neighbouring mountain sides. Milky green glacial rivers and streams ran along the motorways, often fed from waterfalls cascading towards the valley floor.

It’s a shame the weather gods did not favour us. Thick cloud cover continually rolled through the Alps, hiding the mountains and villages. Call me paranoid but this seemed to happen every time I got the camera ready.

After watching the sun rise from behind the mountain we gathered up our belongings and drove into Italy.

We are starting our Italian sojourn in Mezzegra, a small hillside town in Lombardia, on the west bank of Lake Como. Our townhouse is on a very steep property with its own olive orchard. Built in 1690, we are told it was where Mussolini stayed the night before he was shot.

Continuing a theme, we asked our gracious hosts Natalie and Mario where we should have dinner. As it was Monday and most restaurants were closed she suggested a local Trattoria. She called on our behalf and made us a booking. Trattoria Nana is the kind of local eatery you wish was just around your block. Fresh, cheap and authentic. As soon as we’d scoured the menu, picking up on the dishes Natalie recommended we try, we were already deciding to book for another evening.

We shared an entree to start, Pizzoccheri; a highlight of our trip thus far. As the smell of butter wafted towards us, we knew we were in for treat. Homemade buckwheat pasta, chard stalks cut fine, plenty of sage and potato cooked until soft all combined with an oozy, buttery and cheesy sauce. Wasn’t much to look at, but it tasted seriously good. Wash that down with a glass of vino di casa (Bonarda @ €4 for a half litre) and we were well on our way to foodie nirvana.

For mains we shared Coniglio (rabbit) and Cotechino (slow cooked pork sausage) and for dessert Tiramisu and Fromaggi Misti. Molto molto benne! The cheeses are made by the family who run the restaurant, some of the best I’ve tasted. Of the three served our pick was a three day old sheep’s cheese that you eat dressed with a little extra virgin olive oil. It was zesty, had a fine crumb and really made the local oil sing.

It’s dawned on me that those of you who receive the blog via email, might not be enjoying our photo stream. Click the link to the blog home page to have a look.

Over and out.

And... we’re back.

For all ye naysayers who thought I’d gone down the path of many lost and forgotten bloggers. Cop this.

We had a self imposed holiday from our holiday. If we wanted to sleep in, we did. If we couldn’t be bothered with another wine tasting, we weren’t. We decided the pressure we had put ourselves under not to “miss” anything was making our adventure less enjoyable by the moment.

It is Autumn in the Northern Hemisphere and this, I’ve decided is my favourite season. It’s the perfect mix of the last rays of summer and the invigorating chill as winters flexes itself forward to greet us.

We are staying in a Gite next to the Suze River near the town of Arnay le Duc. It’s a story book perfect, not-quite-a-village nestled deep in a green river valley. Despite our Burgundian location, the area where we are staying is strictly beef country. The local Charolais breed are ivory coloured beasts, large and majestic.

Burgundy (Bourgogne) is however, more famous for its wine (of which, we have sampled plenty). The region is famed for producing the crème de la crème of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Autumn here heralds the harvest season and the seemingly endless crosshatch of vines changing from impenetrable green to a fractured tapestry of golds, umbers and lipstick reds.

I think I should abandon D.H Lawrence now. This is all getting a bit Sons and Lovers-esque.

Our host Liz is an eccentrically entertaining ex-pat Brit (who was schooled in Griffith, NSW) who moved here three years ago. She is worryingly forgetful and has a kookily familial manner that makes you forget you barely know her.

She recommended we eat at local restaurant owned by friends of hers. Patrice and Marianne run a restaurant from their home. Les Poulettes des Tables has the ambiance of your fondest childhood memories, children running up and down stairs, mewing cats greeting the guests, friends and family dropping by, plenty of good food and wine and a open armed generosity not often shared with outsiders.

Their main business, Patrice explained was actually artisanal linens. The restaurant was simply an outlet for the couples other passions. Enough to make Tom and Barbara green with envy.

Now I won’t tell you everything that we’ve done since my last proper blog, or else we’d have nothing to talk about upon our return. But I will share another curiosity we noticed at a restaurant in Lille. Chez Max was tres chic, to the extreme of serving pop rocks with fois gras. When the waiter handed us each a menu we didn’t flinch. It wasn’t until we started choosing wine that we noticed our menus were different. Mick’s had prices while mine didn’t! They had his and hers menus!

We figure it is meant to go down something like this. The lady orders to her heart’s desire, whilst the man (the money) sits there uncomfortably trying to calculate how much he thinks she is worth and wishing he hadn’t bought the paper that morning. It wasn’t even a snooty Michelin starred place or an archaic French institution.

Wouldn't sit well with the liberated (cough) and equally paid (cough cough) women of Australia.

We tasted-

Hugel Jubilee 2004 Riesling. C- golden hay, N- nectarine and lime, P- dry but rich, well structured, honey, lemon and a hint of melon.

Etienne Sauzet 2008 Puligny Montrachet 1er cru. C- Pale gold , N- ripe peach and lemon blossom, P- crisp lemon acidity, balanced by a rich honeyed creaminess

Slump

I think I've hit a blogging wall. I'm not sure what's exactly at the root of it, but I have an idea.

I think it stems from the sameness of our last five destinations. Since leaving Champagne the towns we have visited have been beautiful, scenic and historic. Troyes, Bruges, Brussels, Antwerp and Strasbourg. Each rich with museums, cathedrals, famous town heroes and local delicacies. Yet, the semblance of them nags at me. "Didn't I walk this same cobbled road last week?"

Nothing sparkles or inspires me.

That's not to say we're not enjoying ourselves. The food is tasty and the fresh produce markets make us both feel like kids in a candy store. Mouths open in wonderment.

Or maybe it's not them, maybe it's us. Maybe we have been away from home for just on a month and are starting to miss the comforts of familiarity. Perhaps the joy and exhilaration of the unknown is beginning to wear us thin.

Mick remembers a line from the tour-bus tour he did of Europe four years ago, "ABC" Another Bloody Church. I feel like they are sucking the awe out of me.

Woe is me.