Holding In The Moors in my Hands Feels Great

The delivery driver took ages to find my parcel, and I couldn't help him, because I couldn't remember ordering anything by mail (which makes a change), when suddenly he alighted on a medium sized box of some weight. When I opened it, there were my pristine, new and shiny author copies of In the Moors! Reading the words on the pages of a paperback book made my achievement feel properly authentic and all the hard work (blood! sweat!) worthwhile.

Now I'm well on with the sequel to In the Moors and I'm trying not to make the same, silly mistakes I made the first time round. Most of these mistakes are the very things that every published author warns against; they're the things I constantly tell my students not to do. 

Mid August

I wrote this poem a while ago, when it was a very hot day!

It's about a time I was pregnant in a very hot summer.

But it's really about the way we sometimes have 

memories of events that we regard as 'not  retrievable'

things the we can never feel, see or do again

in exactly the same way as the first time.

In fact; is there every anything better than a first time?

After Branwen and Joe had been with us, we drove them
back to Swansea and stayed the day at
Tir Coch, where we were able
to enjoy the company of the Lee's
Taliesin, Amelia, Jonathan
and baby Seren.
Here we are playing with Branwen's father's old
Dinky cars.

AUGUST BURNT BRIGHT

Every dawn, the sun

Arrived like a child at       play. 

People whined over heat rashes, eyestrain, 

While, with sumo tread, 

My face a boiled beet,

My body pocked like grapefruit,

I peeled my big-girl bra and

Formed a starfish on the bedspread

A whale 

Dripping sweat like torture. 

In a dream, the curtains stirred. 

A lightness tripped in the room, a swirl of air 

Sulphur like poppies in my nostrils. 

Cartwheeling in his heated pool

Round and tight, a drum of child.

Waiting for the miracle.

Fat drops passed the window

Falling stars glistening with sunlight

As they hit the ashphalt.

This room of plum and orange walls.

This child rolling within me.

The air on my skin like Arctic feathers.

We played Harry Potter; here we are trying, then
failing, to get onto Platform 9 and 3/4s

Hold the memory in glass;

I am Gileroy Lockhart at his book signing in Diagon Alley;
good practice for later?

The unrepeatable ecstasy

Of a shudder as August burnt bright. 

Sweet Seren, the star

Two days later, and Britta was staying with us! She's
come from Switzerland for a lovely long stay, working her
way around Britain and enjoying old friends and Druid camps

Ancient Fellowships on Orkney: Tales by the Fire

Paella time!    

We had taken a cliff walk along the Ceredigion part of the Wales Costal Path. We were pooped by the time we got home, but luckily the fire pit was ready to light and the veg for the paella all picked from the garden and ready for our supper.  

Call us old fashioned and gender-oriented, but it was the boys prepared the fire while the girls took a trug round the garden to pick a selection of veggie produce; broad beans, peas, runner and dwarf beans, courgettes, Calvo Nero, onions, garlic and baby carrots plus herbs which we prepared in the kitchen and took out to cook. We fried them gently in butter and olive oil over the fire once it had burnt into  white hot coals. Once they were soft, we added pints of veg stock and threw in the paella rice. It was manna –– rustic cooking is even better than barbies! We thought there would be loads left, but we managed to almost eat it all; a tiny bit left for the very nose hens. 

This is our clever method of getting the guests to do all the work; build a fire, pick veggies, stir the food, eat, drink, perhaps a bit of drumming, and the chance of a story or a reminisce.  It was a balmy night and we were able to stay out for hours, telling stories to each other.

We talked about a visit to Orkney, some years ago. 

We'd gone to to these Scottish Isles  on a quest to learn more about the ancient pre-history of the islands, where ancient peoples lived in abundance, and in fellowship, and, in fact, not on the 'edge of the British Isles' as we think of Orkney now, but in the heartlands of a sacred community.

Our first pilgrimage, once we’d unpacked in our Orkney croft, was a drive to the very bottom of South Ronaldsay, to the Tomb of the Eagles. This passage grave contained evidence that the burials in the tomb included the bones and feathers of the sea eagle, a bird that was thought extinct in Britain but is now coming back to us.

Set at the edge of the raging sea at a place called Isbister, it’s a remarkable site. The passage grave had been discovered by the farmer of that land while moving stones to use for walling. Suddenly, he was staring at a line of skulls and realised he’d discovered something unique. This was in 1950 – right away, he informed the Ministry of Works. Twenty-five years later, he rang them again, to ask when they were going to come and even look at the remains, let alone excavate the tomb. They said they wouldn’t be long…but ten years later Ronald Simison gave up hope of seeing them and asked a team of student archaeologists if they’d like the job.

Because of this anomaly, the tomb, and the bronze age site discovered later, still belong to Ronald Simison, and he is generous with his discovery. There is a small museum, where visitors are allowed to handle the artefacts. The tomb was packed with grave gifts – bowls, buttons and pins, some food, but mostly remains of sea eagles. We held an eagle’s talon – 5,000 years old and as thick as a toddler’s finger .  Visitors are allowed to handle the artefacts and crawl around the remains. Ronald is old now, and sits in the Orkney sunshine, just outside his back door, watching his barley grow, but he’s about to receive the OBE for his contribution to archaeology and a special function was being held at the Town Hall during our stay.

Half a mile up the wild coast, under its fur coat of grass, is the tomb itself. To get into the tomb, we had to lie on a modified skateboard and scoot our way in on our stomachs! The tomb was packed with grave gifts – bowls, buttons and pins, some food, but mostly the bones of the Sea Eagle. This has been extinct in Orkney for many years now, but in the last few, has been seen again around the coast. It is a regal bird, with massive a wingspan, and must have been the clan’s totem. In the little museum, the guides took us through what we would see at the tomb, and let us handle the eagle’s talons – 5,000 years old and as thick as a toddler’s finger – as well as stone tools and pot-shards. In one of the chambers, 

four of the skulls are laid out behind a Perspex screen, giving us some idea of the shock Ronald must have had as he harvested stone all those years ago. 25 separate sets of bones (none complete) were found in the tomb, which was used for over 600 years.

On the walk back to the car, we passed a bronze age site was equally remarkable. It was clearly a roundhouse, but no one’s sure of its use. In the centre was a watertight stone ‘bath’ which would have been heated from the hearth on one wall, by rolling red-hot stones into the water. It was big enough to hold a man, although rather deep, and we did think about a sauna, hot tub or sweat lodge, but had to come down on the side of the more mundane cookhouse – until quite recently Orkadians boiled their beef and mutton as an entire animal, taking it apart as it cooked.

We spent a day on  the Ness of Brodgar, a thin spit of land that links two of the stone circles we saw when we were there, the amazing Ring of Brodgar stone circle and the standing stones of Stenness. Frustratingly we went to Orkney in 2009. The following year, archeological work started on the Ness of Brodnar  and we had no idea (nor did they!) of what they would find. I write about what they did find Here.

Stones of Stenness

This is a lovely circle, partially lost, which stands at the edge of a loch. From its centre, on can see Maishowe, the Barnhouse settlement and the first menhir of a lost avenue that led to the Ring of Brodgar. In the distance, the pudding bowl shape of Maishowe can be spotted. These World Heritage sites are at the very centre of Mainland and their dates are very close – the same society that build the Tomb of the Eagles.

In the centre of the Stones of Stenness is a square defined by kerb stones. We would see this again, in many places. To the east side of the circle is a small ‘cove’ – three waist high stones. I’m not sure what these inclusions are, and neither was the guide pontificating to the little crowd of people he’d brought to the site. But he told them (and I was lying on my back in the centre square at the time, looking up at the intense blue of the sky), that one night, unable to sleep, he’d come here in heavy mist. He’d got out of the car and become quite disorientated in the mist, not even able to see the stones until up close to them. But when he lay in the square in the centre and gazed up, the stars were clearly visible above him.

The Ring of Brodgar 

Originally, 60 massive sandstone monoliths stood in a vast circle between two lochs, surrounded by tumuli. There are still enough standing stones to make the heart skip a beat as one circles them, touching them, listening to them. The centre is filled with the purple of heather and dreamy puffs of cotton grass. Each stone is taller than two men, and have slanting tops as if pointing towards the sky, although this is the natural way the stone breaks, apparently. The sandstone is quarried very thin, and has the appearance of wafer biscuits. It will split in the same way as slate, and this same stone is used as stalls in tombs, as flat surfaces in Neolithic houses, and as roofing for crofts.

The Barnhouse.

This might not be quite as spectacular a sight as Skara Brae, but it is just as interesting. Only in Orkney, it seems, did Stone Age man build in stone. Originally, there were several roundhouses built of dry stone walls, and one of these has been excavated. They felt cosy inside, with space for seating and central hearths. They would’ve had thatched roofs. 

They are not as spectacular as the houses at Skara Brae – there were no cosy high-sided stone beds, warmed and softened with heather and sheepskins, or fancy stone dressers that take up an entire side of the main room, where the pottery and jewellery of the household can be displayed. But they had a lovely atmosphere of homeliness.

Two larger, rectangular buildings with perfectly rounded corners had been built towards the end of the people’s stay at this settlement. One seemed to be a feasting hall, the other possibly for a sacred use. It was double-skinned - a second wall had been build around it, with the entrance on a 90’ angle to the inner door. This must have made it much warmer. The entrance to the feasting hall would have taken the sun at midsummer – the entrance to the largest building would have taken it at midwinter.

Maishowe.

This Neolithic chambered cairn is billed as the best passage grave in the Western Hemisphere. Although the grass-covered mound is round, inside it is build on a square, with a very high ceiling, as roomy as a cathedral. There are three high, small chambers off the central chamber, which surely must have contained the bones of the population for the centuries it was used, from 2,750 BC. But no remains were found. When opened, the tomb was empty, save for runic graffiti left by Viking warriors. They had inscribed the stonework all over the tomb – some were inane scribbles, telling us that women they fancied made them feel horny, or that they were the best warrior with the strongest arm and sharpest blade, but others proclaimed that they had come here and taken away with them ‘fabulous treasure’. This is a puzzle, as the Neolithic remains would not have looked like treasure the Vikings. But I wondered if the tomb had also been used in the Bronze Age – in Ireland massive golden collars, belts, torcs and other jewellery have been found in tombs, and the reopening of these old cairns by later people has been known. I like my little theory, and can imagine the round eyes of the Viking men as they gazed upon such a trophy.

On the afternoon of the final light of the year, the Winter Solstice, the sun shines directly through the entrance onto the stones at the backof the main chamber. I found this sad and compelling. After those rays had died, there would be almost no daylight for days and days…there had been little since Hallowe’en, if fact, and the sun would not properly return until Lammas. This was not a celebration. It was as if the people wanted their dead to experience the dying of the sun.

Skara Brae

Skara Brae neolithic village...you know, the one that has cavity walls, stone beds and even stone Welsh Dressers!  won’t try to describe Skara Brae physically – everyone’s been there or at least seen the pictures. Instead, I tried to express what I felt in a poem:

Whether I am in the hills

Hunting boar,

Or on the sea

Hunting fish

Or in the fields

With the barley or the beasts,

When the sun moves down,

I begin to think of Cadd,

Too heavy now with our second child

To stray far from the house.

I think about how the fire will be blazing

Before I reach the outer wall,

How, as we crouch to share out the shellfish catch

She will be heating the water and tearing herbs.

The day has been cloudless across the sea.

My face is burnt with sun and wind

My hands chilled as stone.

I stride through the passageway and Nitta comes running,

Grasps my knee, hugs and giggles.

She is the one that swells my heart.

When I went to find a stone for my mattock,

Nitta followed, singing to the flowers,

Gathering purple, yellow and white.

Cadd sat with her and named their gifts –

Which plants ease pain, which brings up a fever.

She spoke them after, like an echo of the cliffs,

With such clear intent 

It brought more water to my eyes

Than the passing of the Old One

Five moons ago.

The sun will go down red tonight,

As if bleeding into the hills.

After the fish is baked on the stones of the fire

And we are warm and replete,

I will take Cadd out.

We will lie on the soft heather and stare at the sky.

I will tell her the stars 

Are like the flowers of the land.

Both are scattered and purposeful and named.

And when she speaks them in her voice,

High as a bone pipe,

I will not mind if water comes again to my eyes

Reading this out in the darkened circle around our fire pit was a lovely memory 

The Gods of Naples

THE GODS OF NAPLES

‘Ernest Hemmingway used to drink here,’ said Sue, as we entered the Foreigner’s Club in Sorrento. Frankly, that was good enough for me. The Club bustled with flirty waiters and an international cliental. We settled at a table overlooking the Bay of Naples; a vast gulf of azure water, intersected by the white trails from the launches and powerboats. Directly below us, a scary drop of high cliff away, were the port and the beach. In the far distance across the bay was Naples, a glittering slope of mammoth humanity. And, half obscured by haze and cloud, Vesuvius rose against the horizon. We also saw Vesuvius every time we opened the doors to our hotel room balcony, a looming and slightly sinister presence.  

          We’d been here less than 18 hours, but already we’d had our tour of Sorrento, one of the most sought after tourist venues in Italy. Marion, our guide, wove us through the baking streets and the manic traffic until she was sure she’d shown us everything we might like to see later at our leisure. We took in the Best Ice Cream Shop in Italy and the shady cloisters. The Foreigner Club was her last spot, and Sue and I did not plan to leave it any time soon. My pasta had an unbelievable fresh cherry tomato sauce and Sue’s wine was chilled and quaffable. 

          ‘The beaches non-plus me a bit,’ I admitted, staring down. All along the bay, are almost manmade beaches. Famous Beach (named before it ever was, apparently) and Bikini beach (named for the first bikini allowed on a beach here, and worn by local girl Sophia Loren) were visible on our journey from the airport, and Sorrento boasts two, each one so narrow that the parasols are practically overlapping. Where there is any sand at all, is a thin strip of course, grey volcanic matter. Pontoons extend the area out into the sea, creating a safe haven to swim. Below, there was a private and a public beach, where a five-some of young lads were stood out from the bobbing heads of swimmers. They formed a perfect circle knee deep in surf and punching a beach ball between them, as if they were being filmed. Perhaps they were. 

          ‘I could stay here all day,’ said Sue. ‘I love people-watching.  Look at that table next to us.’ 

          A foursome, Italian and beautifully young and slender, were eating pasta and gesticulating loudly across their small table. One of the girls wolfed down a huge plate of pasta, then cut up her Amalfi lemon, added salt and olive oil, and ate it like an orange. Sue was on a mission for Amalfi lemons, which make normal lemons look like marbles in contrast. The noise from the Italian’s table grew...something to do with the cigarette the other girl was smoking as she leaned against the balustrade. We couldn’t help glancing surreptitiously over at their antics. I leaned across and lowered my voice. ‘I think they are Mafiosi. Look - they’re the only party here who have a tablecloth.’ Our guide, Marion, had already informed us about the Napoli Mafia, the  ‘Camorra’.

          ‘They practically run Naples,’ said Sue. She should know; her partner's family are from Sicily. ‘We’re seeing Naples tomorrow. I can’t wait.’

I couldn't wait to see Naples Museum of Archeology – it  contained original marble statues of all my favourite gods and goddesses. I was going to be in pagan heaven.

It seems we can trace the many-breasted Diana back to further ancient times. First, to the Hellenistic period, when the deity worshipped in Ephesus was commonly called “Artemis.”  But the goddess venerated in Ephesus does not really resemble either Artemis or Diana, rather, resembling Near Eastern Mother goddesses.Temple of Artemis/Diana in Ephesus, now in modern Turkey, was among the ancient world’s Seven Wonders. Although destroyed, early reproductions of the statue of the Many-Breasted Goddess survive, so we know what she looked like: a beautiful, regal, crowned woman, her torso completely covered by multiple breasts, indicating her capacity to nurture and provide for all, her long tight skirt covered by reliefs of animals and birds. Date palms were among the most sacred trees throughout what is now the Middle East. Inanna–Ishtar is sometimes depicted as a date palm, as is Asherah, famed as the wet nurse of her pantheon

Marion was a lady about our own age, who was married to an Italian. She had a soft, slightly gravelly voice with a descending cadence which became our gentle but clear companion around all the sights and sites of the tour. She knew her Italy and her Italian, and constantly entertained us with her stories of living here...although now she lives with her husband in England, her children being long grown.

          ‘We no longer allow you to walk around Naples,’ she told us as our coach drove us in that direction, past Famous and Bikini beaches. ‘We will go into the museum and return immediately to the coach. A tourist has recently been stabbed, so it’s not considered safe anymore. And then there’s the problem with rubbish.

Venus (Aphrodites) was the Olympian goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. Medieval paintings about, especially of her rising from the foam of the sea. She is thought to be the most beautiful  of goddesses. Herr attributes included a dove, apple, scallop shell and mirror, and also her golden apples. Her adulterous affair are renowned and many, with myths about her and the god Ares (Mars), her love for Adonis, and a shepherd prince called Anchises. She is famous for her part in the judgement of Paris which resulted in the Trojan War. The statue of Pygmalion which was brought to life by Aphrodite. Finally, she is known for the sad persecution of Psyche, the maiden loved by the goddess' son Eros (Cupid). 

          I was pretty certain the dangers of the Mafia were being over-emphasized, but the rubbish problem certainly was not. The streets we drove through were ankle deep in litter - paper, cans, bottles, more paper. It piled up against walls and blew around corners. Forget stabbings; I was worried we’d all come down with Wiel’s disease. I’m not clear why there is a problem...but the Mafia are pretty much to blame for everything, so it was a safe bet they were involved. However, we did observe the locals dropping their unwanted bits and pieces from the safety of the coach. Their approach seemed more ‘if we’ve got it, we may as well contribute’, rather than ‘if we stop doing it, things won’t be as bad’.

Atlas  was a Titan condemned to hold up the heavens or sky for eternity. He stood at the ends of the earth in extreme west, and has become associated both with Atlas Mountains in northwest Africa and the upper vertebrae, which hold the head erect. He was credited with inventing the first celestial sphere, a depiction of which can be seen in this statue. 

   

The museum was calm and cool, and plain.

Many of the rescued artifacts have ended up here. Firstly, they were lifted from the excavations and gifted to kings and nobles, but it was the 18C at the time. Now, the wonderful mosaic floors, the household artifacts, the silver oil lamps and the impressive statues of gods and men are housed here. 

        

  Our guide was a dapper Italian in his forties with a smooth bald head. He took pleasure in pointing out the Romans were shorter than we are, but I bet he could have fitted into their battle dress easily. He showed us the treasures on each floor, but honestly, I only had eyes for the goddesses. Their statues felt almost alive, so perfect were they in their execution. I took picture of Venus (the only woman to be depicted naked), Artemis, the Roman Isis, Juno, Athene and Flora. Apart from Isis, the statues depicted perfectly the particular qualities of their characters. I found it wonderful to know that these statues had been created by such ancient artists at a time when these deities were worships reverently.

Athena (Minerva) is mention first in Linear B tablets  as Lady of Athens. She was born after Zeus experienced an enormous headache and she sprang fully grown and in armour from his forehead. She is associated with warfare and wisdom, handicraft, courage, inspiration, law and justice, strategic warfare, mathematics, strength, strategy, the arts, and skill. She is one strong goddess. 

My only grump about Naples Museum is that there was no coffee shop. Breaks for coffee were the only thing I was missing, which seemed incongruous in the home of great coffee. By this point, we’d already met several people we were enjoying the company of, and they seemed to agree with me on the coffee break issue. Michael was a true gentleman and a retired bank manager, Trish and Tony were both in the theatre, Tony as a writer/producer/educator while Trish still enjoys a vibrant career in acting. Jenny and Don, Tony and Maureen, Jim and Jill and Eddie and Joan were all lovely to meet and chat to. Kate was a student of art and a young breath of fresh air in our party. All of us were keen to see the museum’s treasures before going to Herculaneum and Pompeii. But first we were going to Capri.

THE ISLE OF CAPRI

There is something magical about every island; I love Lundy, and the Orkneys and Aran especially, and have memories of Maui that still leave me breathless, but this temperate island really is a jewel. Our first adventure was a boat trip around the island, showing us the many grottos; cliff base caves that have intrigued and attracted visitors for years. The White Grotto is famous for its pale stalactites, and the Blue Grotto for the special effect of light on its walls, which reflects not only the colour of the sea, but its waving motion. We were able to see the cliffside hotels of the rich; some almost hanging over the precipitous sides, and the villas of the famous including that of Gracie Fields. .

          For Sue and I, the highlight of the day...almost of the week...was the trip from Anacapri to the top of the mountain in the chair life. It looked a little nerve wracking as we queued, but as the most elderly member of the tour took off and sailed upwards, I felt I would have to quell my nerves. I was almost bundled into the chair - they don’t actually stop, being on an eternal loop - but once the thin metal bar had clanked down to prevent a fall, I was off at a run, the sounds of the launch platform, the shrieks and squeals and the cries of the men, faded away. Suddenly all was still and calm except for the intermittent groaning of the metal rope over the cogs. I moved slowly upwards with a certain grace as scents drifted up; the herbs, flowers and sweet spices of the Mediterranean blending on the warm breeze. Below, bird-eye views of gardens, some neatly arranged in terraces of vegetables and vines, some haphazard harmonizations of nature; fig trees, japonica, oleander and bougainvillea, where terracotta statuettes, weathered with age, were half hidden by overgrown beds. In one, a black manikin from a shop window was decorated to become a Madonna, in another a thin, sleepy cat stretched over the pathway. The gardens dissolved into woodland and I found my feet touching the tops of oaks, sweet chestnuts and poplars, and looking directly down at carpets of wild flowers, carpets of yellow, white and pink, and explosions of purple, orange and red. As we were yanked higher, the deciduous trees gave way to the resiny smell of conifers and bird song surrounded me. I could have gone on forever, when the landing platform came into view and I was tipped from my seat seconds after Sue.

          ‘I could do that time and again,’ she said. ‘I loved it.’

          At the top of the island, Capri town spread before us, I felt I could see forever, the view filled with in the colours of the Mediterranean…sapphire blue, apricot, deepest green and white.

Named after Hercules, whose massive form we saw in the museum, the  Roman town of was buried under boiling mud when Vesuvius erupted. Overlooking the sea, which at t Herculaneum hat point before the eruption, had reached the edge of the town, Herculaneum had been a posh settlement for the rich of the area, and the houses and high street shops have been wonderfully preserved. Only a quarter of it has been excavated, but that was many hectares and there was plenty to see, all built in the honeycombed style of the stone walls layered with the slender red brickwork Romans loved.

        

          The villas were wonderful, floors of mosaic and walls decorated with brilliantly coloured frescos. Naturally, these were faded, but it was easy to imagine how civilized it would all be. Many of the villas faced the bay, and so had winter and summer dining rooms, where the view could be enjoyed when the sun shone. The baths were impressive too, room after room that a well-heeled Roman could spend his or her leisure in, being oiled, massaged and scraped, followed by saunas and plunge pools and warm, luxurious bathing areas. David Lloyd eat your heart out!

          It had rained on the way to Herculaneum, but it stopped just as our coach arrived, and out peeped the sun. So, when the punters tried to sell me a brolly for 5 euros, I waved them aside, sure that Italy would prove true to form and keep its clouds at bay. It wasn’t long before thunder clapped directly above us and massive raindrops pelted down. A lot of us were extremely damp by the time we returned to the coach, and pretty glad when we reach Sorrento again. I capitulated on the way out and bought a brolly, which I used precisely once that day; the 30 second sprint from the umbrella stall to the coach.

       

We all enjoyed the visit to Pompeii more than we thought we would, having seen Herculaneum so thoroughly. It was the big metropolis down the road from Herculanium’s dormitory settlement. There we found the huge amphitheatre, the gladiatorial ring and the wide forum where everyone would gather to talk (and probably show off their finery). Here also were the plaster casts of the victim’s bodies, taken after they had dissolved inside their ash shells like fossils…the dog, chained to his ring, a pregnant woman, her hands trying to protect her baby, a man’s body, stiff in death. These were a moving sight, reminding us all of the transitory nature of everyone’s life.

 Venus was the patron goddess of Pompeii, and The Sanctuary of Venus is placed on spectacular artificial terrace  overlooking the bay. This really was the place to be in 50 BCE,

        















 

        

It seemed to me, moving though streets, houses and temples, that Pompeian citizens were surrounded by their own images of the sacred.Statues of divinities often y set up as votive offerings. The bottom line in Roman society seemed to be; Praise your gods, and they will reward you – attend your gods, or they may be vengeful.

 The coach took us up the side of Vesuvius to where the walk to its rim was just thirty minutes. The place feels unloved; winding road is too narrow for passing coaches, and the loos in the car park smell from thirty metres away. Marion told us that the local government had received an EU grant to aid the upkeep of this important ancient and geological site - one of the most visited in the world. But they had spent it all on the statues that lined the winding road. I was reminded of Mickey Blue Eyes, where Hugh Grant plays an auction room owner in New York who finds himself selling rubbish art for millions in a sting by a Mafia painter. I thought the statues were at best comical and at worst obscene, like spending hundreds of pounds on your baby’s romper suit.

  The walkers set off; Sue and several others, including Joan, stayed behind. Sue’s legs were playing her up, but I didn’t really worry that she would have a boring time once I discovered the coffee shop sold wine by the glass.  I hired two sticks from the wizened old man who whittled thin branches into walking aids at the start of the climb. These were particularly useful on the way down, when the scree  became hazardous. However, as soon as I began to pick my way up, I realized they had a sorry side-effect; I had brought my new, and as so far unused, umbrella to afford myself some shade from the relentless sun, which had now reached a temperature of 40 degrees, but with a stick in each hand, I had no way of holding it over myself. Sadly, it returned to England still a virgin brolly, having kept me neither dry nor cool.

          The path upwards, black with the lava scree, was bordered at first with wild carrot and the broom, yellow with flowers, that grows into impressive trees. There was little else on this barren mountain, but below us stretched the vast Vesuvian plain, with its slug of lava sliding down the mountainside like a concrete river. 

          I plodded on, getting into a rhythm with my feet and my sticks. 15 minutes later, I’d reached the halfway stage. I was dripping with sweat (obviously not a lady, then) and my lungs had reached that wonderful stage where they feel as puckered inside as a lemon (and not an Amalfi one, at that). I love that pressure that comes from massive exertion; it means that later you will have an endorphin high and your lungs will feel as if they have been reborn.

          I started up again, moving through the shacks of souvenirs, and immediately came to the rim of the volcano. The path continued on around the edge, but the steep climb had gone. I was there, the black, purple and brown basin of rock, deeply shadowed by the sun lay before us, and we all had a great time climbing over the barrier to be photographed inside the rim. Across the basin were swirls of steam rising from the smoking vents. Best not stay long, then.  Anyway, we had to be back in the coach. 

That night, officially our last tour day, the hotel put on a special dinner. As usual, we pulled some tables together (rather tricky as they are circular) to join our new friends. The lights were low and candles flickered in globes. A rather loud electronic organ played to us. We had an extra course (pears with prosciutto), followed by the usual pasta, followed by an entire roast veal, brought in and paraded round. Heaven knows what the vegetarians thought, but I have to say the veal was utterly delicious. The chef carved it himself, although I was quite surprised to think he’d shown his face in the dining room. Hadn’t he heard the whispers from us British about his food? His cooking was excellent; I had a great gnocchi one night and several fish dishes I loved, but he seemed to imagine that we all were wedded to canned goods and served them at both breakfast (canned fruit, reconstituted fruit juice) and dinner (canned diced carrot, potato and peas for godsake). Even in the gala, the mushrooms were from a tin. There was always a huge basket of fresh fruit on the sideboard, but it contained only apples, pears oranges and bananas, as if to remind us of home, while directly outside the hotel was a man with a small stall selling four kinds of peaches, nectarines, grapes, watermelon and apricots, none of which we got a whiff of inside. 

          And that was it. A lemoncello out on the terrace for a farewell moment with everyone, then Sue and I retired to our beds and an early morning call at 6 for our plane. It was so sad to say Ciao to all our newfound friends. But to Italy, l only said Arrivederci…see you again soon.  I will bring the memories home, and still work with the beauty of the ancient deities of this beautiful and ancient land.

Ceredwin of the Golden Cape (and beautiful brown eggs)

Well done to Ceredwin, our broody hen, who has been safely delivered of five strong (and noisy) chicks! She is such a proud mum, a bit protective, but finally brought them out for this photoshoot when we offered them mini mealworms, which the chicks loved. The story starts 21 days ago when our smallholding friend Jane from   up the road brought us a clutch of six eggs from her chickens, who are lucky enough (!) to be getting chicken-nooky from Jane's not inconsiderable number of cocks.                          

 Ceredwin (of the golden cape) didn't seem to mind in the least that these were not her own eggs. She took to looking after them like a duck to....well, like a hen to a brood nest, actually. She sat on them for more than 23 hours a day, coming off only when I made her, taking a quick drink of water and a peck at some corn - and a quick poo as she kept the nest spick and span at all times - before rushing back to her babies.
She also liked making clucking noises off the nest, in practice for when the babies arrived, and she did a lot of running backwards, stretching her wings wide, again a signal, I think, for the babies to understand.

She grew feathers on her feet, to aid the warmth and cosiness of the nest, but lost all her breast feathers, which helped line the nest, and created a 'hotspot' for the eggs.

All we had to do was check she was okay - she did the rest by herself.
So we set to and made a run for them, to keep them safe from predators; magpies, polecats and even, until they're a little bigger, the other hens.

Then 21 days later, I came out to find two eggs hatched and two, very wet and bedraggled little chicks under my hen. I'd lifted her in the usual way, but she ran back quickly without even drinking, knowing the other eggs were hatching still.

 Finally, five out of the six were hatched, and are showing their breeds, which might be Orpington and Bluebell and we have definitely got one 'naked neck' bird, an unusual cross-breed. (see picture on right)

But our lack of experience showed with egg number six. I saw Ceredwin pecking at it, but left her to sit on it; I should have actually helped her get the chick out of the egg. Five out of six is apparently a good ratio though, and although we couldn't possibly be as proud of our chicks as Ceredwin is, we think they are the most gorgeous things in the world right now.

If you want to see them, come quick; they'll be gaining their grown-up feathers in 6 or so weeks time.