Hot August

Hot. Stinking hot, in fact. Indeed, it wouldn't be out of place to suggest, Bruce, that it's hot enough to boil a monkey's bum (a knowing nudge and wink to Monty Python adherents). As dry as dust, too, with a hot wind just to make it that smidgen drier.

At this point clichéd vernacular would normally require me to attest: "At least it's not humid." But unfortunately this provides no solace for a sweat-drenched gardener or tree-house builder who has to wear long pants to keep the biting flies off his legs.

On the windless days, clouds puff up into thunderheads, the air crackles with electricity, shadows darken the distant skies ... but it's all just a ruse - nothing happens. I'm surprised, with the lack of rain, that our plants have not simply said "To hell with this place" and died. They're actually still going - well, dragging, really - and some of them (the weeds, mainly) are positively flourishing.

Unfortunately, the heat does not dissipate household and garden tasks, and so - when my writing deadlines allow me a day or half-day - I take to the broiler outside and tackle a heat-inducing task. Like clearing out the back porch so that you don't trip over any one of a hundred stacked-up, metamorphosising "things" ... donning pore-less plastic gear to take on the wasp's nest right on a frequented path in the garden ... building a tree-house with (and for) HRH.

This last task has been both a joy and struggle (although thankfully the latter in lower measure). The heat and our differing opinions on what to do to secure the thing have produced a few beano disagreements, but the end product is nonetheless taking shape, and is - as a first effort on both our parts - quite a thing. Julius even slept overnight in it once the lower walls were up to prevent him rolling over mid-dream into the dark abyss. With just the roof and the deck remaining to be done, I'm hoping it accords some utility beyond the satisfaction of constructing it - we'll see. At some point I'll post some pictures of the finished article.

In the midst of the heat wave, the streets of our local village, Colmurano, were once again transformed for a weekend, this time for a national go-kart grand prix. Attracting top-class drivers from all over Italy, it was curious to see my normal routes play home to screeching rubber and squealing engines. Julius, of course, now wants one, but he's been told that he'll have to be satisfied with his dad's robust rendering on those hairpin bends, an assertion that elicits nothing but contempt from HRH, given his claim that said dad lacks any trace of a spirit of adventure.

The grand prix was somewhat out of the ordinary for this time of year. Italy is in the throes of shutting down for August, and every town, village, hamlet, and collection of more than one house is in festa mode. What's so pleasant about it all is that here they make no attempt to disguise their primary intent behind each festival - eating. This is what it all comes down to - life, the universe, and everything: they want to eat. Lots. Different things too - lentils with pork rind ... paparadelle with duck ... nettles ... And always with a passion that is unique, infectious, and nation-defining. Yes, August in the Italian countryside - I haven't experienced one yet (last year we were in southern Africa), so I'm looking forward to the phenomenon.

But right now I have to go - after all that food talking I'm starting to get a little peckish. I'll have to see what's on the festa menu in Cessapolombo tonight ...