Anghiari and afterwards

The wedding ceremony itself is an informal and a good-humoured affair, set in a mediaeval (I'm having to use that word a lot!) chamber upstairs in the town hall. As we enter, the string trio, Helen and Dan's friends, are playing, and there's the customary confusion about who sits next to whom, whether we leave the front row empty and, "Whose idea was it to wear THAT hat?" The bridesmaids look more nervous than the bride and groom, and Fabio and Alun most nervous of all. The mayor, with a dashing red, green and white sash across his chest, conducts the business smartly in Italian, and Fabio provides a running translation into English. They make a good double-act, and I get the distinct impression that the Mayor is milking it for all he's worth, while Fabio does a good line in patter at his side; he two of them laugh and quip as the proceedings move on. The vows are given in Italian, and taken in English, the two mothers give readings, Sue's is from Louis de Berniere, while Sian reads a poem that she's written for the day (I notice a lot of Middle Earth imagery, which Helen loves). When, at last, the first married kiss comes, the Mayor has a wide grin, Fabio and he shake hands, and there,s general happiness all around. It's outside now, for photographs and posing and more chatter, before parading back up the hill and onto the coach for .... Castello di Sorci and the wedding meal. By now, it's warm early evening and in the courtyard there are two rows of beautifully set tables just waiting for our attention. The meal is gargantuan but, thankfully, staged into many courses, and there's plenty of wine to keep the conversation flowing. Just for the record, we ate: cold meats, gnocchi, soup, pasta, steak, duck, chicken, sausages, salad, sweet cake, wedding cake .... and fruit salad. By 11:00 p.m. we are enjoying happyand wide-ranging conversation (though I doubt if any of us can remember now what we are talking about), and at midnight Helen and Dan begin the dancing, to a Shostakovich waltz ..... and after that, it's every man for himself!

Arsicci

Saturday is the day of Helen and Dan's wedding, but we don't need to hurry because the ceremony isn't until 5:00p.m.. So, we decide on a leisurely breakfast downstairs in the bar. It's buzzing now, with cyclists and motorcyclists. We have discovered that the hotel is well known anong the alpine touring cogniscenti as a stop-over on the Passo di Viamaggio. There are thin, wiry, bright-lycra painted cycle-fiends, mincing around in their strange pedal-gripping shoes that make them walk like storks. Around them are the motorcyclists; leather-clad, wild-eyed, rakish and oozing a miasma of testosterone. But the bonhommie, as well as the hormones, is palpable. There's a lot of laughing, hugging, joking, comparing of machines and careful assessment of cool. We settle happily on an inside table, munching panini of local cheese and ham. Outside the bikes roar by occasionally, the people chatter, cicada whirr and the sky is blue. We spend the rest of the morning doing not much else than sitting outside watching and enjoying.
By early afternoon, though, it's time to make the short drive over the pass and down the narrow road to Arsicci, where the rest of the families are staying. The Manentes have a villa here and the Williamses have rented two villas in the same tiny village - an interesting Ibero-Gallic melange results. The road down to Arsicci is lovely. We're driving through mountain pastures heavy with wild flowers and there are white alpine cows, a local breed (one of whose friends Faith and I had eaten the night before). I'm still cautious in the hire car as we nose around the tight bends on the single track road and so, when I see Arsicci it's a sudden surprise. On a left turn, there's a small group of houses, very reminiscent of the buildings in Languedoc - local stone, ochre roof tiles, old sun-dried wood. This was a village once, but now it's a cluster of second homes. Off the road, they all open onto what was once the small village square. There is shade, birdsong, sunlight, and white ribbons tied on the fences of gates in anticipation of the wedding. The Manentes are occupying their own villa; my mother, Auntie Joyce (her sister) and Margaret (a friend of the Manentes') have a small house at the end of a row that was once a nunnery and, later, the village school; the rest of the Williams clan - and other attendants - are lodged in Fattoria di Arsicci, an enormous, seven bedroomed house that had belonged to the landowner in the days when this was an agricultural settlement. The Fattoria is impressive. It swallows up the 15 or so people who are staying there, without any trouble at all, and hides them away among its reading room, bedrooms, cool patios, games room, arboretum and garden. We take our places with the melee who are preparing themselves for 3:30 p.m., when a coach will come to carry us off to Anghiari and the wedding. The hairdresser is here, set up in a laundry room, coiffuring bride, bridesmaids and others, there is last-minute pressing and ironing, cleaning of infants, panic over speeches, worries about Dan's older brother, who has become ill and won't now be able to attend the wedding, confusion as I spend two minutes talking to Dan's twin, Marco, under the impression that I'm talking to Dan. When the coach arrives outside, Fabio, Dan's father takes over. Suddenly he's become a drover! He shoos and cajoles and begs, but we are like cats and won't be herded, until he warns that others are waiting to join us in Anghiari. With counting and double-counting and a final cheer, we crawl off down the mountain towards the town. Fabio is sitting by me. I discover that he's not from this part of Italy, but from Venice. He bought the villa a couple of years ago and has been renovating it. He's obviously proud of becoming part of this area, though, and gives a running commentary about the landscape and the history until we are close to Anghiari, which now speaks for itself, and silences all of us with its beauty.
Walking down the hill from the piazza at the top of the hill, to the town hall, we make a procession that must have been repeated many times before. Our bouquets and suits, tiaras and gowns weave among the gabled houses and the steep, paved street. A few local people are sitting in their doorways, under awnings or in tiny gardens; there are some smiles and waves, and then we are outside the town hall and waiting for the bride to arrive! We talk in small groups, ogle the views, chatter and wait, but it isn't for long. Onlookers gather, we can hear the string trio warming up inside and Fabio, who's going to have to translate the Italian wedding ceremony into English, so that we visitors can follow it, is in conversation with the mayor, who's just arrived. There's a hush and an appreciative sigh and suddenly, Helen is here. She's welcomed by Marco, now the Best Man, who steals a kiss, and then, not needing to be ushered this time, we all move indoors.

Hotel Imperatore

And so, here we are, at the end of a day's driving. The scenery is not what I'd imagined, We're 1000 m above sea-level, there are cows and cowbells, alpine pastures. And here's our hotel; the Imperatore, at the top of the Passo Viamaggio. There are a few powerful motorcycles outside, and we park our touristique hire-car among them. Inside the old hotel, all is wooden. There's a small counter, the inevitable postcard stand, hints of a restaurant behind, and a large display of cheese and hams at the far end of the room. No-one speaks English, but we launch in, "Familie Williams" we announce. "Ah si! Due camera - uno per due, e uno per tre." I may not have spelled the Italian correctly, or captured the grammar, but the gist is there. We hand over our passports for registration, and, as the girls are signed in, there's a smile and a question, "Tre gemella?". "Three twins?" I think. But Elen, Bethan and Rhiannon are ready for this, and smile. "Si," they say and, to us, "We've got used to this. There's no Italian word for 'triplets' so they say 'three twins'". We're led up two floors to our rooms - delightfully old-fashioned, with big beds and massy furniture. It's wonderful. A little later we come down and order beers, sitting outside to enjoy the late evening sunshine on the meadows. This is so like earlier holidays, when we've all been together in places like Braunwald or Roquebrun or the Algonquin. These occasions fill me with nostalgia, and I don't mind admitting to it. They're rosy and poignant; very romantic. It's a heady mix and, tasted all the more infrequently now, intoxicating. Eventually, as the light fades, we go inside to eat. A light meal, we think, but, oh dear, it doesn't turn out that way. The hotel specialises in MOUNTAIN FOOD. There's pasta, gnocchi and mounds of meat from the wood fire outside. The girls enjoy the pasta and salads and cheese. Faith and I tuck into smoky-tasting roasted meats, too. There's local wine, too, and grappa to finish. Around midnight, we amble contendedly to our beds but, as we're about to settle in, I open our window and look outside into the mountain darkness. There, in the black, tiny lights are dancing. We call the girls in to see, and our first day ends with fireflies.

Pisa, anyone?

The Leaning Tower of Pisa isn't easy to see when your eyes are glued to side and rear mirrors in a desperate attempt to avoid collision with the motor-scooter riders who cut in from left and right. We had picked up our hire car - a wide, high, left-hand drive Lancia - moments before, and now here we were, tired after leaving home in Wales 6 hours earlier, at 5:00 a.m., weaving through the Italian traffic. We circled the Campo dei Miracolo - clockwise and anti-clockwise - drove past it and around it, but failed to close in. Faith barked desperate directions; Mel just barked. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, we were driving OUT of the city. Never mind, the tower would have to wait; we were on our way towards Arezzo, at last, to pick up the girls .... weren't we? Well, no, we were on our way towards Lucca, north instead of east! I won't share the scene that followed. Enough to say that we eventually glimpsed the tower from the city's ring-road, and began to talk to each other once more soon after we found the road to Florence and, by extrapolation, Arezzo. before all of this peregrinatory drama, though, we had arrived safely in Pisa International Airport, walked smartly off the plane and out into the terminal, because, for once we were travelling with cabin baggage only. We needed coffee, and so, while Faith found a table in the morning sun, Mel went off in search of sustenance. Buying coffee and pastries was a curious experience. I eventually deduced that you couldn't buy your wares from the pastry counter and the coffee bar, but had to go across the hall to the confectionery stand. There you place your order, paid and received a receipt. Taking this back across the hall, you jostled the other voyagers, waving the receipt, and, when you got to the front, placed your order. I swear that I walked between the two counters five times, memorising my order in Italian. At least I tried, unlike the woman in front of me who said to the classy young girl serving her, "No dear, I don't want tomato, Jessica doesn't like it. No, No. You don't understand, no tomato, please take it out. What? No. No tomato." She eventually bleated, "Oh never mind, leave it in, I'll give it to my husband." But by that time the girl had pointedly dropped the panini and turned away, to serve another customer.
We sat in the sunshine, munching our pastries and sipping our coffee, while the varied inhabitants of the airport milled around us. Many were overseas travellers like ourselves, but there was a good smattering of Italians, too, because the terrace opened out onto the town as well as in to the airport. We looked and listened; yes, the Italians were every bit as stylish and as voluble as we'd thought they'd be. The airport is a small one, with grassy waiting areas and "art", and many people were enjoying a mid-morning break.
By the time we drove into Arezzo, I'd begun to get the feel of the car and, parked safely behind the railway station, we left it to mee tup with the girls, who'd arrived in Italy the week before, to do some travelling on their own. We stood on a piazza and phoned them up. "We can see you"" they said and, in a few minutes, there they were, three seasoned voyagers by now, coming to meet us. We stayed long enough to buy some lunch and to talk about their visit to Florence. They'd even managed to buy a very nostalgic souvenir - a little bottle-stopper with a Pinocchio head on it. Very tacky, you might say, but Pinocchio had played an important in our earlier travels together, often protesting loudly from the luggage, or from the car boot, if he was neglected. It was good to see him, and he, too, was happy to be home ... he told us so!