What to buy in Tuscany/Rimini

In Rimini my sister finds a pair of leather boots lined with sheepskin for 39 euros, marked down from 120 euros. She is pleased with her bargain and puts them on at once hoping to be more seasonably dressed – Italians don’t sell things out of season, which is why there are no sandals on display.
A saleswoman breaths down her neck in another shop where she tries on hats and leather jackets – the goods turn to tat the further we walk from our hotel. She reckons we must be at the posh end.

Buying food is an experience – there are shelves of pasta twists and twirls and packets of alluring biscotti. Jars of marinated things glisten in anti-pasti paradise although I don’t want to look too closely as one of the delicatessens reminds me of an eighteenth century medical laboratory – I’ve seen too many pictures of pickled specimens.

You have to weigh your own fruit and veg in the supermarket, while punching into the machine the details of what you’ve got in your basket. Fortunately there are pictures as well which help you select the appropriate sticker. It’s a great game – my nephew would love it!

Later, in Florence, we spend many hours strolling through the markets of San Lorenzo, eyeing up the leather goods, pashminas and silk ties. We buy a stylish leather jacket for Him Outdoors, a bright green handbag for me (‘But will it go with anything?’ Men!)

We buy presents for mums and brothers, but keep our hands firmly in our pockets after we’ve had a drink. Never buy anything unless you’re completely sober; that’s my motto. Actually, I’ve only just made it up, but I quite like it and I think I’ll keep it!

There are shops selling extremely expensive paper embossed with the Florentine lily. It looks a lot like the French fleur de lis but is different and they get very upset if you make the blundering mistake of calling it such. The Florentia paper is of the highest quality, and the highest price, and is I'm sure, well worth it, but beyond our budget so I make do with a leather bookmark.

I love the toy shops which, although full of an alarming array of rubbish, have some classic shiny wooden toys that gleam from the shelves. Like something Gepetto's workshop, they wait for you to turn your back so that they can come to life. I try to catch them at it, by just pretending I'm not looking, but they have me sussed and stay fimly put.

At the Mercato Centrale I am impressed by the fish counters with their bright red tuna, tentacled squid and octopus, and other creatures of the sea. There are bins of porcini and sun-dried tomatoes which are ridiculously cheap by non-Mediterranean standards.

We drift through aisles of fresh produce, buying cheese; ham; bread; wine; pesto and olives – staples of a meal negotiated in our stumbling and stunted Italian. We find a park bench to sit on and eat our simple meal, pushing in the cork (they seem reluctant to switch to screwcaps) and swigging from the bottle like cheerful vagabonds.

Wait Until Dark

Wait Until Dark
Circa Theatre, 11 Oct - 8 Nov

I remember seeing this as a film when I was a child and I was terrified. I wondered whether the fear and suspense would translate to the theatre, and it did. I knew the story but still felt the thrill. I went with some friends and they were all on the edge of their seat staring at the stage.

Despite Circa being an open-style performance area, a curtain is rigged up and footlights placed on stage to make it more 'theatrical' and as though you are a fourth wall. At the climactic moment when all the lights go out, the audience experiences exactly the same blind isolation as the characters in the play. There are a few nervous titters at this point, but it is a powerful moment of intense drama.

Ban Abdul is excellent as Susy - she is blind but not disabled, with a sharp mind and a quick temper. Her physicality is excellent and I love her fluttering hands. Her husband, Sam, is played by Robert Tripe, and he seems brusque and demanding - his 'encouragement' of Susy to make her extend herself appears mean and bullying rather than playful and challenging. Perhaps this is just my interpretation, but I don't feel that Kiwis do playful.

Toby Leach is Croker; a comedy villain - a little over-the-top with his skittish indecision - where Tom Gordon is cold, clinical and precise. He invests the character of Roat with the chilling mien I would expect from a suspense thriller. Mike is a kindly baddie who doesn't want anyone to get hurt, and Paul McLaughlin plays the role with smooth gentleness but firm persuasion that I thought might have been more suited to Sam.

Gloria, the little girl, is played by either Holly McDonald or Rebekah Smyth (I'm not sure which - they alternate nights). She was is as child actors usually are - unnatural, exaggerated gestures and gabbled speech; too loud on some lines, inaudible on others; unable to read the nuances of the particular perfomrance and unable to adapt. I find children on stage a chore which has to be endured for plot purposes, but I generally wish they'd hurry up and get off so we can concentrate on the real acting.

The Lumiere review made me wonder if our differences are generational. I didn't feel that the first half dragged, nor did my three companions. It was all part of the set-up which you expect, and in return you get the pay-off later, which was very well done. She questions the modern relevance to which I would answer, it was entertaining and isn't that the purpose of theatre? Aren't home invasion and human vulnerability - needing to trust someone and rely upon them - still pertinent?

I also have no problem with nostalgia - not everything has to be new and ground-breaking. Sure, modern theatre eschews convoluted plots, but a lot of people still like them. There is a place for good old-fashioned drama, complete with red velvet curtain and footlights, just as there is for avant-garde, surrealist, Brechtian, improvisation and musical theatre.

Also, most people who pay to go the theatre are over 50, and they like dramatic suspense - they are the ones who have made The Mousetrap the longest-running show in the West End. It is not innovative or modish and it sticks to well-known conventions, but I would never dismiss its relevance simply because it didn't appeal to me. Is this a Gen X/Y thing?

Triumph of good

When we were kids, our uncle and aunt used to take us to the pantomime every year. It was our Christmas treat, and boy, what a treat; I loved it all.

We all dressed up in our best frocks (apart from my brother, obviously) and caught the train to London. I loved the noise and the bustle of the tube. I loved Theatreland with the evocative names: Drury Lane; Haymarket; Covent Garden; Palace; Lyceum; Playhouse.

I loved the plush carpets, the sweeping staircases, the grand foyers and the mirrored bars where one day I would be old enough to order gin and tonic for the interval. I loved the exorbitantly expensive ice creams in little tubs with tiny wooden paddles and the glossy programmes. I loved the ladies in furs and clouds of perfume and the men in suits and wreathes of cigar smoke.

But most of all, I loved it when the lights went down and the stories began. I loved the sets and the costumes; the dances and the songs; the men dressed as women and the women dressed as men. I loved shouting encouragement to the heroes and booing the villains.

It was formulaic of course, but it was magic and I believed in magic. For those two hours on a stage in central London, good triumphed and I supported it. In fact, it couldn't have happened without me.

Last weekend I went to a local pantomime here in Wellington. So many things are still the same, and although so many of us have grown up, I think we all want to believe in magic; the triumph of good and the thought that maybe, just maybe, we helped to make it happen.

Here is my review on the Lumiere site - Red Riding Hood

Chiantishire

The area dismissively known as Chiantishire really is beautiful, with rolling hills covered in olive trees and vines – it could catch on! I can see why people with money would want to renovate tumbledown villas and turn them into holiday homes with ensuite vineyard. I’m just jealous.

The Lonely Planet sniffs, “The hype has been just a trifle overdone. There’s plenty of more spectacular country to be seen in other areas of Tuscany. Let’s not put you off, but the Tuscan countryside by no means begins and ends in Il Chianti.”

You haven’t put me off, and I think it’s just gorgeous. I love the Romanesque churches (known as pieve) dotted about the hills and the little villages – three of which comprise the ‘League of Chianti’.

We call in first to Gaiole, but it is siesta-time. Nearly everything is shut and Him Outdoors is upset by that (“I feel I’m not supposed to be here”).

We take a back road which, by happy accident, leads to San Donato in Perano – a sort of winery on top of a hill where we are able to get a glass of wine, which cheers him up no end.

At Vertine, a castle from the 10th century is enclosed in an oval walled perimeter. We enter through the elegant gate and walk around the extremely sleepy village – the only people in evidence are a reading group sitting in a circle outside the church.

We walk around the wee town of Radda – the founder of the league. It is a beautiful place and supposedly has discount shops – factory outlets – but when I look at the shoes they don’t seem that cheap to me – not that they have any in my monstrous-not-tiny-Italian size. There are a lot of chavs done good, shopping around with their Chanel handbags, ostentatious bling and sugar daddies.

Down a side street we find a cellar with tastings on offer – an enoteca. A very kindly lady initiates me into the fantastic flavours of Chianti Classico – a blend of red and white grapes which is sold under the Gallo Nero (black cockerel/rooster) symbol. It is very fine indeed and of course we buy a couple of bottles before heading to Castellina, the third of the league.

This is another beautiful castle town, which was a frontier town between warring Siena and Florence. You are met at the entrance by huge cylindrical silos. They may look industrial, but they are, in fact, full of Chianti Classico, which has to be a good thing. Him Outdoors says this is his favourite town of the day and he even goes so far as to look at house prices.

We stock up on provisions in Stradda to go with our vino. We get bread, cheese, ham, olives and mayonnaise from the supermacto and some tomatoes from a chap in a fruit and veg shop who refuses to accept any coins for our meagre purchase of 0.20 euros.

Returning to our hotel, we make ourselves a little feast and watch the television which features films dubbed into Italian and some sports results. Florentina played in the UEFA Cup a couple of days ago and the referee was Mike Riley, which explains why Him Outdoors spotted him strolling across the Ponte Vecchio – as you do.

Imagining Siena

We park outside Siena and walk in through one of gates in the walls – Siena is a car-free city, being the first European city to banish motor traffic from its centre in 1966. Proceeding to Il Campo, we stock up with tourist information brochures and sit at a café at the edge of the square for a cappuccino and to get our bearings.

Il Campo is scallop-shaped and slants on nine sections (for the members of the Council of Nine) from the Fonte Gaia (the Happy Fountain) to the Palazzo Comunale, which is sparse and elegant, dominated by the tower – the Torre del Mangia. The streets radiate in circles which swirl around and can make navigation difficult, but this hardly matters as it is pleasant to wander about the city admiring the buildings and sculptures.

The cathedral is one of Italy’s greatest gothic churches – small in comparison with Florence’s but civic rivalry led Florence to try to do everything bigger and better.

Legend states that Siena was founded by the son of Remus and so the symbol of the wolf feeding the twins Romulus and Remus is as ubiquitous as it is in Rome.

There are fountains and squares, palaces and churches everywhere but we don’t go into any of them – we just walk around the streets remembering to look up.

Every building has a coat of arms; a statue; a painted façade; a frescoed ceiling; ornate shutters; a tether for a horse; a decorative door, archway or window.

I get quite carried away with the doors and windows, and we have to buy a new memory stick for the camera to accommodate my happy snapping. Incidentally, camera shops share premises with opticians which I thought was a bit odd at first, but makes perfect sense really as they’re both concerned with lenses and visuals.

Siena is a city of imaginings. Twice a year (2nd July and 16th August) it hosts Il Palio – a series of colourful pageants and a wild horse race around Il Campo. Ten horses and their bareback riders (representing the town’s districts) tear three times around the perimeter of Il Campo (it is covered with packed dirt) while the spectators are fenced into the centre.

Even if a horse looses its rider it can still win the event and claim the coveted and fiercely contested Palio (silk banner). The only rule is that the riders mustn’t tug at the reins of other horses. I can imagine the clatter of their hooves around the piazza; the screaming and cheering of the fans; and the snapping of banners in the breeze.

I can imagine secret trysts and assignations in sun-drenched, high-walled courtyards where ancient frescoes look down on lovers whose murmurings are accompanied by the soft splash of fountains.

I can imagine the dim alleyways were perfect places to plot and scheme with an accomplice or to lure an acquaintance to be dispatched.


Siena still maintains its mediaeval gothic glory, leaving the flashy Renaissance to its Florentine rival, with whom it was frequently at war. It is allegedly the home of panforte – a rich cake of almonds, honey and candied fruit, which was created for Crusaders to take to the Holy Land – but we make do with enormous slices of pizza which we eat in the square.

Florence AM

I love seeing a city wake up – the blare of horns as folk head off to work; cyclists and pedestrians negotiating the traffic, while an old man serenely pushes his wife under rugs in a wheelchair down the main street.

Shutters rattle up and the wise buy bottles of water to see them through the day, which is deceptively cool at present.

Gloves are displayed in windows; the sharp smell of leather beckons on the crisp air.

The gold glistens behind heavy wooden shutters; the papal bankers are keeping their secrets hidden in a private, hedonistic confessional.

The duomo and the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio cut cleanly into the pale blue sky; their precise incisions not yet blurred by the midday haze.

A man stands at the counter of a tripai eating lampredotto; hot chilli sauce drips from his fingers and he snorts from his nostrils and shakes his head violently in a semblance of penance.

The crowds have not yet formed between the solemn alcoves of the Uffizi where the sightless marble statues stare past tempestuous humanity.

The faded Italian flag shades of the cathedral are pastel and sharp like the tangible flavours of the mounds of ice-cream; tantalising pyramids of pineapple, strawberry, lemon, raspberry, chocolate, pistachio studded with fruit and labelled with exotica. Their geometric lines will melt to puddles of kaleidoscopic colours by afternoon.

As I rub the shiny snout of the Fontana del Porcellino I see its clouds of white breath evaporate in the morning air. Grazie! I will return to Firenze!

Toast Martinborough

We begin our day by heading to the yacht club for bubbles and a bagel. We are meant to meet a friend but he has cunningly disguised himself in a wig and hideous outfit. We stand next to him at the bar without recognizing him. Him Outdoors has trouble with technology – apparently stumpy Celt fingers are no friend of cell-phones and it doesn’t help when he’s trying to ring the wrong number in the first place.

Our friend announces, “I’ve got some spare moustaches in my pocket for later.” As he has organized the transport, it would seem churlish to question the relevance of this statement.

A group of us pile onto a chartered bus which winds over the hill to Martinborough. It is a little disturbing that when we play with the aircon, we manage to light up the ‘Bus Stopping’ sign. Fortunately it doesn’t until we reach our destination and we alight in the square, pick up a special glass and a programme, swap our money for wine tokens and we’re off!

It’s windy but sunny so we all liberally apply the sun cream – a group of pasty poms and Irish folk let loose with wine and sunshine; it could end in tears. The ladies all look lovely in their floaty summer frocks, floppy hats and flip-flops – the men have dressed up Kiwi-posh, which appears to mean a clean t-shirt.

Our first stop is Craggy Range which seems pricy but the Te Muna Road reisling is crisp and clear and the venison and rocket pizza is delicious. I bump into a friend – not literally – I have only just started drinking. She, however, is on winery number six and has come here for lunch. It seems a lot of people have.

Buses run between the vineyards but you can walk if you want the exercise – nowhere is very far apart. We head to Palliser Estate where I have some bubbles – they are light and cheerful, and the day is looking good. One of our friends has ‘found’ some fairy wings which look particularly fetching although I doubt they were designed to be worn with a Hacienda t-shirt by a thirty-something bloke from Manchester.

Him Outdoors ignores the old adage – red then white; you’ll feel like shite – and he is tucking into the pinot noir already. It is fresh and clean – you can taste the skins, stalks, earth and fruit which leaps out of the glass with a pinot punch.

All of the vineyards have bands playing on makeshift stages. The Beat Girls are due to perform here, but although they’re perfect wine and food accompaniment, no one seems to know when they are coming on (the lack of times printed in the programme would be my one criticism of the event) and we decide not to hang around and wait – so many wineries; so little time.

At Martinborough Vineyard and Burnt Spar people are starting to relax; stretching out among the vines, enjoying the wine, food, music and convivial atmosphere. One wine taster confidently asserts, “I can honestly tell you with all my experience as a connoisseur, that wine is definitely white.” Another helpful comment is “It’s a good drop; that will get you pissed.” I'm quite impressed by the insightful, "Too many lemons; not enough melons" until I realise he's not talking about the wine. I give up asking people to give me their tasting notes.

Margrain has a separate ‘bubbles bar’. Of course, I have to try the 'La Michelle' inaugural methode traditionalle bubbles and they taste like crushed digestive biscuits and are almost golden in colour. I also have some chenin blanc which the programme claims is very limited. It's also very tasty.

Ata Rangi has a delectable Craighall chardonnay which is my favourite of the day. Oak; butter; cinnamon; walnuts; peaches – all the things I like in a hearty chardonnay.

This is a good place to sit and take stock; we meet up with lots of friends and more money is exchanged. People wander about with bottles in picnic baskets – topping up drinks so you don’t even have to stand up or queue to get anther glass. This looks as though it could get dangerous.

The boys sit around smoking cigars and there is much hilarity as everyone has a go trying on the wig. The food here is Ruth Pretty Catering and includes gourmet steak and kidney pies which look extremely tasty and, although pies may not be particularly exotic, they go down a treat. Apparently the white chocolate and blackcurrant crème brulee is pretty good too.

We spot the staff having a lunch break round the back when we stray off the beaten track. This isn’t so easy to do, as the areas where you are meant to go are very clearly directed.

We are herded towards Alana Estate where a band belts out covers. Some people dance in a desultory fashion at the end of the day, while others nod off even more lazily in the afternoon sun.

The festival finishes at around six, which is probably just as well, as I think we’ve all had plenty by then (both wine and sun). Somehow we manage to have some festival money left, which is not exchangeable. Bottles are still for sale at the square, so we use up our remaining wine tokens. We roll back to our waiting coach which takes us back over the hill – as it were.