Anniversaries, Reunions, and New Encounters

It was the morning of their 36th anniversary, and the tramps awoke to another grey day – disappointing after going to bed under clear skies that had followed a lengthy downpour – after all the day they married had been bright, sunny and clear albeit with the usual two feet of snow on the ground one can expect in Cambridge (Massachusetts, that is). Rome was the same when they returned, but without the snow. One had hoped, therefore, that southern Italy would, 36 years later, understand the requirements of the day.

Not only did the weather not cooperate, neither did the WLW. The tramp had felt that the clutch was struggling on the climb to Sermoneta, and he later let on as how, if one of the cars we had encountered on the hairpin turn road on the way up (Sermoneta is one of those wonderful little hill towns which are delightful to visit in all respects – as long as one is driving a normal vehicle) had not instantly behaved the tramp’s signal to keep moving (he was graciously planning to stop and let us continue, not quite realising just how impossible that would be for us), the WLW might have had to roll backwards quite a long way before trying to climb again, and who knows whether it would have made it – or for that matter whether the tramp would have! And, of course, at a certain point, the tramp had refused to go any further, fearing (rightly as it transpired) that the narrowing road was leading us into a place that no WLWs should go.

The effort had been worth it (even taking into account the need to back the WLW down the road a few hundred metres – with a stone wall on one side and a cliff on the other plus the odd car wishing to pass - reverse it around a corner and re-park it in the sort of space the WLW could breathe in). This was not a forgone conclusion and everything could have gone horribly wrong. The trampess had never visited her old college friend before, and while lunches or dinners had always been jolly, to say that a few days together would be unmitigated bliss would have been a risky prediction. Nor had the tramp met her at all. Nor had either of them met the husband. So to begin with a dicey clutch, a less than perfect assent (I did not mention any of the various conversations that included the words “do you know where you are? Do you really know this is where we should be? Have you read the instructions?”), and a less than perfect abandonment of the WLW, your trampess rang the doorbell with some trepidation. All fear was instantly cast aside. Not tentatively, not gradually, but absolutely instantly. This was going to be a fun few days. The house is stone and built into the hillside. Every room has a splendid view over the Pontine plain. Every level has a terrace and each terrace has its own character (a pool, a garden, a lemon tree, a fireplace). Every room is beautiful: simple, rustic architecture with stone walls, arches and old stone lintels but filled with furniture and chandeliers from their last house (a chateau in France which they turned into one of the famed Relais et Chateaux members), a wonderfully successful lesson in counterpoint (we won’t even mention the counterpoint it made to the WLW – after all one does not want to hurt the WLW’s feelings). But a house does not make a visit (though clearly, it sets the scene – and the scene here was informal but elegant – perfect), and even the most beautiful houses can be inhabited by miseries. Not this one. Instant warmth and enthusiasm greeted us. All the tension of the climb up evaporated. Coffee, conversation, a brief mention of the tramp’s allergies (as the plan for dinner emerged) and off we were! The tramp’s allergies did add one more exciting dimension to meals: my friend is vegetarian (though she eats fish – not one of the regular menu items in a hill town!), her husband abhors vegetables, and the tramp can’t eat bread, cheese or wine. The points of intersection were very narrow but dinner was a huge success and lasted well beyond bed time, owing to fine wine, fine conversation, and a fire that was kept going despite the wet wood. The tramp eventually tumbled into a splendid four poster bed (as you would expect, a proper antique one, which of course meant it was just big enough for him if he slept diagonally, antique beds are lovely, antique people were small!) and your trampess curled herself happily into a bed in another room. Our only instructions were that it was unlikely that breakfast woul