I do believe in routines without which I, in particular, am likely to lapse into a somnolescent state venturing into that never-never land of utter disorganisation and chaos. This is particularly important here in an Italian summer when by the time it’s eight o’clock it’s almost too hot to do anything except stretch a hand and grasp a cup of strong caffè.
By the time morning peeps its rosy dawn into my bedroom window I am ready for whatever action I can muster.
First (regrettable) is a dose of pills I have been forced to take ever since the heart surgeries I had to undergo at the start of 2020.
Second it’s Duolingo. And what language am I learning? On Sundays its French followed on Mondays by German and Tuesdays by Latin. These are all languages I am supposed to have learned in the past, largely in stuffy classrooms, but it’s good to go over them again and find out how much I still retain (or have forgotten.). Then on Wednesdays and for the remaining weekdays it’s Welsh. Welsh? I first started learning the iaith paradwys in the 1990’s of the last millennium at London’s wonderful City Lit. Why? Because at the time we were looking after a Welsh cottage in Powys and felt we should make concessions to the local culture. Actually hardly anyone spoke Welsh as a first language there and we had to go to that centre for endangered languages, Nant Gwrtheyrn in the Lleyn peninsula, to be in a part of Cymru where Welsh was widely spoken. I should also add we have Welsh ancestry on my father’s mother’s side and I think that’s why I have taken to this beautiful Celtic tongue in a consistent way.
A language for too long neglected, I returned to Welsh after being ticked off by a Welsh-speaking couple we met on our holiday to China some years back. I could hardly remember to say ‘Bore Da’ any more then . I think a little improvement has since taken place.
After the language lesson it’s time to have a coffee con latte and a piece of toast which is usually made of flour supplied courtesy of our local Penny Market superstore. The munificent store supplies us with sunflower, ciabatta and multi-grain varieties and they all make superb staffs of life. (I, of course, cheat by using a bread-making machine).
My breakfast is eaten to the sound of RAI Radio 3, that confusing mixture of news, political discussion classical and popular music offered by Italian radio.
By this time it’s getting on to seven o’clock and the sun is starting to hot up the earth. Time to get out and do some gardening. This consists mainly of watering our little orto or kitchen vegetable garden and doing some strimming with my fantastic battery-powered strimmer. Since each battery last barely more than twenty minutes this task is happily curtailed for me before it starts becoming strenuous.
Bath/shower follows to wipe off that sweat before the day’s official business starts.
What will it be this morning? Let’s consult the calendar on my cell phone…..ah, a choice between an appointment at the post office and a dip in our local river. I think I know what I’ll choose…
(Now I don’t think this fellow is one of ours!)