I went for a walk last week expecting that, considering that we are into the first week of October, the other walkers would be safely buttoned up, instead of which I felt overdressed in a skirt and top…and not a little surprised to find that everyone else has been reading about the benefits of walking barefoot in sea water…and sitting on the sand.

The festive season ends with Epiphany here in Italy, on January the 6th, when a witch, the Befania, comes to visit all children, giving coal to those who were bad and sweets to those who’ve been good. And here in the pine woods along the coast of Porto San Elpidio the men go out to play bocce, the Italian version of English bowls and French boules. January has been sunny far, fresh breezes blowing the last leaves off the trees, kicking up swirls of leaves on the ground and reminding us that we’re approaching midwinter, not spring.

The academic year in Italy is relentless, with so few holidays that odd stolen day off is a great treat. Two friends were visiting from Ireland this week so I dropped all responsibilities and headed to the coast with them, to the Porto San Giorgio market. The streets around the main square are lined with stalls dedicated to clothes, shoes and bags, the sort of market that I imagine haunts most men’s nightmares. We dallied happily over brain crushing decisions, and came away with wonderful colourful dresses from Custo, (reduced to such amazing prices that I was tempted to buy one for each day of the week) coats, bags, boots and sore feet. Shopping was followed by a delicious fish lunch and then we wandered along the deserted beach wondering if life could get any better.

Perhaps not useful, though. We’ll start those projects on Monday.

This morning we went to the seaside and I declared the beginning of summer by choosing an iced coffee. Nothing could be more delicious – take one espresso, add a teaspoon or two of sugar, and some cubes of ice. The bubbles are an additional extra – produced by shaking the whole lot in a cocktail shaker. You can produce much more glamorous versions, Sam tinkers with the recipe every summer, producing thick creamy results that are more milkshake based, with vanilla ice cream, ice and coffee, but this simple kind is just right for a break on a Saturday morning, sitting and looking out over the ocean.

Whenever I ask someone if I can interview them the request is met with an embarrassed laugh, and a shifty sideways look: “get me away from this woman as quickly as possible”. But when I did the shopping at market this morning I felt some explanation was required for the presence of my camera.
A local friend told me some years ago to do try this particular stall and indeed I’ve never been disappointed. The father and son who run it live in Petriolo, the next village to ours. The son said it would be better to talk to his dad, who has been selling fruit and vegetables for the last twenty five years so whilst I bought fresh asparagus, apples, strawberries and fennel I found out about their lives, their working day that stretches from five am till after midnight.
Some of the markets that they go to are an hour away in the mountains, when their working day begins even earlier, at four am. Markets are still the local choice for buying fresh produce and we shook our heads together over the mistake of shopping for fruit and vegetables in supermarkets, where it has often languished for days in warehouses.
I was told to put my asparagus into water to keep it fresh. “Don’t worry,” I said, “My husband is a local man, he is in charge of the kitchen.” At this point my interviewee livened up, leaning forward intent to find out more about me. “I don’t know your husband,” he said, “But his brother had the salami and cheese stall opposite me for many years at the market in Castelraimondo.” My husband’s brother Giovanni retired some time ago but he’s retained the market voice, addressing us as though we need to be convinced to buy his cheese or taste a new special ham.”Eat!” he says commandingly, and I always do.

There is a Heath Robinson quality to many of the farms around us, vehicles held together with wire and tin cans and interesting structures for animals constructed using pallets, corrugated iron or anything that happened to be around. This is the farm at the Abbadia di Fiastra near us, you can see the elegant massing of the cistercian abbey building in the background, with one white chicken wandering across the farmyard.

said John Berryman, in “A Point of Age” – but perhaps he hadn’t tried walking around a Halloween town with two nine year olds.
Last week everyone in Mogliano was busy. Lorries trundled into town to unload giant figures, leaving us with two dragons staring down from the hill above the market place, and a leering face strung high above the road leading through the old town. Men on ladders shrouded the street lights with red and black fabric and the bars and restaurants filled up with decorations until it became difficult to grab a quick coffee without picking up long strands of white cobweb or the occasional small black bat. Signs appeared on the street corners, directing us to the Vampire House, the Tunnel of Horror and the way out.
Two years ago someone came up with the bright idea of advertising Mogliano’s Halloween party on the local radio. Halloween is a recent import to Italy, frowned upon by many, but the advertisement and the promise of free bus transport from nearby towns was unexpectedly successful and we were shocked to find ourselves queueing for hours for each attraction, the streets clogged with witches, wizards, and masked ghouls in search of fear and excitement. Ten thousand people came to visit Mogliano in one evening and the traffic jams spread widely around town, up until the early hours. Last year the party was rained off so the organizers have had some time to sort out the details and this year they got it just right.
My sons have their own Halloween plans these days but we borrowed Aldo’s nine year old granddaughter and met up with friends with another nine year old. The children quickly compared notes on school results and once it was clear that Andrea’s strong point is neither geography nor maths our friend’s son took charge of map reading and the overall campaign. Andrea had forgotten to pack her witch’s outfit but luckily there was make up on hand and so once she rendered unrecognizable with heavy black eye make-up we set off, both children declaring their desire to be scared, thrilled and amazed. Even we adults screamed satisfactorily as people lunged out of dark doorways, flinched as brooms swept at us from windows high in walls and inched gingerly past menacing groups of people propped up alongside the road. Mogliano’s medieval streets, darker than usual with their shrouded streetlights were the perfect setting for a Halloween spectacle and we even made it through the Tunnel of Horror unscathed.
Climbing the hill towards the top of town we heard the distant sound of chain saws. We rounded a corner and there, in a small piazza, we saw hospital beds, blood stained sheets and surgeons bearing chain saws with dismembered limbs slung over their shoulders.
All courage vanished and both children stood their ground. “We are not going THERE” they said in unison and set off in search of those useful signs pointing towards the exit.
According to Stephen King (and he should know) “Terror … often arises from a pervasive sense of destablishment; that things are in the unmaking.”

I took this with a cellphone in 2007 – back in the days when I ran in the early mornings at the Abbey. That was before my back went funny and my knees developed an odd attitude. But I’ve gone off to Sicily with a positive attitude towards barefoot running… along those golden sandy beaches.