Hello my lovely readers. It’s Jen and Jane (Fifi & Pixi Trixibelle from our former travels). We’ve just put our lives in the hands of a crazy Italian tour guide who has been issued with instructions to show us and our fellow companions the Cinque Terre region. For Fifi an extension of our previous visit, for Pixi a tad of familiarisation with her soon to be new home.
A minor setback…rain! Bucketing! When yesterday there was none, today necessitating brollies, raincoats, and hoodies and we have ’em all…just back in Florence. Fifi is NOT amused!
Two Nana raincoat purchases later, the vision of poor sad backpack bedraggled Fifi and Pixi quickly transgressed into fits of giggles and the need to emulate Quasi Modo…da bells! da bells!
While Fifi refuses to fight stairs in the pouring rain, Pix forges ahead to capture grey mist driven views of the usually vibrant hillside villages. Tiny softly muted houses clinging to cliff sides, boats bobbing in the turbulent harbour, fishermen waiting patiently for a break in the clouds, brightly coloured boats upturned and scattered across the rocks and slipway…the vision is beautifully raw, rugged and wild. Just imagine what it will look like on sunny days?
Fortunately, the day is saved by a lovely little crab linguini and a crisp white to wash it down in a little seaside restaurant, followed by Plan B…a visit to the pretty walled city of Lucca, which also happens to be the home of Pinnochio’s creator Carlo Lorenzini, better known by the pen name Carlom Collodi. Or his Mum’s home at least for apparently the jury’s still out on exactly which village can claim ownership. Bet ya didn’t know that!
A long, glorious, wet, majestic day filled with the richness and vibrance of both the Tuscan and Ligurian regions, wrapped up with a warm shower back in Florence followed by a hearty dish and robust red wine to warm the chilled bones on this, my last moments with my dear friend before she returns to Australia, and I return to this village as I commence my sojourn (with my trusty nana raincoat)
in heated hand gesturing argument. She walks away. He doesn’t follow…a relationship breakup with one witness…me. Tourists with brash American accents seeking off street leather outlets, gelato dripping down their arms. Mine’s in check.
Soldier’; monumental Memorials roll-calling the names of the thousands who can never be acknowledged with a cross or a headstone. Each site respectfully tended regardless of nationality interred, the Germans distinguished by grey crosses within a quiet field of their own. Like our own, they were just young men sent into the same bloody, senseless battles. Each one heartbreakingly young; seeing, experiencing and succumbing to horrors we can’t begin to imagine. But you probably know that anyway, a part of our ANZAC history…a raw, gut-wrenching sacrifice of human life.
