This has been a long time coming. Believe it or not, we've been so busy I haven't had time to write. Almost like we're normal people with normal jobs. Though thankfully not quite yet...
A few days after leaving the smoky pall of Delhi's streets we found ourselves chasing goats across a knobbly Italian hillside, gasping for breath and grasping for horns. But first, before I get carried away with tales of bucolic bliss, we must head south! Southwards and magically backwards in time, to a time before now, a time that was approximately eight weeks ago! To a plane hitting a Roman runway and a pair of vagrant Britishers being engulfed by a wave of reverse culture shock. Yes, Finn and Nic had re-entered Europe and they wanted cheese.
Blinking into the bright Roman sunlight we marvelled at the traffic that swept hushingly by, the streets free from smouldering piles of litter and the miraculous lack of pavement-dwelling livestock. We walked and walked through streets that appeared almost contrived in their 'distressed' beauty and a hundred piazzas that alone would normally be a town's main draw. We ate and drank wine and felt at home (albeit a slightly sunnier version of home).
Before coming to Italy we signed up with the organisation WWOOF which, if you don't already know, is a network of farms that host volunteers, providing them with food and board in exchange for labour. Our first farm was near Modena in the north of Italy and proved to be a rather lucky landing. We were housed in boutique luxury in an old farm house and fed four courses of delicious food every night from the restaurant kitchen. In exchange for such comforts we worked long days that involved building goat fences, chasing goats, clipping goat's nails. Less goaty pursuits included helping out in the restaurant, cutting lavender and picking almonds. Each morning we would walk the dogs up to the top of the hill where we would look down on the misty green valleys stitched with vineyards and olive groves, grinning stupidly at yet another surprising and joyful chapter of our epic year.
Our second placement was quite a different experience. Gone was the luxury and in was a wooden room and an old camp bed within earshot of a pair of snoring pigs. Dinner comprised entirely of ingredients grown organically on the farm, homemade cheese, the cured meat of the previous occupants of the sty and bread made from their own flour. But before eating, the family would sing a song. These songs whether Christian, Buddhist, Hindu or Native American were sung with gusto by the whole family. The table itself was surrounded by bookshelves and a great untidy stack of board games which provided the entertainment in the absence of computers, TVs or mobile phones. But there was not much time for entertainments, long hours were spent in the fields, in the felt-making kitchen or juicing grapes. They lead a hard but true life and one that we learnt much from.
I spent quite a lot of time digging massive holes in the ground (while Nic sieved grain in the granary) and it was back-breaking work. However, as I've found before with such labour, I finished the day with a feeling not unlike that following meditation, a sort of connection to everything, a state where food tastes better, water is heavenly and a shower like a rebirth. Not that showers came too often, water was precious and they were generally only enjoyed once or twice a week (or in the father's case perhaps monthly). All water was conserved, the run off from the taps being collected in small basins with which to flush the toilets.
The days started early, the sun would just be creeping above the mountains, turning the clinging clouds mauve and orange while the valleys were full of mist, distant farmsteads and villages rising out of it like islands from a milky sea. Though it was cold and our still warm beds called to us, it felt so good to greet such a day and to spend it, after so much idleness, properly working.
Part of our reasoning for this current chapter of our trip was to see if we could live in the countryside and leave behind the city life. We still don't know either way. After eight weeks or so of relative isolation we travelled to Florence where we helped set up a market stall selling produce from the farm and überhippy felt ware. Florence was hardly a bustling metropolis but it was good to be back surrounded by beautiful buildings, art and design. It was also good to meet other travellers again and talk the evenings away, swapping tales and card games.
We're now back at our original farm, house-, goat- and dog-sitting while the owners are on holiday. We have time to reflect and cook and walk and empty their cellar of wine. The other night, I collected dead wood from the forest and built a lovely fire upon which we cooked kebabs on sticks (as we'd learnt to do in Kyrgyzstan) and toasted flatbreads on the coals. We watched the embers die down and the night sky light up and, not for the first time this year, felt like the luckiest man alive (Nic had already gone in because her feet were cold and was probably tired of me banging on about the beauty of fire.)
We currently have no idea where we head next but we're happy to be back in more northern climes with the leaves turning red and the smell of snow in the air.
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