In Manciano - Boak's account of our first few days
You would have been proud! I drove out of Rome without one cross word to the navigator – Monday 10th October had been widely predicted as the day of a blazing row. But no; though to be honest, it had more to do with the excellent directions the Avis girl gave me than to my patience.
I haven’t driven a manual car for more than ten years or a left hand drive for fifteen, but somehow we got here without major incident. “Keep the passenger in the gutter” is the simple rule for staying on the correct side of the road. The only real challenge is that I am used to the car finishing six inches from my right shoulder – so several times the long-suffering passenger was nearly scraped off on the back of a truck we were passing.
Manciano is a few hours north of Rome, in Tuscany, and a fairly easy trip. Di and I interpreted Angela’s directions differently - she was convinced we were headed in the wrong direction. I stuck to my guns and we ended up in Manciano rather than Napoli.
The house, owned by Franco and Angela Starace, is beautiful: a farm house of venerable age, exquisitely modernised and enlarged, it sits on the top of a hill overlooking olive groves and vineyards, and in the far distance, usually only visible when the setting sun reflects off it, the Mediterranean. Though it is now the end of a long hot summer, this part of Italy has been in a rain depression for the last ten days so everything is green and lush. The road from the highway is really a dirt track, but bordered with wild cyclamens and native flowers, hedgerows and olive trees, and every now and then some kind of pine. Once through the gate, olives on the left, vines straight ahead, a profusion of roses in full bloom on the right and on top of the bank, surprisingly (though Angela is Australian), a splendid scarlet bottle brush.
The Staraces live in Milan so had arranged for Gino, the local farmer, to let us in. Gino speaks no English and our Italinglese is very limited, despite the best efforts of the University of Sydney. Somehow, we worked out how the hot water, the heating, the shutters and all the other oddities of a strange house work. And at last we were alone to settle in, unpack and decide which nooks to settle in at different times of the day to read and snooze.
The town is about five kilometres from the house, most of it within what I imagine were its mediaeval boundaries. We did an early evening explore to find essentials such as the internet café, a bread shop, a grog shop, a regular café and somewhere to have a meal. Mission accomplished on all fronts, though there must be a better grog shop than the Coop which does an excellent line of vino paesano but not much else – but we have a few weeks to find it.
On the Health Front
Since Cairo, Di has had a sore spot on her right arm, in one of the places where there had been a cannula – it has been tender and slightly swollen. Since she is still on antibiotics, she had not much worried about it, but yesterday it became worse. The swelling moved down the arm and the artery stood out. After an SMS consultation with “Dr Watson”, and a surf of the internet, it was decided it was phlebitis and needed to be seen to. Angela does not know of an English-speaking doctor in Manciano and suggested we go to Grosseto, the nearest ‘city’, which she said was about forty minutes away – it is, but only if you drive like an Italian!
We thought we would take the scenic route, rather than the freeway, because it looked shorter. Big mistake. More than two hours later it was dark, but on the outskirts of Grosseto, a sign, “Ospedale”. It is a very big hospital and ultimately we found Emergency, inappropriately called Pronto Succorso – while I have no complaints about the succour, as good as anywhere in Sydney, it was not Pronto. We were met by a kindly triage nurse who spoke excellent English – Di was assessed as category 3 out of 5 and was told an English-speaking doctor was on duty and would see Di after two more patients. I think the triage nurse really thought that would happen because when she went off duty an hour and a half later she was surprised we had not been seen and was sure it would not be long.
Little did she know! By midnight – we had been there five and a half hours – there was no one else in the waiting room. Just as I was puckering up for a tanty, even in my Italinglese, Di was called. Surprise, surprise, no English-speaking doctor, though there was a nurse able to do some translating. She emerged after half an hour looking crestfallen – they had taken buckets of blood and inserted a cannula, which did not augur well. We had to wait for the blood tests. An hour or so later she was summoned: the cannula was removed, she was given a script for more antibiotics and antiinflammatories; she must come back in 10 days. We were free to go.
They have some excellent street level parking areas around the hospital – they all look the same at 2.15 am, and they all have streets named after nations. We drove in out and around lots of them trying to find the road to the freeway – no scenic route home for us. It was not the quickest trip home – I was not allowed to drive faster than 80 so even the semis overtook us. We eventually got home at 3.30am.
While I had emptied the hospital vending machine of potato chips – there were only three bags – and done some damage to its supply of KitKats, I was ravenous. So omelettes all round and, for me, a glass or two of vino paesano bianco. Di is still unable to tolerate alcohol. And so to bed at about 4.30.
Today – I think it is now Wednesday - began at 7.00. It sounded like Gino knocking on the door or banging posts into the ground. Not so – either the Mafia was ‘looking after’ someone or it is grouse shooting season. Not a good idea to go for a walk in either case, so I thought I would do the washing. I had just turned the machine on when the power cut out – I naturally assumed I had done something wrong. I checked all three fuse boxes – the pantry, the cellar, the front gate – flicked switches, spoke severely to all the equipment, and nothing. As the morning wore on the house got colder – no pump to circulate hot water through the system. It will be an uncomfortable night – no heat, no light – if I can’t get it to work. I tried phoning Angela, to ask if I had missed something – only an answering machine.
About 1.00, as we were sitting on the terrace reading, there was a squishing sound. The sprinklers came on – the power was back! The problem had not been ours, but the sprinklers were. The power cut had done something to their timer – they now come on whenever they feel like it. That would not matter were the front lawn not the only place to make a phone call. Perhaps Gino can fix the sprinklers, if only I can explain the problem.
For, dear reader, the mighty have fallen: I have bought a mobile phone – only at Angela’s insistence since the house does not have a phone. It is very cute, because the cutest was the cheapest. I do not know how to use it and don’t think I will bother learning. But I have a phone with a local phone number at least while we are in Italy. [Di of course still has her mobile on global roaming]The reception here is poor and the signal cuts out intermittently, but … it is wonderful Italia!
On the doctor’s orders, Di must rest, so we won’t do any sightseeing for a few days: apart from going out for dinner and shopping, we will hang around the house, reading, napping and, perhaps, entertaining the neighbours. Her nephew, Matthew Potter, is travelling through Italy with his girl friend. We have suggested they make contact when they know they will be in Sienna, a couple of hours from here: perhaps we will meet up with them there, which will probably be the first major outing.
I haven’t driven a manual car for more than ten years or a left hand drive for fifteen, but somehow we got here without major incident. “Keep the passenger in the gutter” is the simple rule for staying on the correct side of the road. The only real challenge is that I am used to the car finishing six inches from my right shoulder – so several times the long-suffering passenger was nearly scraped off on the back of a truck we were passing.
Manciano is a few hours north of Rome, in Tuscany, and a fairly easy trip. Di and I interpreted Angela’s directions differently - she was convinced we were headed in the wrong direction. I stuck to my guns and we ended up in Manciano rather than Napoli.
The house, owned by Franco and Angela Starace, is beautiful: a farm house of venerable age, exquisitely modernised and enlarged, it sits on the top of a hill overlooking olive groves and vineyards, and in the far distance, usually only visible when the setting sun reflects off it, the Mediterranean. Though it is now the end of a long hot summer, this part of Italy has been in a rain depression for the last ten days so everything is green and lush. The road from the highway is really a dirt track, but bordered with wild cyclamens and native flowers, hedgerows and olive trees, and every now and then some kind of pine. Once through the gate, olives on the left, vines straight ahead, a profusion of roses in full bloom on the right and on top of the bank, surprisingly (though Angela is Australian), a splendid scarlet bottle brush.
The Staraces live in Milan so had arranged for Gino, the local farmer, to let us in. Gino speaks no English and our Italinglese is very limited, despite the best efforts of the University of Sydney. Somehow, we worked out how the hot water, the heating, the shutters and all the other oddities of a strange house work. And at last we were alone to settle in, unpack and decide which nooks to settle in at different times of the day to read and snooze.
The town is about five kilometres from the house, most of it within what I imagine were its mediaeval boundaries. We did an early evening explore to find essentials such as the internet café, a bread shop, a grog shop, a regular café and somewhere to have a meal. Mission accomplished on all fronts, though there must be a better grog shop than the Coop which does an excellent line of vino paesano but not much else – but we have a few weeks to find it.
On the Health Front
Since Cairo, Di has had a sore spot on her right arm, in one of the places where there had been a cannula – it has been tender and slightly swollen. Since she is still on antibiotics, she had not much worried about it, but yesterday it became worse. The swelling moved down the arm and the artery stood out. After an SMS consultation with “Dr Watson”, and a surf of the internet, it was decided it was phlebitis and needed to be seen to. Angela does not know of an English-speaking doctor in Manciano and suggested we go to Grosseto, the nearest ‘city’, which she said was about forty minutes away – it is, but only if you drive like an Italian!
We thought we would take the scenic route, rather than the freeway, because it looked shorter. Big mistake. More than two hours later it was dark, but on the outskirts of Grosseto, a sign, “Ospedale”. It is a very big hospital and ultimately we found Emergency, inappropriately called Pronto Succorso – while I have no complaints about the succour, as good as anywhere in Sydney, it was not Pronto. We were met by a kindly triage nurse who spoke excellent English – Di was assessed as category 3 out of 5 and was told an English-speaking doctor was on duty and would see Di after two more patients. I think the triage nurse really thought that would happen because when she went off duty an hour and a half later she was surprised we had not been seen and was sure it would not be long.
Little did she know! By midnight – we had been there five and a half hours – there was no one else in the waiting room. Just as I was puckering up for a tanty, even in my Italinglese, Di was called. Surprise, surprise, no English-speaking doctor, though there was a nurse able to do some translating. She emerged after half an hour looking crestfallen – they had taken buckets of blood and inserted a cannula, which did not augur well. We had to wait for the blood tests. An hour or so later she was summoned: the cannula was removed, she was given a script for more antibiotics and antiinflammatories; she must come back in 10 days. We were free to go.
They have some excellent street level parking areas around the hospital – they all look the same at 2.15 am, and they all have streets named after nations. We drove in out and around lots of them trying to find the road to the freeway – no scenic route home for us. It was not the quickest trip home – I was not allowed to drive faster than 80 so even the semis overtook us. We eventually got home at 3.30am.
While I had emptied the hospital vending machine of potato chips – there were only three bags – and done some damage to its supply of KitKats, I was ravenous. So omelettes all round and, for me, a glass or two of vino paesano bianco. Di is still unable to tolerate alcohol. And so to bed at about 4.30.
Today – I think it is now Wednesday - began at 7.00. It sounded like Gino knocking on the door or banging posts into the ground. Not so – either the Mafia was ‘looking after’ someone or it is grouse shooting season. Not a good idea to go for a walk in either case, so I thought I would do the washing. I had just turned the machine on when the power cut out – I naturally assumed I had done something wrong. I checked all three fuse boxes – the pantry, the cellar, the front gate – flicked switches, spoke severely to all the equipment, and nothing. As the morning wore on the house got colder – no pump to circulate hot water through the system. It will be an uncomfortable night – no heat, no light – if I can’t get it to work. I tried phoning Angela, to ask if I had missed something – only an answering machine.
About 1.00, as we were sitting on the terrace reading, there was a squishing sound. The sprinklers came on – the power was back! The problem had not been ours, but the sprinklers were. The power cut had done something to their timer – they now come on whenever they feel like it. That would not matter were the front lawn not the only place to make a phone call. Perhaps Gino can fix the sprinklers, if only I can explain the problem.
For, dear reader, the mighty have fallen: I have bought a mobile phone – only at Angela’s insistence since the house does not have a phone. It is very cute, because the cutest was the cheapest. I do not know how to use it and don’t think I will bother learning. But I have a phone with a local phone number at least while we are in Italy. [Di of course still has her mobile on global roaming]The reception here is poor and the signal cuts out intermittently, but … it is wonderful Italia!
On the doctor’s orders, Di must rest, so we won’t do any sightseeing for a few days: apart from going out for dinner and shopping, we will hang around the house, reading, napping and, perhaps, entertaining the neighbours. Her nephew, Matthew Potter, is travelling through Italy with his girl friend. We have suggested they make contact when they know they will be in Sienna, a couple of hours from here: perhaps we will meet up with them there, which will probably be the first major outing.
posted by Di at 8:18 AM
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