Market day in St. Foy la Grande

This area's largest weekly marché is in the town of St. Foy. I've been to this one before with Luisa W and today was Joe's turn to take a trip around the great sights and aromas.

The first thing I had to buy was a bunch of these stunning multi-colored tulips, sold by a charming young couple who were embarrassed to be included in my photo.

We found beautiful thick white asparagus and fresh fava beans, called "feves" here. Some shallots went into the shopping bag too. At the butcher's stall we found tiny whole quails stuffed with foie gras, which we'll eat with the pavé de volaille, which are packets of chicken breasts, stuffed with sausage and wrapped in bacon. The woman who sells the petite goat cheeses was there so we bought two for our lunch.

I'm going to be cooking up quite the feast tonight. Bon appetit!

For Don Weinberger

Cute little car show in Duras today. Unfortunately it started to rain so the guys were all sitting inside the cars while the dripping spectators ogled these vintage beauties.

Triumph Stag with right hand drive.

Our favorite: wine delivery truck!

One man's trash . . .

Okay, so in the end, after three days of bagging up and throwing out, the house was nearly empty, but there were some treasures to be kept.

Blue enamel soup tureen:

Vintage mezzaluna:

Oil painting: 

Pastel:

Tuscan ceramics:

Our new house, part two

On Tuesday morning the team of junk haulers showed up about 8:30 ready to give it heck. Joe and I were still rummaging through closets, drawers and trunks, pulling out more things for the heave-ho pile. The best we can figure is that the grandfather died about six years ago and noone ever bothered to ckean out the house. His sweater and jacket were still hanging by the back door. His toothbrush and shaving equipment were still on the sink. His shoeshine kit was in the cupboard near the stairs.  So many things--once so useful and required--now in plastic sacks on the floor.

While the junk haulers did their thing, Joe and I headed into the garden to begin the work there. Such a lovely and peaceful spot, neglected since Nonno fell ill and couldn't care for it. The olive trees are too tall--missing some years of regular trimming. The grapes are a crazy tangle over a mish mash of pergolas made from old plumbing pipes, broom handles and door trim. The grass is a foot tall.

The two of us pick some jobs. We buy a string trimmer and Joe cuts the grass. I buy a kneeling pad and weed between the patio stones. I grab my clippers and start trimming the grape vines--removing anything that goes off in the wrong direction. We get out a ladder from the shed and get up on the old pergola to trim vines there. It's a tremendous amount of work and we're getting too old for this stuff, but there is a point after a couple of days when the yard is neat. The patio is free from weeds. It's a blank canvas ready for us to make it even more beautiful.

We find some old rickety steps at the back of the property. I climb up and discover a large terrace at the base of the travertine cliff that the ancient castle is perched upon. I verify that it's part of our property--it is. It looks over the garden, but also has far reaching views across the Val d'Orcia in one direction and out to Montalcino in the other. It's a magical spot to be transformed into a place to savor sunsets someday soon. I find a dead hedgehog there. It bothered me for a minute, then I realize I have hedgehogs in my garden. How cool is that!

Our new house

It's been a week since I left home for our vacation in Italy and France, but this is the first time I've had a chance to sit down in a quiet place and put my experiences into words. For those of you who've been waiting for a peep from me, I apologize, it's just that I can't remember a time I've been so busy--or so tired.

At this moment I am sitting, feet up in my living room, with a glass of rosé in Duras, France. It's quiet here. The neighborhood kids just ungrouped, stopped bouncing balls in the street and (yay!) headed home for the night. Joe and I enjoyed an array of fresh local charcuterie and goat cheese from the butcher down the block. Now he's upstairs on a conference call and I am staring at the 6 by 9 screen of my iPad hoping to get my thoughts down before they leave me. We have no further plans tonight and I am fine with that.

Last Monday morning, we visited the new house in Castiglione d'Orcia. This was Joe's first visit and naturally I hoped the house would charm him as it had me a few months ago. But, sometimes things don't go as well as we hope. The house visit was a disaster. The former owners left it full of garbage, bad smells and endless piles of junk. Joe hit his head on a doorway, then later hit his head going down the stairs. We left there heading to the Real Estate closing very disappointed and upset.

During the car ride, Debora called the broker/owner to tell him the condition of the house and he quickly sprung into action to hire a team to clear out the mess the next morning at his expense. Still, first impressions are so important and this one had been blown. 

Before the closing we were invited to join the broker as well as the sellers of the house for lunch at the lovely La Grotta in Montepulciano. Unfortunately our disappointment over the condition of the house cast a fog over the lunch. Still, we enjoyed hearing about the history of the place, including that the seller Signora Fiorella Giomarelli (great name!) was born in the house 70 years ago and the property goes back to her great grandfather, though it could have been in the family even longer than that. The first floor, we learned, was originally an oil mill--a frantoio--where the locals brought their olives to be pressed. 

After lunch we went to the closing, handed over some big checks, and said goodbye. The sellers were emotional to be saying arrivaderci to their Nonno's house and took pictures of all of us together. 

We bought two big boxes of large trash bags and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening back at the house--our house--bagging up crap. By 10 o'clock we were exhausted and starving and doubted we'd find anything good to eat, but the little cafe at the foot of the castle was still lit and serving food. We ate this with some good local wine and felt like we'd gone to heaven.

We brought bed linens and towels from the other house and spent the night at the new place.

Jacksonville, day two

Joe left early to attend some meetings and I was left to my own devices. No problem. I'm good at entertaining myself.

After breakfast and the newspapers, I went downstairs to check out and leave my bag with the bell captain. The hotel had a free shuttle service, which we took to the restaurant last night. I took it this morning to the Cummer Art Museum, which I had read about while researching Jacksonville.

The museum is on the property of the original Cummer mansion, owned by lumber barons in the early years of the last century. The Cummers were instrumental in creating the parks and open spaces in Jacksonville and Mrs. Cummer also created an incredible riverside oasis for herself, designed with the help of the biggest names in landscape design--like Olmsted. These formal gardens: English, Italian, and Olmsted are well-preserved and open to the public as part of the museum.

Mrs. Cummer's needlework version of her Italian garden.

It was hard to be in a city with a basketball tourney and not include that in my day. I called a cab and took it out to the Sports Complex, where the activities were located in the Veterans Memorial Arena. I bought a ticket and found myself a great seat for the Alabama vs. LSU game. LSU won by eight points and I was most amazed by the tiger-patterned shoes their head coach was wearing. She was about 6'1" without the heels, but at least 6'5" with them. Men basketball coaches work very hard, but women do the same job AND wear crazy stilt shoes.

Jacksonville, day one

I haven't tagged along on one of Joe's countless business trips since 1990 when he had to spend the week of my 30th birthday in Monterey, California. That was a fantastic trip and I have some lovely memories celebrating my birthday there.

Hard to believe it's been 25 years since that last time, but this week I decided to tag along on his trip to Jacksonville, which is just a three hour drive from Beaufort.

We arrived at our downtown hotel in the afternoon and were quite pleased to have a big room on the 11th floor with a great view of the St. John's River. After settling in we decided to take a walk around the city to see what's what. 

Our impressions of the downtown area were not good. There are several giant office towers--mostly occupied by banks, a few restaurants, a couple of seedy bars and lots of homeless folks. The area had some interesting architecture, many historic buildings, but so many were abandoned or slated for the wrecking ball. We had hoped to find a wine bar, but struck out and after an hour of hiking in the heat, headed back to the Hyatt to see if we could score a cold beverage.

The people watching opportunities in the hotel lobby were great as the SEC womens basketball tourney was in the city this week and we had five of the teams staying in our Hyatt. I've never seen so many gorgeous and TALL women in one place. We found the bar, ordered a snack and a cocktail and enjoyed the river views and amazon women milling about.

I premade a dinner reservation at a restaurant called The Wine Cellar, which turned out to be quite good. They had an entire wall made of wine corks, which inspired me to keep collecting them. One oddity was we could see the outside seating area through the window next to our table. At one point a small raccoon was sitting on top of the outside bar. We could see his mom sitting in the crotch of a tree and another small one hanging around her.  Our waiter Wayne, a true "good-ole boy" told us about his efforts to trap the raccoons and then release them in a nearby park on his way home from work. Sure enough, while we sat there, the Havahart trap sprung and one of the raccoons had been caught. Wayne said it was his fourth one that week. He seemed very proud of himself.