Chickens Eat Pasta

Clare Pedrick

Description

Chickens Eat Pasta is the tale of how a young Englishwoman starts a new life after watching a video showing a chicken eating spaghetti in a mediaeval hill village in central Italy. Unlike some recent bestsellers, this is not simply an account of a foreigner's move to Italy, but a love story written from the unusual perspective of both within and outside of the story. As events unfold, the strong storyline carries with it a rich portrayal of Italian life from the inside, with a supporting cast of memorable characters. Along the way, the book explores and captures the warmth and colour of Italy, as well as some of the cultural differences - between England and Italy, but also between regional Italian lifestyles and behaviour. It is a story with a happy ending. The author and her husband are still married, with three children, who love the old house on the hill (now much restored) almost as much as she does. Chickens Eat Pasta is Clare's autobiography, and ultimately a love story - with the house itself and with the man thatClare met there and went on to marry. If you yearn for a happy ending, you won't be disappointed. It's a story thatproves anything is possible if you only try.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781784629991
• Langue: English

Extrait

Chickens Eat Pasta
Escape to Umbria
Clare Pedrick

Copyright © 2015 Clare Pedrick
Original artwork by Colleen MacMahon
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1784629 991
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To Max, Juliana and Georgie
This is where it all began
Contents

Cover


The Author


Prologue


Chapter One


Chapter Two


Chapter Three


Chapter Four


Chapter Five


Chapter Six


Chapter Seven


Chapter Eight


Chapter Nine


Chapter Ten
The Author
Clare Pedrick is a British journalist. She studied Italian at Cambridge University before becoming a reporter. This book describes how, as a young woman, she bought an old ruin in Umbria. She went on to work as Rome correspondent for the Washington Post and as European Editor of an international features agency. She still lives in Italy with her husband, whom she met in the village where she bought her house. The couple have three children.
Prologue
People often ask me what made me do what I did. I reply that life is not always a case of making conscious choices. If I have learned one thing, it is that following your instincts often leads to happiness, even if it doesn’t mean taking the easiest path you could have chosen.
Chapter One
The dripping was becoming louder, settling into a relentless rhythm. It had started as a barely audible whisper in the treetops outside the kitchen window, flung open to let the newly washed floor dry. The drops fell more heavily now, thudding overhead on the terracotta roof tiles. A small puddle had formed quickly on the dark red floor, spreading from one rectangle to another as the wind drove the rain in through the open space. The window banged shut abruptly and blew open again violently as the summer storm ripped through the mountains. I let go of my grip on the mop to secure the fragile window frame with its ancient wooden latch. Now I’d have to start all over again. There wasn’t much time. Angela and Ercolino would be here soon to drive me to the station.
Suddenly, the tears that had been welling up deep inside me all morning brimmed over and began coursing down my cheeks. I crouched down on the still wet floor. How could it all have gone so wrong?
*
It was strange really, how rain could make such a difference. Outside, a thick white mist was rising rapidly, shrouding the tree-lined mountain and swiftly wiping out the almost cloudless sky that had cast shafts of light through the window just a few minutes earlier. Of course, it had been raining that day this whole business had started. That was fairly normal for November in England, but this time it had poured ceaselessly, for days on end, casting me further and further into a trough of despair and loneliness.
*
Until I saw the advertisement, as I thumbed through the soggy pages of the hefty newspaper that I had bought to while away yet another miserable Sunday morning on my own. That had changed everything. Or so it had seemed. But then, maybe I had been asking for trouble. There were plenty of people who were sure it could only end badly. As my sensible aunt Vi had said when I told her what I’d done.
“How can you buy a house just because you’ve watched a video?”
***
The chicken was teasing out something long and slippery in its beak. It swallowed it in a few short movements and bent its scrawny neck to peck up another strand from a small pile on the ground. Nearby, an old woman with a stooping gait watched for a few minutes before moving off to empty her plastic bucket in front of several other chickens emerging from the lower part of an old stone house. She murmured something barely audible as she bent down to poke a bony finger at the thighs of the two larger birds. The sound quality of the video was poor and the image flickered and jolted every now and then.
“She’s checking to see which one to have for Sunday lunch,” whispered the Englishman, moving closer to the television screen where the video was playing.
“That’s spaghetti she’s giving them. Chickens eat pasta in this part of Italy.”
The camera zoomed in on the plumpest chicken pecking at what would be its last meal, and a very small cup of coffee appeared on the side table next to me.
“Have an espresso,” said my host, busying himself to make some space. “I bought the machine the last time I was over there. The secret is in packing the coffee really tight before you put it to heat, but I think I’ve got the hang of it now.” He turned to move a pile of papers off a chair so that he too could take a seat.
“Sorry about the mess by the way, but you caught me a bit off guard.”
Tearing my eyes away from the screen for a moment, where shaky images of cobbled streets and pretty stone arches continued to float by, I surveyed what must be the sitting room of the small terraced house in Hove where I had rung the bell half an hour earlier. The walk from my own house had taken less than ten minutes, through the rain-soaked streets of Brighton, as it struggled to come to life on a dismal autumn morning. It was a Monday, and instead of heading to the offices of the newspaper where I was a reporter, I had turned my steps in the direction of the address that I had underlined heavily in red felt tip when I had first read the advert in the Sunday paper the day before.
“House for sale in hidden Umbria. Steve Parr & Associates.”
Turning first to the overseas property section had long been a habit as I went through the weekend section of the national papers, but this time was different. The address on the advert was just a few streets away. Maybe it was a sign? In any case, I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with right now, and no real ties here anymore.
It had been my turn to work the Saturday night shift at the newspaper, so Monday was a free day. That was the rule in the newsroom, a way of compensating journalists for long Saturday evenings that invariably involved covering drunken brawls between skinheads and rockers.
*
It wasn’t clear who his associates were, but Steve Parr showed no sign of being fazed by the unannounced visit as he led the way into the room he had rigged up as his office. On the wall was a framed relief map of central Italy, with a range of jagged points in one corner, giving way to gentler slopes and a few spots of blue which must be lakes.
“I’ve only really just started this business,” he said with an apologetic air, searching under a pile of magazines for the video cassette. “It’s such a spectacularly beautiful place, so close to Rome in some ways, and yet so very different and completely unspoilt. It’s like turning back the clock at least fifty years.”
Three cups of espresso later, I emerged into the sodden street. Trying to dodge the puddles, I crossed the road and headed along the seafront towards home. The waves were crashing violently against the pebble beach. That was bound to be the front page for this evening’s edition: Storms Batter Sussex Coast! It was the autumn version of that other headline that came round with the first few rays of sunshine every summer: Sussex Sizzles into the Seventies!
The summer seemed such a long time ago now, and all the misery it had brought with it. The rows, the break-up, the last minute cancellation of the holiday in Greece. Here I was, 26-years-old, alone and numb with boredom at the prospect of a future which until recently had seemed to be just what I wanted. At least there would be no problem getting time off. The news editor could hardly complain if I took a few days’ leave after working for months without a break.
*
The next step would be to book a flight, and armed with some numbers of bucket shops in London, handed to me by Steve Parr as he showed me to the door, I pulled off my dripping coat and ran down the stairs into the basement kitchen of my house to get the phone. I glanced out of the rain-spattered window, trying not to notice the long green streak of mildew which was working its way down the whitewashed outside wall that led up to the small rear garden. It was impossible to miss the damp stains that were creeping up the walls inside the kitchen. The pretty little Regency house that had seemed so captivating when Rob and I had first looked round it three years ago was beginning to show signs of neglect. A loud telephone ring interrupted my thoughts. Damn. Who could that be?
“Oh there you are at last. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning.” It was Vi, my maiden aunt. She was a matron at a hospital in Somerset and took her role very seriously as the last remaining senior member of the family, though tact was never her strong point. Nor was brevity for that matter. I braced myself.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m thinking of you on this very sad day. Can you hear me?” she boomed. I held the receiver a bit further away from my ear. Vi’s family nickname was Foghorn.
“It doesn’t seem possible that your father died a year ago today. And so soon after your poor mother.” She paused to draw breath. “It must be