Lex remarked in his last blog that he liked the fact that there were more stories, so here’s another.

6th November, 1978, Reggio Calabria.

Slept very badly, all the visits to say good bye, and the fuss, twelve hours research, intensive technical Italian, and a crazy sleepless night before, I suppose. Tuesday was true Italian. Having finished business about 4 p.m. decided the hairdresser was a must. Went off well chaperoned by ‘Auntie’ (a very frustrated spinster whose mother instinct is suffocating me). Hair coloured, started to rain and all electricity went off. Waited half an hour, freezing, then decided to call it a day and go back and dry off by the olive wood fire. Tottered back through pitch dark streets and we all crept round by one candle. Having got thoroughly cold, and Cosimo’s house not being the warmest, froze all night, the electricity came back at 4 a.m. apparently all Italy was in darkness.

Tuesday I went to the Marquis de Sbarco, a most able grower, with his wife, and had lunch with them. Was invited back next day, but otherwise engaged. I noted it needed courage to walk into a lorry driver’s caff in Italy or France, and have all the men covertly (or not) watching you. My sense of humour is bad, the restaurant today, men only of course, was called the Golden male chicken. The standard of living from the Marquis to Cosimo’s family is a major shock. The Marquis and wife highly educated, the peasants up to 8 years old if they are lucky; poverty and war. On Wednesday Auntie said ‘Don’t go out on business today, stay with us and chat’. Ye Gods. I had spent all Sunday with the women, no way I dared try any business, all the men congregate in the main square and bars.

I had managed a phone call to UK, major challenge, especially as they seemed to be demolishing the hotel round the phone booth. News was the closing of the ‘Times’, due to strikes, even the Italian papers mentioned it. And Italian gangsterism was hot news (news??). On the ferry across the Straits of Messina were two cars full of police and a wildly beautiful girl handcuffed. As we drew into port a fleet of Caribinierie came down to meet us, all with machine guns. It seemed superfluous, but afterwards I discovered she was high up in the infamous Red Brigade. If they had tried to ‘Spring’ her I would have been caught in the crossfire.

Anyway, my hotel restaurant was fabulous, never seen such an array of anti pasti (hors d’oeuvre). You could not get the range and quality of food in England, and certainly not at that price. And I was never bored or stuck out of the way, Maitre d’ and waiters always ready for a chat. An English woman travelling, alone, AND speaking Italian was a novelty. And I had turned into a red-head thanks to the hairdressing fiasco. Travellers tales anybody?

The Gardener

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