In the cool of the morning

Mist earlier at 98% humidity. A bank of rising cloud obscures the sun and makes Mt Pena loom larger than it can possibly be. It’s notched ridge, like blunt knuckle ends, holds some fierce energy, the genesis of a young tormented mountain range and the spot where St Frances climbed up to his God, arms outstretched to be seared with the brand of his faith, the stigmata. Strong Scirocco winds are forecast along Tuscany’s Tyrrhenian coast and inland up into our high Casentino. Good burning weather in the tinder dry conditions. I’m trusting the brothers and sisters at La Verna, the beautiful hilltop sanctuary of St Frank, have got a handle on this. And if not them then the Vigilanza Incendio Boschivi (the forest fire brigade).

Still as still at the moment. Sirens in the valley. A green woodpecker arrowing off into the trees as I bang shutters open, and then scolding me for the disturbance. An S-shaped dozing lizard skitters away over the stone lintel. A crane fly with tiny wings struggling across the floor. How did nature put together these ungainly creatures?

There’s things to do before the little coolness departs. 33c and full sun forecast later. Before the rain tomorrow, which has travelled down from the UK, we’ll pull up the chickpea plants and strip off the sharp-ended pods for shelling, shift potatoes into my improvised clamp, pick apples and tie in tomatoes and peppers and aubergines before the wind arrives.

But a minute longer to savour this coolness, the coffee, and the sounds of the Casentino getting to work on this last Saturday in August.

Update

And in the heat of the night

23.5C and 72% relative humidity outside and 24.5 and 64% inside at 22.52.

We sat watching distant lighting at least 50 miles away light up the clouds to the north-west. Heavy rain falling in a band from Pisa to Trieste. It edges southward agonisingly slowly on the rain radar as the Boss sings out the distance of lightning strikes on her ap like a midshipman swinging the lead, sounding the bottom as the sloop slips ever closer to the rocky shore and a hidden haven between the high cliffs.

The chickpeas are safely gathered in (extras) and were spread across the parched lawn to catch the drying sun. Some are podded and some await the practiced rolling break of weary finger and thumb. More blown apples cut up to dry and a big tub of red Cetica potatoes dug and hauled up the hill. A flat tyre intervened and I popped down to Stefano who kindly sorted it. Fish and a couple of langoustine each for lunch . The heat and humidity became unbearable. It seemed to radiate from the very air itself notwithstanding the gusting Scirocco.

Later we ate in the falling dark and the temperature refused to fall as mist appeared on the tops and the cloud cover increased from south west. Gradually the lightning increased from a mistakable flicker to a show of lights, as if someone at the tiny high hamlet of Ristonchi were wildly waving a giant torch.

Bed now, the fans whirring and the crickets calling calling calling over them. The storm is forecast for 6am and the temp expected to drop a straight ten degrees. Blessed cool. Blessed water. Take your time. Listen to the baker woman’s wisdom: without confusion or fretfulness. Meander down from Volterra, pass over Siena, take in Regello and Loro Ciuffena, peer in at Valldombrosa and wet St Anthony’s Forest. But. Just. Please. Come.