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.