There can be no getting away from it: this Christmas season has been permeated – for all who pay attention to the media – by the evil of war. The Pope pleas for peace, secret negotiations take place, humanitarian crises get even more inhumane. There is no end to it except by disconnecting one from the mediatic sclerosis.

We try to switch off mentally by enjoying as much as possible our season of goodwill, by indulging in little feasts and merry tipples, by delighting in the crisp season’s walks. But for each of these the ghastly reverse comes to mind. For every slice of pudding there are those huddled masses starving in the midst of war. For every glass of brandy there are those dying of disease through lack of clean water. For every winter walk in pinewoods there are those prisoners unable to escape the raining of bombs onto their barbed-wire fenced mounds of concrete rubble.

Yet, in front of the horrific reality we are constantly having to face before our telescreens, the Israeli – Hammas war (or is it now a massacre?) is full of mysteries.

First, why attack a young persons’ pop concert rave in the middle of a desert instead of attempting to destroy the opponents’ military strength and organization? There is, however, a pattern among Islamic terrorists to attack music festival venues. We have seen this particularly in the Paris Bataclan and in Manchester’s Ariana Grande concert. It’s well known that where extreme Islamists rule the roost, music is banned, women are burkared, marriages are forced and dancing forbidden. So, seeing a whole lot of liberally dressed and minded young people enjoying themselves at a pop concert must be anathema to those fanatic killjoys who can only think of the annihilation of these events. Music is s light to the soul after all.

Second, why did the IDF not have found out about Hammas’ huge network of tunnels in time? With the multi-million pound investment in Israel’s state of the art defence technology it would have been a synch to have aimed infra-red night-vision cameras onto the Gaza strip which, after all, comprises an area barely the size of Lucca’s metropolitan district.

Furthermore, personal connections, spies, interrogations, tremor detectors could all have been used to spill the beans on the extent and range of the tunnels. Just quantifying the funds and supplies entering Gaza from investigated sources would have given the game away…a game which began in earnest in 2007 when Hammas was (presumably legally) elected into power. Where did the funds come from anyway? Were they diverted from those allocated for the benefit of Gaza’s citizens for education, social services and health.

Third, why throw out the baby with the bathwater? For every supposed Hammas chief killed tens if not hundreds of innocent citizens have been killed. It just doesn’t make for good public relations for a nation whose people have known what it’s like for their families to have been eliminated en mass not even eighty years ago.

Of course, behind all this apocalyptic scenario there are gruesome interests at work on all sides ranging from Iran to Saudi Arabia to Israel itself. Money, greed, power count more than humanitarianism, reconciliation, dialogue.

Less than ten years ago we visited a country that, while having its borders circumscribed by the maelstrom of the surrounding conflicts, is, in my opinion like a Switzerland in the centre of the Second World War. The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan is a model of tolerance to be followed, a path towards a solution. It is always having to pick up the pieces of any conflict that springs in that part of the world. While visiting Jordan in 2014 I was reminded of my previous visit to that beautiful country. It was in the spring of 1967 and old Jerusalem was then part of the kingdom of Jordan. We reached Amman and visited its Roman theatre.

We crossed the river where John baptised Jesus and reached the Dome of the Rocks. We were surrounded by all those sites which have resonance to those familiar with the Bible: the Sepulchre, Golgotha, the Mount of Olives. Only a wall separated us from Israel but we were told that all the major sites associated with the three monotheistic religions were on our side of that wall.

That futile war of 1967 was followed sadly by so many other equally futile ones. Jordan was unable to defend its neutrality and became involved in the turmoil. Losing its left bank to Israel it had to reconstruct itself and has remained a nation which offers hope to all around it.

Thank God for Jordan! How is it that a nation in which different ethnicities and religions can coexist with each other is flanked by others in which these values are flatly denied?

In my dreams I see a truly Holy Land, a land which is proud of not taking sides with any other, a land in which east and west banks are as one, where Jerusalem is the capital, not of one nation or even two, but of the entire world, where a universal religious synchretism provides an enduring basis for world peace.

Can this be just a dream? A dream can always become reality if one has the faith to believe in it, if one works hard for that belief to endure, if one infuses it with universal love.

So yet another Christmas has come to us and gone from us. A New Year now awaits us and, who knows, what it will bring to our lives. All we wish is that the world will start to become a fairer place and that Peace may find a foothold in more parts of this troubled planet so that mankind may redirect time and energy to protecting Mother Earth.

Our Christmas festivities have a pattern we have traditionally set down for some years now. Midnight Mass was celebrated in the beautiful neo-classical chapel of the Convent of the Angel founded by the Passionist fathers and now the home of the Montegral Music School.

This was the night’s program:

Our Christmas lunch consisted of Sandra’s amazing lasagne, followed by turkey and ending with my fruit Madeira cake which bakes wonderfully well in our Nordica cucina economica. (Aga’s Italian equivalent).

Of course, presents were opened, none of which were given by us but all from our cats Carlotta, Cheeky and Archie.

We had guests after Boxing Day and enjoyed a Christmas pudding (located in Barga) with them.

Christmas films included my rediscovery of that greatest of all, Charlie Chaplin, especially his later films including ‘City Lights’, Modern Times’ and the wonderful ‘Limelight’.

We did a bit of wooding, a lot of washing up and even more relaxing. We even received a postal Christmas card from my cousin which was a treat. Otherwise we produced our own cards and, of course, I wrote my festivities poem which is as follows:

You are my Christmas my rebirth;
From you all new hopes spring.
You are my wife, my lover’s earth.
All this planet can sing.

From this shortest day springs new hope
From winter’s darkness light
And all from you my horoscope
My ultimate delight.

The tree colours our little lives,
The crib brings a new hope.
We sit and await what arrives
What news, what brighter scope?

A year past. Another to come
And will we see again
The spangled tree, the star
The carol’s familiar refrain?

We can but believe it’s all true
And in the night’s darkness
And the day’s brighest blue
Hold fast in endlessness.

The going felt so tough:
We left our home behind
The pockmarked road was rough
The world looked so unkind

We headed south, saw sights
We hoped we’d never find.
Empty streets with no lights:
Eyes of death and the blind.

A massacre there’d been
Of innocent children
Written about and seen:
No conciliation.

Small white bags enclosed them,
A generation gone.
And no-one to condemn
When each is just a pawn.

There’s no room at the inn,
There’s no room anywhere,
There’s nowhere for my kin,
It’s so bloody unfair!

The road leads to nowhere:
The gate to freedom’s shut.
There’s only dank despair
For my heart’s deeply cut.

Could it ever be so
That in these lands sprang hope?
That a new life could grow
With vision and with scope?

Like rain the bombs again
Fall on stone, fall on flesh,
Like Herod’s swords slash my brain
World’s end appears afresh.

Yet can redemption die?
Will I see a gold beam?
Can it still be, damned lie?
Mid the rubble I dream.

A vision of angels
Comes to my broken mind.
Before more burials
Hope and goodwill for all mankind?

FLP

(Peter Paul Rubens: The Massacre of the Innocents.)

***

(Traduzione letteraria)
Senza occhi a Gaza

La via sembrava così dura:
Abbiamo lasciato la nostra casa alle spalle
La strada butterata era accidentata,
Il mondo sembrava così crudele.

Ci siamo diretti a sud, abbiamo visto cose
Speravamo di non vederle mai.
Strade vuote senza luci:
Occhi della morte e dei ciechi.

C’era stato un massacro
Di bambini innocenti
Scritto e visto:
Nessuna conciliazione.

Li racchiudevano piccoli sacchetti bianchi,
Una generazione scomparsa.
E nessuno da condannare
Quando ognuno è solo una pedina.

Non c’è posto nella locanda,
Non c’è spazio da nessuna parte,
Non c’è nessun posto per i miei parenti,
È così maledettamente ingiusto!

La strada non porta da nessuna parte:
La porta della libertà è chiusa.
C’è solo un’umida disperazione
Perché il mio cuore è profondamente ferito.

Potrebbe mai essere così
Che in queste terre cresceva la speranza?
Che una nuova vita potesse fiorire
Con visione e scopo?

Come se piovessero di nuovo le bombe
Cadute sulla pietra, cadute sulla carne,
Come se le spade di Erode mi squarciassero il cervello
La fine del mondo appare di nuovo.

Ma la redenzione può morire?
Vedrò un raggio d’oro?
Può essere ancora così, dannata menzogna?
In mezzo alle macerie sogno.

Una visione degli angeli
Mi viene nella mente distrutta.
Prima di altre sepolture
Speranza e buona volontà per tutta l’umanità?

FLP

(Peter Paul Rubens: La strage degli innocenti.)

Our plot of land is frequented by several nocturnal visitors, luckily of the four-legged variety. We have no option but to offer them hospitality as not even a scarecrow would frighten them. A few months ago we purchased a motion-sensitive night camera which can take both pictures and movies. We tied the apparatus onto a post holding up our washing line and eagerly awaited to view the results the following morning.

The filming showed that there was a preponderance of boars and foxes in our field, usually around three or four and largely appearing between 1 and 4 am.
Less frequent were deer. Rarest of all were pine-martens. I would gladly love to see more of these two species in our territory as they are rather prettier to look at than wild hogs and, most importantly, cause far less damage to the area.

Boars, in their search for roots and bulbs, can dig up the area as effectively as any mechanical excavator and, apart from shooting the damn things – an activity best left to the local hunters during the season which runs from early autumn to late spring – the best solution is to fence the whole area in.

With the advent of winter we have noticed far fewer boars around. Maybe hunters have become ever more efficient in shooting their quarry. However, damage to our field has continued, albeit on a different scale. This time we’ve noticed large holes dug into the grounds which are wonderful ways for getting tripped up in. We decided to investigate and to our shock horror found that the digging was not done by a wild pig variety but by the largest rodent of them all and the one covered by animal armour of the most lethal kind. Yes, the Italian quill-crested porcupine up to a metre in length and weighing around fifteen kilos.

There it was, usually in a band with two or three others, furtively digging up bulbs and roots round our fruit trees. Our night-films showed this activity to a tee. What to do? And why did the ‘istrice’ or ‘porcospino’ as the animal is called in Italy suddenly appear now after having kept a low profile before?

There are three solutions to avoid having our land turned into a pock-marked natural battlefield. First is clearly to fence in the affected area making sure that the barrier goes some distance underground as well. Second is to have a ferocious mastiff scouting the area. Third, if one can’t beat them, then join them! Surprisingly porcupines can make good pets! Imagine the wondrous looks one could gather from passers-by as one takes little Quilly Queen for a walk in the public gardens.

Zoologically there are two main species of porcupine: Old world and New world. The Old World porcupines belong to the family Hystricidae, and the New World porcupines belong to the family Erethizontidae. They are not closely related but both have found themselves useful to the human populations which surround them. The New World porcupines have provided decorative quills for American Indian headdresses and ritual clothing. They have not provided food, however, as their meat has been described as revoltingly malodorous and evil-tasting. The Old-world porcupines do not, as a general rule, provide an ingredient for an Italian pasta Ragu. However, much further east, in Vietnam they can be a tasty item at feasts among mountain peoples.

So there we are. We have become unwillingly befriended by another forest species: the Italian (and also native to sub Saharan Africa) crested ‘istrice’ or ‘porcospino’. What solution shall we use to challenge their increasing predominance over our territory. Or has it always been their territory? At least we won’t have to worry about weapons that are more lethal than those quills (which can become very painful when inserted in one’s skin because of their barbs which resist efforts to extract them.).

However, I don’t think I would like to become the victim of a (backward) charging porcupine with all its many-barbed quills on full alert.

And yet…all animals can teach us important lessons. And the porcupine is no exception. No wonder it has appeared as a totem spirit animal among native American peoples. For porcupines can teach that one can be “hard on the outside and soft on the inside” at the most critical times. Their external armour has an essential purpose: that of weeding out those energies that are negative. Yet their inner world remains open to the touch of a sensitive soul and truest, purest love.

It was all go, ho, ho at Bagni di Lucca Villa as our little town celebrated its contribution to the Valle di natale events. The difficult times in past Christmases due to the pandemic seem far away although we have to be reminded that COVID is still very much with us. A schoolteacher friend has had to stay indoors with the dreaded lurgy and tells me that her school is rife with it, although, clearly not on the same scale as that horrible time in 2020 when we were not even allowed to venture into the adjoining borough without being being arrested.

All that was forgotten in the happy melee of Christmassy stalls from our local traders, from Santa’s audience chamber in the town hall, from the cuddly pack of alpacas, from the vin brulé and pancakes, from the angels on stilts and from the all around smiles and greetings from a happy crowd.

Yet there was a time for reflection, for remembering those who were with us last year and who, so sadly, are no longer with us this year. Roberto Raggianti led a candle-flecked tribute to Bagni di Lucca’s pro-loco president Valerio Ceccarelli who left our earthly sphere just a few days ago.

One of Valerio’s poems was read and a promise made among our band of poets to meet up in the New Year for an evening dedicated to Valerio’s memory and especially his finely delicate poetry which brings to my mind echoes of the Tarquinian poet Vincenzo Cardarelli.

I met up with Valerio’s remaining son. (His other son had tragically died in a road accident in 2009). Since Paolo said what I wrote about his dad summed him up well I am including it in this post.

“Casinò

La vita è come un gioco di scacchi.
Questo lo sappiamo
Eppure quante mosse sbagliate
Si fanno.
Guardiamo attorno e perdiamo un pezzo dopo l’altro.
Tu Valerio eri un alfiere per noi:
Portavi lo striscione per la nostra comunità.
Senza affanno ti muovevi con classe, eleganza.
Portavi a fine le nostre partite con onore.
Amico con nobile visione
Ragruppavi pittori, scrittori, fotografi, campioni, visionari, pensatori sotto le tue ali
Nella tua casa preferita
il casinò,
il nido eccelso del gioco di vita.
Eppure, tra le sue pareti celesti,
I suoi gigli miriadi,
l’oro delle sue cornici
riflessi negli specchi argentati
hai deciso di fare un ultimo gioco,
Un gioco che tutti noi dobbiamo perdere:
Contro il cavaliere nero,
Contro gli angeli della notte,
Contro la legge della nostra terra.
Un ultimo gioco che solo nel nostro cuore hai vinto con l’amore che non conosce confini, che vince l’odio, che riscalda la nostra vita, che non ti farà mai scordare.”

(Literal English translation follows):

Casinò

Life is like a game of chess.
We know this
Yet how many wrong moves we make.
We look around and lose one piece after another.
You Valerio were a standard bearer for us:
You carried the banner for our community.
Without worry you moved with class, elegance.
You finished our games with honour.
Friend with noble vision
You gathered painters, writers, photographers, champions, visionaries, thinkers under your wings
In your favorite home
the Casinò,
the sublime nest of the game of life.
Yet, within its celestial walls,
Its myriad lilies,
the gold of its frames
reflected in the silver mirrors
you decided to play one last game,
A game we all have to lose:
Against the black knight,
Against the angels of the night,
Against the law of our land.
A last game that only in our hearts you won with the love that knows no boundaries,
that conquers hate,
that warms our lives,
that will never let you be forgotten”

Living in a relatively small mountain community also means that a death is too often the death of someone one knew, someone one often met up with on a regular basis and had a chat with.

This year had been somewhat harsh regarding not just people that we knew but also friends and relatives. On my wife’s side of the family this has been a year of grievous losses, all the more because in the majority of cases they have been so unexpected: it’s especially heartbreaking when a death has occurred at a young age and where a road accident has been the reason.

Of course we all know we are going to die. But when? And where? And how? These are the questions that truly lead to painful cogitation.

Valerio Ceccarelli, the president of Bagni di Lucca’s pro-loco, the borough’s organization for arranging events and publicity, stood at the centre of Bagni di Lucca’s public relations. In particular Valerio was instrumental in getting our wonderful early nineteenth century casino to be the hub of many important occasions.

Several of these have formed part of my posts: for example, the Shelley Project, the Fini photographic exhibition, the arts shows and the chess tournaments involving grand master Gasparov.

We would often pass the casino on our way to Villa and find Valerio standing outside the elegant façade meeting visitors and arranging events. Not only was he an energetic organiser but he was a versatile photographic documenter of local events, few of which escaped his rigorous attention. In this respect it seems only the other day that I was chatting to Valerio about his new SLR of which he was particularly proud.

Casting my mind back I realise I’d known Valerio for many, many years. Among my photographs is this one taken in 2012 when a book of his poems with illustrations by Kety Bastiani was presented at the town hall.

With its dedication this lovely volume now has an added poignant place in my library.

Valerio had a multi-faceted personality: organizer, advisor, photographer, co-operator. These sides of him came together in star qualities which are becoming ever rarer in these ego-flaunting times. Among these were his honesty, his honorableness and his humility. One example is enough to demonstrate this. When in 2012 I won two prizes in a poetry competition held at Bagni di Lucca Valerio congratulated me although I realised my entries had placed his own contribution to the competition in second place.

I think that Valerio was fully resigned to his own personal and family hardships which, besides health issues, involved the death of a beloved son. I enjoyed reading his maxims on facebook. I felt secure in knowing that he was at the helm of so many events in our borough. I was glad that I had met and known Valerio and could trust him as a friend.

It’s going to be a different and surely a sadder world without Valerio. They say no-one is indispensable but with the disappearance of this amazing person it’s going to be a very hard act to follow.

Goodbye dear Valerio. At least you’ll be able to join your son and the memory of your generous character will continue to warm our hearts.

2023 for us and our family of cats has passed relatively placidly. No very unusual holidays and no major accidents thankfully. The only dramatic things that have happened to us is that we finally succumbed to COVID-19 and had a short stay in Lucca’s main hospital before we managed to escape not without having to have a major blood transfusion because of some haematological problem. Thank goodness we live in Italy’s Lucchesia which boasts a health service which might be the envy of other parts of Europe. So we have since passed the year in relatively good health, particularly important at our age which has touched seventy five this year.

We have attended a wide variety of events: the Viareggio carnival, Easter festivities, costume displays in which we took part at the Villa Reale di Marlia, chestnut festivals and living Nativities.

We even managed a visit to old blighty in July. Riding on the Elizabeth Line for the first time we visited a variety of places including Brentwood and its cathedral, Boston Manor House and several fine arts exhibitions the capital offers. Best of all we managed visits to our sets of cousins who have moved to delightful locations in England’s garden, Kent.

Our bright, but often torrid, Mediterranean summer was enhanced by the arrival of a former work-colleague, now living in Australia. Guests can always add to visits to places of interest. We re-explored our area in her company particularly enjoying the appenine and apuan mountain ranges. Since our former place at Longoio remains unsold, our friend had.the advantage of having a whole house to herself. Indeed her stay there has encouraged us to consider letting the property.

One of our favourite seaside places remains Marina di Vecchiano. Together with fabulous river swimming in the Lima and Piadine rivers and with some fine walks, including one to the great traveller Maraini’s woodland retreat, we managed to fully enjoy the natural playground of our area.

https://wp.me/p8ybdb-bzs

Culturally we availed ourselves of some of the fine theatres our area offers and among nights out we attended performances of two Vivaldi operas.

This year we sadly bid farewell to some unforgettable persons who inspired our lives. Among them were Wendy, Maureen and Fabio.

The cycle of nature is never more apparent than when one lives here. The seasons pass yet, disturbingly, spring and autumn seem to be ever shorter with summers ever hotter.

Our new home at La Costa is now, after two years and three Christmases, not so new but we remain glad to have moved and, among other jobs here, have enjoyed getting the garden into a less wild state.

Do people still read blogs? Looking over past years clearly we’ve had less ‘likes’. However, we still enjoy writing our posts even if it is just for ourselves. Indeed, re-reading our older contributions, some of which now date back ten years ago when we first started keeping a blog, can sometimes be a somewhat sensational experience as, indeed, is looking at our old photos which we are now spending some time in cataloguing.

As the year draws to its close with the world suffering major turmoils and, sadly, wars we each have to find a little place of peace in our lives to avoid being infected by global destructive influences.

We are lucky that we can find this relatively easily in our little part of the Tuscan mountains, although do not believe it is always a shan-gri-la especially with the winter winds biting our surrounding forests and our roads cut by landslides. However, we are able to enjoy the finest essentials of life here: the pure water of our streams, the timber providing our heartening evening fires, the presence of good people, the amusing company of our cats Carlotta, Cheeky and Archie, the sun which can shine brightly in all seasons, and, above all, the love that we can still give each after over forty-six years marriage.

May we take this opportunity of wishing our readers a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year trusting that 2024 will bring much promise and hope of better things.

Francis and Sandra

There’s a YouTube snippet video showing the reaction of a car driver when he starts hearing Christmas music: he opens the car door and bails himself out. Of course this may seem a slightly extreme action to take but it does describe what many of us may feel when bombarded with seasonal festive songs in supermarkets, at service stations, in public lavatories, in office elevators or in suburban streets at this time of year. The problem of muzack is even more infecting as December 25th approaches.

I haven’t opened the car door as yet to throw myself into a bottomless ravine (although we have plenty of them in this mountaineous part of the world) but do like to listen to my own kind of sounds relating to the birth of Christ.

First in my choice are the Christmas carols both old and new ranging from the exquisite Coventry carol to some of John Rutter’s marvellous creations. Of all these dance tunes (for that is what these carols were originally designed for) my favourite remains ‘In the Bleak.Mid-winter’ with words by Christina Rossetti and various musical interpretations. Here is Holst’s version:

https://youtu.be/cBCYZ9jIJkI?si=u3SYwCULZtr8ALJ4

Ranging to longer works I can’t let slip this time of music without those two kingpins of the Nativity repertoire: Bach’s Christmas Oratorio and Handel’s Messiah both because they are sublime works and because, thanks to our music teacher at school, we performed them during Advent.

Another large-scale piece of Christmas music we have sung in is Saint Saens’ Christmas oratorio. This time, however, it was in Italy at the Franciscan monastery of Borgo a Mozzano. It’s a charming work written when the composer was barely out his teens.

Some may regard this one as ‘coca-cola santa’- kitch but I think it’s one of the best ‘popular’ Christmas offerings ever produced. I refer to the Carpenters 1978 album. Richard’s arrangements are second to none and Karen’s voice is as melting as ever. Continuing the ‘pop’ interpretation of nativity songs Celine Dion’s rendering of ‘O Holy Night’ – by the composer incidentally of the ballet ‘Giselle’ – is quite breathtaking.

There is always a way of avoiding hearing saccharine renderings of the seasons songs which does not involve jumping out of one’s car (or escaping from the supermarket without accomplishing one’s shopping). And that is to stick on one’s cell phone headphones and listen to something like this:

https://youtu.be/p6m0NfrEn_k?si=Ihd4pcg2zjLvSZHs

May you enjoy your own Christmas listening!

I have two approaches to preparing a dish.

The first is to study the recipe well and then make sure all the ingredients required for its fulfillment are ready and correct. I would not dream of starting on a shepherd’s pie, a Lancashire hotpot or a trifle if the items for its preparation were not there. Clearly this means logistical shopping.

The second is to scout around the kitchen and see what is there to concoct a dish. It’s amazing what one can find.

These days we have relied very much on the second method and have come up with some interesting results. For instance, yesterday we combined pastina, the miniature pasta used for making broths, with basmati rice to produce a dish we delighted in when in Egypt, kosharee.

Today we lacked a desert for our lunch but soon discovered it was there in the darkest recesses of our kitchen ready for our delectation.

First was a bowl of Bird’s custard made from a powder smuggled across the English channel.

I remember the time when this product had a competitor with a label portraying Shakespeare. It was called… yes you’ve guessed it… Bard’s custard powder. I think it didn’t last too long on our store shelves.

Second was this jar of strawberry jam.

Third was this tasty cinnamon biscuit only available here during Christmastide courtesy of the german branch of Lidl.

Fourth was a dash of spray cream.

Combined they produced this spontaneous dessert.

If our off-the-cuff gastronomic creations please then they get written up and find a place in our home recipe book. It’s now filling up quite nicely with these semi-inventive dishes.

Sure recipe books are the bibles of cookery, especially Mrs Beeton’s but, after all, necessity is the mother of invention and not all of us are good at hunting that hare or catching that trout. This is particularly the case for spontaneous recipes. Better them than spontaneous combustion so spectacularly described by Dickens in his novel ‘Bleak House’.

With temperatures now approaching the sub zeros it’s essential to keep warm. During today’s cloudless day it’s possible to even bask for a while in the winter sun and enjoy the glistening spectacle of new-fallen snow on our appenines mountains.

However, come 16.00 it’s time to start thinking about lighting that living room fire.

More than that. How about some hot drink to warm ones belly? Hot cocoa is fine and we like to make a generous cup using ‘Ciobar’ with a splash of cream on top. However, we are in Italy and what better than concocting some mulled wine for an evening tipple. One doesn’t need any expensive main ingredient for this. No Chiantis or Morellinos need apply! In fact, the cheaper the plonk the better the result in my opinion. I go for a cardboard brick of ‘Vino Rosso’ at just a euro to which I add 100 grams of sugar,

4 short cinnamon sticks

Orange peel

and cloves

I mix up everything and then pour it in a saucepan to heat up the tincture.

Do not boil the wine! Just get it to a nice palate-warming temperature and the humblest vineyard product can taste like the ambrosia of the gods.

More than that, the liquid can truly give oneself courage to face another bleak midwinter evening where it is only the howls of the appenine wolves and the hooting of the owl which, as Keats so aptly wrote in the ‘Eve of Saint Agnes’, ‘for all his feathers is a-cold’, that keeps us company in the perils of the coming night.

And tomorrow morning? Let’s trust blue skies will appear after the morning’s valley mists have cleared and then the vernal sun will be tantalisingly warm for an hour or two before we start thinking again of lighting the fire and that glass of mulled wine.