Country Living

After many years in Hong Kong, I am a city girl at heart. I love the energy of a city, the bright lights and the rhythm, the restaurants, bars and shops. But every now and again, there is also a real joy in coming to my house in the country and doing something totally different.
When I am in Florence, I work for hours and hours in the office, staring at the computer screen, or in meetings, talking endlessly about various things. Often when I arrive at work it is dark, and when I leave, dark again. It is not much of an outdoor lifestyle.
But when I come to Marche, everything changes. The country speed is totally different, and, very enjoyable at times!
My days here start with the sun coming through the curtains to wake me up. I deliberately turn off the alarm and leave the shutters open so that it is the warmth and the light that stir me, and not the electronic cuckoo that has that pleasure the rest of the time.
I stroll up to town for breakfast, and a natter with the baker and the man in the bar who makes a cappuccino without even asking for me. And then ponder about how to fill the day.
When I reflect when I am here in the mountains, I realise that there are some things in life that I have missed out learning about, and they seem to be things that are difficult to understand if you do not have the inside track.
I am not a golfer for example, although I can whack a hockey ball, so how different can it be? But it is not a world that I am a part of, or have an access into.
I am not a computer gamer - I am guessing Guitar Hero doesn't count (I love it! but don't own it. But who can resist the chance to make like a rock star with the riff from Stairway to Heaven - its air guitar for techies!)
Nor am I a gardener. Although the difference about gardening is that a) I own a garden so I really need to learn and b) I actually really enjoy it - even though many of the things I buy die within a few months.
I planted a row of rose trees on the edge of the garden some years ago, and from 6, was down to 4. What was once a solid line looked more like perforations. There was a need to fill in the gaps.
With this in mind, yesterday I set off to the garden centre. I can spend hours in the garden centre, hoping that another turn around the plants will help me to absorb some knowledge so that when I get back it is slightly easier to know what I have to do. I found one of the garden centre employees for advice. A man in his 60s with few teeth, gnarled hands and a baseball cap not only looked the part, but was smiling at everyone, so seemed a good bet to ask. "Rose trees" I asked him. At which he indicated the golf cart parked nearby (unnecessary- it wasn't far - but very fun, especially as the driver, on request, went the long way round up and down the hills). On arrival at the trees, we debated the ideal choice for me to take away. In the end I settled on 2 yellow rose trees, which are already in bloom so bring some much needed colour to the side of the garden. The man explained that I needed to make sure that I removed all the roots of the dead trees, or the new ones would be affected from the roots upwards.
So on getting home, I changed into my best gardening gear, and went out in the sunshine to start digging.
The soil here is solid clay, and quite revolting. The roses seem to like it, but it is almost impossible to shift as the spade gets clogged with gloop as soon as it hits the ground.
About 2 hours later, I had successfully dug one hole, and was well on my way with the next when I saw a shadow pass in front of the sun. Someone had come to have a look.
I looked up and pushed the hair out of my eyes (at the same time leaving a smear of grey clay over my cheek) and saw the priest from the church on the corner. "Did you do this?" he asked me, gesturing at the hole.
At this moment, I had one foot down it, so was up to mid calf in mud and clay, the spade was in my hand, I had a recent smear of clay on my cheek and a large blob on my t-shirt (still not sure how that got there!)
"err, yes" i replied.
I was expecting at this point the lesson. The townspeople here in Marche are lovely. They think me rather eccentric I imagine, as I come here on my own and do unfeminine things like dig in the garden, but nonetheless they are always ready to share advice. Normally when someone stops when I am mid-chore, it is to tell me that I am not doing it the right way.
So I was a little surprised when the priest just said "Brava" (like well done) and smiled and moved along.
By the end of the day my face was pink from the sun (the first real sun I have been out in this year) and I was aching all over from the digging. But there are two small yellow rose trees brightening up the side of the garden that make the effort all seem worthwhile.
Now if only I can get them to live....