A posto

I'm stopped by the paramilitary Carabinieri on my way to the site meeting at the new house. They stand by the side of the road in their navy blue uniforms with red-banded peaked cap with the flame emblem at the front. High boots and a machine gun. One of them raises his little lollipop red and white sign and you pull in.

I stop and open the door. The one without the gun comes over to the wrong door. I say to his colleague, the one with the machine gun, that I'm on the other side. I see him pulling a wry smile.

The other guy comes round to my side of the car from the back and doesn't even come to the door. With a weary sigh of recognition that the car is from foreign he mutters, 'A poshtu' and waves me on my way. Which would be something like, ' You're alright sir, on your way.'

The site meeting goes well although the sky is darkening and a cold wind from the east is blowing. I meet the neighbour. The surveyors are there with their kit. R and I knock in posts and then move them a bit and change our minds. The new course for the way-leave track with its 'variante' is in place and the surveyors use their gear to transfer the marks to the map for all time.

I skedaddle away and head for Pisa to pick up M. Rain will be here by two.

This is a vineyard in the Chianti Ruffina DOC area. Frescobaldi, I think.

The Olive Oil conversation

As we phutz around with sticks and theodolites a conversation about olive oil breaks out. For the recounting of essential and detailed information about food is never far from the surface in rural Italy.

G is telling R, (they have obviously known each other for a very long time - they stand close-too, side by side talking sottovoce), about the oil he made from his trees last year.

The oil came out with a bitter taste he didn't much care for. But left in the bottles the sediment settled out and a few months later it was one of the best oils he'd ever tasted.

R concurs about the importance of letting the sediment settle and tells me that usually you get about 12-14% oil from a given weight of olives.

G continues saying that really there is no good oil that comes from olive trees that grow below 500-600m. The oil from below this altitude is too oily, too fatty.

V joins in, whilst writing down the numbers from the theodolite.

She says she only likes oil from 'cold regions', when it is grown on a north facing slope. Otherwise it has the bitterness of much of the olive oil from the South of Italy.

She says she has friends from Milan who have moved to the area and have developed a passion for making olive oil. She was at a tasting and the oil from their south-facing slopes was completely different from the north-facing ones.

And so on.

I'm thinking that if, in the course of time, we clear the scrubby forest from the west-facing slopes of the land - that were once cultivated as was much of the other land that is now wooded - we could plant olive trees that whilst not having the prized northern aspect would at least be at a height and orientation that might bring in a nice, light, sweet, flavouresome oil.

But the wind is picking up and rain is promised.