Wet Dry

I spent the best part of the day strimming the big field, dodging the sun and in the afternoon just being soaked in sweat in 32c temps. Down in the deeply-gullied torrent there is still a little water, my ‘well’ is also slowly gathering water while a terrace of sunflowers, olives, chickpeas and artichokes struggle on.

Later Gianni our neighbour gave us some knobbly truffles which he said to cook briefly skinned and grated in 60gm melted butter then tossed on a long pasta (spaghetti or tagliatelle) with Parmesan and a pinch of a black pepper. What a lovely guy. He’d been working all day in A boiling factory. The spaghetti ai Tartuffe was sublime with a side dish of purple beans from the garden.

The water situation seems less critical than perhaps I’d thought. The consortium message of stop and desist is, according to Gianluca ( who I bumped into at the filling station) aimed more at water-wasteful Florentine weekenders than us residents.

Carrying watering cans up in 1:3 slope from the well is good boot camp fare but wares thin under the blazing sun and horseflies going for your eyes.

Some extras of water and that dry terrace