The final installment

As we countdown to lift-off, this is going to be the final Milano Sojourn installment. Get yourself a cup of tea - I'm not promising it will be short. 

It has been an interesting experiment: both the blog and the living in a non-english speaking country with a young family. The blog has provided me with a tiny bit of structure – giving me a focus of trying to make sense of my experiences and record them as well. I enjoy putting my thoughts into words and I realise it has been a strange mix of an ordinary (sometimes boring) record of events and a personal expression of feelings and reflections. It has also been a great excuse to get some good photos to record our time here and trigger memories for the future. I have aimed to try and show the 'best of' our time here but, also, not to create false impressions that it has been one big happy holiday.

Merry go round in Bergamo - a work of art!

A day out in Torino, a couple of weeks ago -
the place where it all started for Rory's connection to Italy

I am sure there is a well described psychological syndrome that occurs at the closure of a season or time. Near the end, it seems, the place where you are going suddenly seems so wildly desirable and attractive and all the niggles and frustrations of where you are bubble up to the surface. Suddenly you only have to cope for a few more days/weeks and then the grass will be greener and the sun brighter and you will have all the energy and excitement of a change. And then, when the end is in sight– it feels like you relax and become sentimental, leaving is sad and you start to reflect on what you will miss and the things you love about the place. The photos below are from an evening out in central Milan. Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere just seems so much more magical!

Christmas in full swing - Italian cities are beautiful by night!

The beautiful Duomo at Dusk

A spectacular Galleria in the Duomo Piazza - central Milan

I have not spent my time here wishing I was home and longing for our house. In fact, I am amazed that I have barely thought about our house or garden at all. I have desperately missed, in a subconscious sense, old friends, chinwags over cups of tea, deep, connecting conversations. It is incredibly lonely (although I have not recognised it as loneliness with Rory around) not being able to be known because you can't understand people or express yourself due to language barriers. Integrating into a foreign culture/language, requires a surrendering, for a time, of the comfort of being known and understood. It is so easy to understand why people form their cliques with others from the same culture and have their own cultural celebrations and gatherings. Had I met another New Zealander here, it would have been very tempting to latch onto them and build a social life around them.

The boys have been a ticket to so many experiences. Gwilym in particular, seems to have grown into a wildly social, extroverted boy and we have laughed so many times at his ability to walk up to complete strangers and just smile, win them over and give them his basic italian introductions: 'Mi chiamo Guglielmo' (my name is italian version of William). He has frequently abandoned us on buses, choosing to sit next to complete strangers and interact with them. Che 'Bello' and 'Bravo' have been said to him a million times and the shop keepers who have got to know him, goo and gaa over him.

Silas has been very brave at using his Italian (often learned minutes before) on any kid he can find. He has been so full of questions about the world and has seemed such a sponge with natural history and even standard history. He has also been very out going, but often following along behind his brave little brother. When feeling like we have failed him somewhat with mainstream education – we try to remember that he has been exposed to so many other wonderful sights and experiences and all that will come in time.

a view from the window this morning!

For me, I hope I will remember the good times and a copy of my blog in hand will help with this. As we leave, a combination of nagging health issues, tiredness, a desperate need for a break from full-time childcare in an italian apartment and some grief thrown in, mean that I don't feel like I am ending on a triumphant high. Back in New Zealand, I have always found it challenging looking after small children: remove all the props and friends to break up the day with and you end up with a mother who is somewhat deflated. I would love to be able to report this differently. Being Jane, I can't help but expose myself through honesty that has no rose coloured tints. We return, looking forward to a New Zealand summer (as I write the snow is falling and has settled overnight) of chatting with friends, getting fit in the great outdoors and finding our 'community' again.

But, this time has also been an amazing opportunity. A chance to cross cultures, have some wonderful experiences and to soak in the beauty of Italian cities and surrounds - a long way from our flattened and broken Christchurch. We know we won't regret choosing to come here for this time and it also opens doors in my head, as to what is possible in the future with our little family. We are very very fortunate on so many levels. I am very grateful for our Milano Sojourn and I hope that I can take my basket of experiences with me into our future - reflecting and learning from the difficult and challenging times and celebrating and savouring the magical moments.

Well, enough words, too many thoughts and time to call this the end.

Thanks to all those people who have read the blog and encouraged my efforts. I look forward to seeing you in person and telling you the stories that have never made it to the page and hearing your stories as well to fill in these last months.

A special thanks to Rory, who has often had to wait, patiently, while I have put these words onto these pages - wondering if sleep might not be a better option!

Arrivederci!

Jane

A Thanks to DRAM and Alison

Alison McKeand heads up DRAM, the company which distributes our products in Italy. Alison is a Scot who came to Italy 35 years ago as a young woman and eventually stumbled on the rotational moulding industry as well as meeting Roberto, a native Italian and her partner of 22 years.

Rory met Alison when he first came to Europe as a young graduate, doing research at Belfast University and she helped to find him the contact in Italy to secure his first job. The rest is history and she has always stood behind Rory's products, promoting them from when La Plastecnica was a tiny, fledgling company and Rory was still trying to fit running the business in around a day job.

While we have been here, Alison has organised the DRAM contingent to the major conference Rory attended at the start of our trip, organised many many day visits and trials at companies for Rory and Alison to promote Supacool and our other products. Our hope is that, all the hard work done by Rory and Alison on this trip will pay off over the next few years as sales of Supacool increase. Because it is a totally new product and concept to the industry, there has been so much ground work to do to show people how it works to convince them of its benefits. This trip, while it has been a change of scenery, has been far from a holiday for Rory. When he wasn't working, he has been looking after the kids to try and give me some kid-free time.

Alison and Katia

Rory, talking at the Polivinil open-day in late November

And for this trip – Alison has done even more for us. Welcoming our family into her apartment (she owns the apartment we are staying in – but she lives with Roberto in the same apartment block) and trusting us to look after it with two small boys. She organised the logistics of borrowing numerous toys, a push chair and car seats for the boys and even purchased 2 bikes prior to our arrival! She has trusted us with her car on numerous weekends for trips away – which have been the highlights of our visit. She has provided me with english speaking company – at times having to put up with a moan when she has been the only adult I have talked to other than Rory in a day. She has also given me italian lessons when we could fit it in, providing my coffee fix at lunch time. We have attended pilates together once a week. And it would be fair to say that Alison has helped us with a thousand small things to smooth our stay and make it more enjoyable. DRAM has provided, the only real sense of 'family' we have had over here.

The wider DRAM family: employees and all their families at the recent Christmas Party 

Alessandra and family

The Dram office is just downstairs from the apartment. Many times we have called in both boys to say hello to Alessandra, Tiziana and Enza (and Katia who lives in another town). The DRAM company is staffed by all women – Alison providing a rare opportunity in Italy - part-time employment for women and for the some of the women, they are the main bread winners of the family. Alessandra speaks good english and has always taken the opportunity to grab both boys and smother them with kisses – something that put a smile on my face and theirs. They also often provided me with a morning coffee shot – always welcome!

Tears for Breakfast

This morning I have learned that a friend called Karen has died after losing a battle to breast cancer. (this is a different friend to the one I referred to a couple of weeks ago).

A year ago today, I was bridesmaid with Karen at Janine's wedding (Janine was our mutual friend and main point of contact). She had just survived a mastectomy and we were not sure whether she would be able to wear the bridesmaid dress and make it to the wedding. She did both in style and did wonderfully, making a speech and looking gorgeous. She then underwent chemo and radiotherapy and we all held our breath, thinking that maybe she had beaten it.

About three weeks ago, a nagging ache and swelling in her arm provided the impetus to do a new round of scans. The cancer had spread through her body and her prognosis was awful. She has died in hospital in the last 24 hours leaving her lovely husband to bring up their two little girls (5 and 2).

I knew she was going rapidly down hill and as we took in the stunning mountain scenery at the weekend I felt a mixture of agitation and guilt that we could be enjoying so much LIFE, while a friend was rapidly facing the harsh reality of dying. In the same breath, I know that Karen, could she have talked to me, would have told us to take it all in and savour the life we have.

Over the last few days, I have written a number of letters to Karen in my head. It is my obscession to put things into words and I guess it has helped me to farewell her in my thoughts. I can't believe that we can go away for 3 months and a friends life can be snuffed out in that time with no inkling this was sitting in the wings when we left. It makes life seem so tenuous and for the moment at least, I am allowing myself to think about this. As a good friend reminded me only yesterday, it encourages me to think about the next life and to challenge my fears about dying.

As we pack up and leave Milan and turn our thoughts towards home, it is good to remember that we are only ever just passing through and as I stuff our suitcases to their limits, to remember that I can't take any of it with me.

It brings to mind another Leunig prayer:

There are only two feelings, Love and fear:

There are only two languages, Love and fear:

There are only two activities, Love and fear:

There are only two motives, two procedures,

two frameworks, two results, Love and fear,

Love and fear.

For now, I am doing battle with fear. But I have God, who is the source of all Love, to do battle with me. 

A final mountain fling

Our brave and gracious friends, Andrew, Marina and their 6 year old son, Leonardo, invited us to join them at their family's mountain house for our final weekend in Italy. Situated in the region of Monta Rosa, Valsesia is a valley which runs off its flanks and contains the small mountain village of Scopello. Marina's parents sensibly invested in a 'mountain apartment' 30 odd years ago – a tiny, one bedroom (and mezzanine) apartment in spitting distance of one field and driving distance of a huge number of others.

Rory thinks there should be a market for mountain (holiday) apartments in New Zealand. You don't have all the maintenance issues of a house, no garden to tend and only as big as you need for a weekend or so. A great base for a quick getaway without summers of painting and lawn mowing!

We arrived on friday afternoon with the temperature plummeting, just in time for the snow to start to fall. The ski fields were opening for the first day of the season on the following day. After a lovely dinner at the apartment, we headed off to bed to get a good sleep for the big next day.

As the noise of Silas' snorting and coughing worsened, we realised he was probably suffering from some sort of allergy (he has dust mite allergy) and transferred him onto the floor of the living room (away from bedding other than a thermarest), which made for an early turn in for the adults but a poor sleep for Silas, overwhelmed with his allergic reaction.

Saturday dawned mostly clear and sunny and we headed up to a nearby ski field where it became clear that the winds were too high to head up for the time being (a series of two gondolas take you over a pass to a height of 3000m!!). We changed plans and Rory headed off with Andrew and the kids to a smaller, lower field, leaving Marina and I to go and ski for the day. The gondola was still on hold so we headed off for a hot chocolate to wait it out. At this stage, I know that most of my friends back home will be thinking – wow, a day off, how amazing, no kids?!, you are so lucky. Marina exclaimed, we are free!! I withheld comment, waiting to see evidence of the miracle before celebrating! The gondola opened but only for one of the ski runs (due to high winds) and Marina deemed it not a worthwhile option to pay to ski on the crowded field with only one slope to ski on. I came within metres of a day on the slopes (the second in 4 years) without children – but it was not to be.

The village of Alagna

At this point, I do want to point out to any concerned or angry readers, that I do not wish my children away. I had my years of skiing and tramping and adventuring (my 20's were stuffed full of it) and this is the season we are now in!

We headed back to join the boys. Rory, it turns out was having a bit of a mare. He couldn't ski with both the boys since Gwilym was too young to ride the pommer by himself and was not allowed to ride with Rory (the baby slopes were inconveniently only for small kids who were paying clients in the ski school so were out of bounds for us). This meant that they were all stuck at the bottom of the small (essentially one short run) field with few options for skiing. I was quickly enlisted as babysitter for Gwilym and the reason I have never skiied as an adult (I telemark ski and snowboard) was quickly coming back to me. My wonderfully 'strong' and significant ankles/calves (that I will not, at this point, spew any hatred at) and the shape and fit of a ski boot do not mix. Gradually my ankles and lower legs swell leaving me in what begins as discomfort and ends, as I remember, in excruciating pain. I eventually got one short run in – turned about 15 turns before tagging back in on kids. Rory valiantly carried Gwilym up and down the lower slopes on skiis, on his shoulders, giving Gwilym the chance of a 2 second straight line to the bottom.

The kids managed some fun and we enjoyed watching them, even more so when I had changed back into walking boots.

We headed back into the beautiful village of Alagna for the late afternoon – enjoying the Christmas stalls, music and finally a glass of wine at a bar. Marina and Leonardo had headed down to get clean and dry and we arrived back, dirty and tired an hour or two later.

That night, Silas repeated his allergic response which worsened to asthma. We found ourselves dosing him up with ventolin at midnight and measuring his blood oxygen level. It was a bit average (his oxygen saturation) and I went back up to sleep on the mezzanine while Rory slept beside him in the living area. It may be tiredness, mental illness, chronic anxiety or a wonderful mix of all three, but I found myself crying myself to sleep after a significant panic attack. I suddenly relived our experience on the plane over (see the first blog entry), where I had packed only one empty ventolin inhaler, and I sat up sweating, heart racing, imagining his worsening asthma and the logistics of calling an ambulance to a mountain apartment and watching Silas struggling for oxygen. I calmed myself by looking at the stars out of the sky light and praying a prayer over and over again until my heart slowed and I was able to sleep.

The next day was even more beautiful. After failing to keep up with Marina and Andrew's racing start, a tired and tearful Jane and family, made our way at Gwilym's pace (in ski boots...think snail) to the bottom of the chair lift across the road. I had long since given up on the idea of skiing and wore my tramping boots, prepared for a day on the baby slopes and enjoying the kids. My time will come again! We found the magic carpet and Silas had a great morning with Rory, mastering turns and gaining confidence again (in time for a 7 month wait til next season!!).

I looked after Gwilym who decided to include his once-a-day, half hour, wailing, screaming period during this time. When he wails, he doesn't appear to be able to talk, doesn't want to be carried/cuddled, can't walk and has to essentially be left where he is, until he regains control of his emotions. Rory and I are beginning to wonder if he has some sort of blood sugar issue, because when he has food again, things seem to come right pretty quickly. We look forward to getting advice from all our parenting expert friends when we return home because he certainly has us stumped. We presume it is his, very determined version of a tantrum since it usually follows not getting his own way (and increases exponentially with tiredness).

Silas, in Shade, heads to the slopes in the morning

Rory and Silas at bottom of magic carpet

After the crying stopped he managed some skiing – quickly getting the hang of turns (more parallel than snow plough) with Mum running down the slope behind him in her tramping boots. No prizes for style but at least we enjoyed some smiles and success and it made the day worthwhile.

Of course, we were surrounded by all the picture postcard scenery you can imagine. Snow capped mountain houses and restaurants, magnificent peaks, endless terrain. And tramping boots. It will still be there in 15 years time and if I still can– I'll give it a caning on my telemark skiis.

Since we had only bought a half day pass (Andrew, Marina and Leonardo had a long drive home), we headed down at 12.30pm and out to lunch after a rapid grab and pack. Then we joined the queue of weekend traffic home to a freezing Milan where the snow is still sitting on the ground from the weekend snow fall as well.

An English Flood

Well England lived up to its reputation. We arrived in the driving rain and just to make sure, what ensued was the worst floods in half a century. There was lots of flood damage (not sure whether it made it to New Zealand news). At the bottom of my Auntie and Uncles' garden, the Thames river had flowed over into the fields lining the river and up into the bottom of the garden.

In Oxford where we caught up with friend Sarah Puttick, we took diversions to get to her house and saw streets with flooded basements, submerged allotments and a very swollen muddy Thames. Floods of this size hadn't happened for decades (in living memory) until 2007 and now have happened a couple of times since.

Venturing into Oxford with Sarah and Daisy

Gwilym and Daisy play house

My Auntie made us lovely food (wonderful english food – a stew, roast ham and pork, veges and puddings) and the boys loved watching Sky kids TV while the weather did its thing. We caught up with Rory's cousin and his wife and son who came up from London to see us.

On the final morning the sun came out. We enjoyed a happy morning with the boys playing in the garden, heaps of green space, some toys, mud and water – a small boys paradise.

I went for a lovely run – loving the morning light, the english countryside, the colours of the rising winter sun. I returned to find Rory helping fix the garden shed roof with my Uncle and the boys happily playing with mud, water and toys.

My Auntie and Uncles beautiful house

The private road that leads to the bottom of the garden flooded completely and
I loved the morning light coming through the arch of trees

Flooding into the bottom of the garden

Gwilym can't resist the temptation for water play

The Thames overflowed its banks engulfing this boathouse beside it :
 this view is from the bridge over the Thames which is just down
the road from the house.

Seemingly out of the blue, what had been a happy morning, took an unexpected turn. The boys broke an unwritten rule while playing and Silas had got wet feet from wading too far into the muddy puddle at the bottom of the garden, despite warnings from both parents. The response that ensued meant that the swollen emotional river in my head from a week of trying to keep two small boys in line (and mostly house-bound during a week dominated by the worst rain in 50 years) ,attempting to make sure two small boys were polite, well-mannered, quiet, not aggressive, were easily entertained, sat nicely at the table, counted to 20 with ease, trying to please, trying to make sure everything went right – burst its banks and spilled out of my mouth at my Auntie. I have been in a blind rage only a few times in my life. I remember them all quite clearly. Usually enough water has fallen over a long enough time to explain the dramatic flood that ensued. Of course you always wonder if you have gone mad. Emotionally, I am just very tired.

We left and mostly I just remember being very very sad. The flight home went well and we bustled two small boys into bed, ourselves following minutes later. I am hoping that the 'water' recedes and I can return to some sense of normality.

Unsurprisingly, I am starting to long for home. For our garden, for our toys. For Grandparents who think their Grand-kids are the best thing in the world. To simply be at home. Today it is 2 weeks til we leave. I have already checked the itinery and am starting to visualise the journey. The packing has already started in my head.

Inghilterra aka England

And now we are in England for work and play. We leave on Thursday. England is a place so familiar and deeply rooted in my ancestry that I feel a sense of belonging and in the same moment, out of place. England is the place where both my parents were born and my Grandparents lived. Mum's family is from Devon, Dad's from Oxfordshire. Both 'escaped' to the comparative freedom of New Zealand, away from the constraints of english culture and expectations.

We are staying in England with my father's brother Richard and Auntie Tina. They live in a small village, in a large house which backs onto the Thames river. As a 12 year old I came here alone for 6 months to attend my cousins posh private girls school (why? Is another story!) I was straight from the farm, all gumboots and jandels and while I don't remember being wildly homesick (I don't tend to get very homesick), it was an education on so many fronts.

Arriving at the house, I mostly know which turns to take, where the roads lead to. Out and about the accents are so recognisable to my ears – the accent of my Grandfather and his family. Walking into Richard and Tina's house, everything is familiar. It is a home I have lived in, come and gone from both as a single person and newly married to Rory. We have had Christmas here and have returned to the comforts of good food, great hospitality and warm beds many times. And now 5 years on, two children later and so much water under the bridge, we return to introduce our boys to England (Richard and Tina have met them before). I have a strange mix of thoughts and emotions: being with family causes me to reflect on the changes I have been through. In moments I am back to being the Antipodean farmers daughter, now with Antipodean offspring (!) and in the next, the philospher wondering who I am and what I believe about the world and where I fit into it.

Jane and Rory, 2007, in the vintage Rolls-Royce owned by Richard and Tina - out for a chilly spin with the top down 

In the car we have listened to the familiar accents of the BBC comedians on Radio 4 and laughed out loud at humour I have not enjoyed for months. I've sat down and read a newspaper – the first in months and savoured the experience. We've watched TV (the kids watching considerably more!). I'm adjusting to the fact that when I start telling a story in a public space, everyone will understand what I am saying, rather than taking it fore-granted that I can talk in undecipherable code and remain a mystery.

On sunday, I went to an 8am church service– murmuring my way through a Church of England service accompanied by the soothing drone of an oh-so-english Vicar and a small number of mostly elderly English villagers as we were guided through the memorised liturgy. For my childhood years, we mostly attended a tiny Anglican church, the liturgy engraved into a subconcious that will survive Alzheimers no doubt. It triggered memories and thoughts of so many things, places and people. And God. The church was intact and old – something none of the Anglican churches of Christchurch can claim anymore.

I have visited a friend from school days (Ruth). The last time I saw her was about 13 years ago. We picked up where we left off and it was lovely to hang out with someone who knows my Whanau (family) and Turangawaeawe (land/place). We have talked and talked – telling stories and filling in the years with words. What a wonderful thing it is to be able to stand back from your life and listen to the stories come pouring out, piecing together pain and joy, listening to the moments that have defined you being recounted from your own mouth. And more so, the joy of listening to stories of someone else and sharing their valleys and summits and being amazed and comforted at the same time. To expose the raw moments of your life to someone and feel completely unjudged. We are not alone. To feel understood and to understand is good for the soul.

New friends

We have some new friends. Katia works for Alison (but works from home and lives about 1 hour away)  and the last time I met her, we were both in early pregnancy with our first kids (when Rory and I were last in Italy). Alessandro and Silas were born within a week or two of each other. Katia's daughter is a little younger than Gwilym and her name is Maria.

Alessandro and Maria with Silas and Gwilym

We have managed two play dates in two weeks and they are a great match for the boys. Each time we see them, the boys pick up new words in italian and more confidently use the ones they know. Katia speaks english and her kids also pick up english expressions and try them out when they are with us. It is an excellent exchange.
Last week Alessandro learned to ride a bike without his trainer wheels and this week - he was away laughing. We made a trip to the far corner of the local park to show them the little farm (horse stables with other animals). There are new lambs and calves to admire and grumpy caretakers to ignore (it is a public farm for children to come and see the animals and a working stables).

'Agnelli"

The weather is spectacular at the moment - warm in the day, never windy and with a pleasant chill to the air (especially for exercising). The trees are almost naked and they stand encircled by their dying leaves.

I am enjoying listening to the process of language acquisition by the boys. Silas, particularly is constantly coming up to me and saying - this is called " X" in Italian and he uses an italian sounding word he has made up. The boys will often babble away together in 'italianesque' - their own version of another language with lots of italian vowels peppered through it. Even if they only know a couple of words, they will boldly use them as often as possible and their pronunciation is pretty good - their ears and mouths are still supple and elastic!

The boys have missed having friends here. One of the heartaches of being here has been taking the boys to empty playgrounds day after day. Usually the boys are happy but it feels like there is something missing because it is always more exciting watching and listening and playing with other kids.  And most places we go during the day are devoid of kids. The buses, the supermarket, the library, the cafe are all kid-free and the boys are either welcomed as a novelty (more commonly) or barely tolerated for their for their imposition.  A the end of the a day of 'solitary outings' I have been know to cry. The kids are all in school or care and if there is a child there, they are being looked after by a nanny or more commonly a Grandfather (Nonno)! It amazes me the number of Grandfathers I see pushing wee babies around the park or coaxing along a toddler. I guess Nonna is at home with the cooking and the washing and Mama and Papa are at work. Having children is an expensive occupation in Italy and very few venture as far as three.  Government assistance is minimal for families.

But we have new friends, and as my wise sister says - all you ever need in the world is one or two great friends.

Our other friend in Milan: Ernesto (right) with Gwilym and Silas

Amazing Aosta

With our time running short and our weekends now booked until departure, we finally returned to the area we both love: Valle d'Aosta. This is a gorgeous mountainous valley that Rory frequented when he was living in Torino (Rory lived in Torino for 18 months after graduation - hence his fluency in Italiano, and returned the year before Jane met him!) and had endless weekends free, abundant energy and had found an alpine club to tag along with. From the valley you can climb Mount Blanc (Monte Bianco), The Matterhorn (Cervino) and Gran Paradiso to name the big three. It contains many many ski fields – some tiny, some huge and from the valley you cross over the alps into France and Switzerland.

When we were first married (for those reading who don't know us), we came straight to Italy after our wedding where we worked in Assisi for two months, before heading to Milan for another two months to work alongside Alison (much like we are doing now) and promote La Plastecnica. 

Rory grinding up 2000m: 2006

We went to Valle d'Aosta on 3-4 occasions, tramping with Richard Wesley, climbing a wee mountain by ourselves and finally cycling up it at the start of our grand cycle tour of Switzerland (mainly). We hauled our bikes and gear up a spectacular side valley just for the heck of it before descending to the valley floor again and a couple of days later exited over Gran Saint Bernardo pass (2469m) into France.

Rory in our 'freedom camping spot' on
 Grand Saint Bernardo pass
 - totally illegal and totally spectacular 

I love the valley. Of course the mountains are spectacular but it also has a rich mountain culture developed over hundreds of years. It is lined with precarious castles atop rocky outcrops. The houses are beautiful – great stone slabs for tiles, decorative woodwork on balconies, eaves and window frames, cute little windows that keep out the cold often laced with colourful window boxes. The shops sell lots of Aosta artisan work and you can imagine the creativity which can flow from being couped up through a long winter. The food (as I have talked about before) is rich in calories, dense food for people who are used to adversity and hard work (well, they used to be!). The cheeses come from local cows and goats – often hand milked with the cheeses made in tiny factories on farm.

November is a great time to go if you are like us and don't like doing what everyone else is doing. It is post trekking season and pre ski season and is probably about as dead as it gets. The locals are just tucked up, ticking along and readying themselves for the crazy ski season.

So finally, with the forecast looking great, we got to take our boys there and revel in a weekend of mountains – the place where we seem to do best as a family.

We had chosen a village called Cogne in Gran Paradiso National park (which contains Gran Paradiso the mountain). 

We booked the day before and rocked up to the hotel which is run by a family whose Father (Dorino Ouvrier) is probably the most significant artist in the area – a wood carver and artist. The hotel had lots of his artworks in our room, in the restaurant and outside.

Hostellerie Del Atelier

 On saturday we walked from a local village up to the local rock crag – sort of by accident. It was a magnificant, sun-bathed slab of rock, situated beside a waterfall which is busily forming up for the ice climbing season. We met only one person at the rock – a local alpine guide who proceeded to free climb up the slab in his alpine boots (it was a very low grade we discovered) to go check on how the ice was forming up.

 

Gwilym and Silas adored scrambling on the rock and kept us on our toes since we were half way up a rocky outcrop with some bad drop offs! Gwilym does not seem to have developed a natural fear of heights just yet and seemed to scramble up anything. We walked to the top of the crag for a snack as the sun dipped over the ridge before we headed back to the hotel. It was easy to imagine coming back in a few years with some ropes and shoes for a play. This is an admission because I consider myself a retired rock climber!

Native to the area are two types of mountain goat: the Chamois (or Car-mosh-shee in Italian) and the Steinboch (Stambecco). We were pretty eager to see both – Silas particularly wanted to see the males fighting (I had read that Nov/dec is the fighting/mating season). We spotted Chamois from the car en route to the village where our next day walk started from and thought we were pretty clever.

Steinboch

Chamois

The walk we chose wound up a hillside – eventually hitting a col and heading down to a Rifugio (or hut). The Italians do huts pretty fancily. They are more like hotels with all the comforts and seem particuarly appealing with kids because you wouldn't have to carry so much gear. However, the rifugio had closed for the season so we just nosied on up the hill. Our goat spotting desires were soon met with heaps of Chamois out grazing and Rory finally spotted a Steinboch. These guys are impressive and very cool, calm and collected. As you can see from the photos – they don't worry about being shot and humans do not provide much of a threat. We saw only one but got really close and we all really enjoyed just hanging out watching this beautiful animal munching away in its natural environment.

All rugged up

 

A happy descent in Autumn sun

I think we climbed about 500m – not making the pass but hitting enough snow to make it not as feasible with small kids. A single tramper interupted our solitude on what would usually be a highway in the season. We snacked and turned around with the sun still shining and wound our way back down. Honestly – it was our best day yet I reckon.

I just loved the space and the freedom, the colours and the views. Watching and spotting the animals (goats, squirrels, birds). I loved watching Rory gently coaxing Gwilym along the track (he walked most of the way up) and Silas skipping along in his happy place.

The boys were so happy – endlessly entertained with walking and watching, sliding and scratching about in the dirt. Gwilym said on the way home: ' I want to go the mountains again and again and again and again. Actually, I want to live there'.

I wondered why we had bothered with Florence, why visiting art galleries had been so important to me when faced with the beauty of these mountains. But the sun was shining and that can make all the difference in the world!

We headed back via the town of Aosta (the heart of the valley) to stroll the streets in a chilly twilight, window shop and eventually eat 'Turkish Takeaways' made by Pakistanis' with Italian side dishes! It hit the spot before we hit the beloved autostrada with the ever cool calm and collected sat nav lady to accompany us back to Baggio.

En route home we talked of what we would change if we knew we were dying or if we could have our time again – in the words of my brave and beautiful Auntie Roz (who passed away with cancer a few years ago) when she was asked the same question: the answer would have to be “more of the same”. It just doesn't get much better than this!