Comfort me with figs


I haven’t blogged much recently although I have every good intention about keeping it up – I like having a blog and I enjoy writing it when I actually get to it. But life and work got in the way quite a bit after I returned from New Zealand, and in any case I tend to find London life both hectic and stressful. So when I’m in London I get to a stage where I only think about what I want to say in a blog when I can’t sleep, and then when I’m awake the next day picks me up again and throws me into a new set of demands and I forget about it all again, until the next time I can’t sleep…

But right now I’m sleeping like a baby: indeed sleeping better than most of the babies I’ve ever known. I’m also dreaming a lot –elaborate story dreams that perplex me for hours after I wake, wondering what on earth that one was about (a very detailed dream about being in prison in Zimbabwe is just one example).

One good reason for presently sleeping well is that I’m on holiday in my favourite place in the world: Italy. We’re in an apartment on a little organic farm in the Umbrian hills, north of Orvieto, where we first came two years ago and had such a glorious time that we’re back again. It’s just as wonderful this time. The air is clear and scented with thyme and rosemary, the sun is shining, the swallows are swooping, the olive and fig trees are burgeoning, the pool is beckoning: happy happy days. It’s so easy to have delicious meals: tomatoes and basil warm from the garden, good bread baked in a wood oven, local cheese, and melons, figs and peaches out of a foodie’s dream…

I’m writing every morning, and in the afternoons we think about going to look at something wonderful. We don’t always go, though. Sometimes we just read, or pick more figs, or swim, or walk to an abandoned house nearby that we fantasize about buying.

Just look at these figs and you’ll probably understand why they are worth a journey all on their own.

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