A taste of Perugia

Sterlinghe

Bedroom
view

We’ve just soared above cloud level, leaving the warm rain behind and entering a clear, blue layer of sky. It matches the blue that has been present above the hills of Città di Castello every day for the past week as we return from a family holiday at my uncles house in Perugia, Italy; what luxury it has been. Each day has melted into the next with the ever-present sun heating the yellow stones that remained warm well into the night.
Beautiful Sterlinghe, a holiday villa that’s taken D & V 10 years to complete; each detail perfected, from the copper wires to the wood fired oven to the perfectly groomed lavender bushes. If you were to close your eyes and wander through the garden, your body would submit to a completely soporific state, acting as a container for the sun’s heat as the constant hum of a thousand bees filled your ears and the smell of lavender indulged your nostrils. Opening your eyes again would bring you back to life as the vibrancy of the surrounding colours hit you retina, a true feast for your eyes.
Lunch time was my favourite  – bright red tomatoes under white mozzarella topped with a single, green basil leaf; pink prosciutto wrapped around orange melon; huge green salads next to chunks of ciabatta drenched in thick, yellow olive oil and deep red wine in vintage glasses. In the dappled sunlight, under hanging vines everyone would gather to sit around the huge wooden table and eat and laugh. One afternoon, when joined by new company we bonded through a group pizza making session, kneading the dough, spreading the passata and choosing from an array of amazing ingredients. It took a few attempts but soon enough beautiful, organic shapes were streaming out of the wood fired oven, placed upon wooden chopping boards, drizzled with truffle oil and topped with fresh rocket; the whole scene was like an art installation.

One cannot possibly write about a holiday in Italy without mentioning the cuisine given its prominence in Italian culture. One night, we went for a meal in town and as we waited for the food to arrive, D & V told us about Sterlinghe’s creation: how kind the builders were, courteously inviting them to their family homes for a meal – it’s typical for Italian families to own a patch of land upon which they build multiple houses to allow room for the whole extended family to live. During one meal that they went to the food was all served on plastic plates that were placed on plastic tables as everyone sat on plastic chairs with a small TV blaring in the corner. Yet despite their obvious lack of wealth, the richness lay within the food and the joy that it brought everyone as they ate together and welcomed their guests with open hearts and expressive hands.

As the food began to arrive at our table I noticed the energy increasing around us. Beneath the towering 12^th century Cathedral and the ancient sandstone and red brick buildings that bordered the town square, clusters of beautiful, deeply tanned girls began to arrive in groups. Behind them, followed equally brown, well-dressed men with slicked back hair that matched their shiny shoes. Against the yellows and oranges of the buildings, the whole scene gave off its own heat waves, sending my eyes into a lull that I fought off by jiggling my knees.

One of my favourite things about that Mediterranean paradise is the plain elegance with which the Italians conduct themselves socially; they drink no more than a small glass or two of alcohol, no leery voices or obnoxiously loud music could be heard and no over-stimulating advertisements are plastered against the walls. 

The flow was mellow that day as the sky transitioned into night and we ended the evening with a gelato, as one should. My eyes bulged as I held up the supposedly ‘small sized’ cone that was quickly drowning in scoops of fresh fig, walnut and pistachio ice cream – 2 scoops was the minim but it easily beat an English ‘large’. I lapped it off the cone before it became a sticky puddle in my hand. Outside the gelateria, motley crews were standing in circles, eyes down, dodgily licking their ice creams in silence with the polizia parked up under the stone arch nearby in case Iscreamed… Needless to say, the evenings innocence kept trouble at bay and no one went hungry that night… or any night for that matter.

If food is the substance of nurturing, Italy is the mother nurturer and instead of hitting the treadmill running, I’ve opted for the holiday route of indulging in ‘Il dolce far niente’ – the sweetness of doing nothing.

Mm… I just heard my tummy rumble, or was that turbulence? God, I miss it already! 

Soporific song of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nvpThS7zfQ8 

Gottwood

It was finally that time of the year! Like an excited schoolgirl ready for her first day, I jolted out of bed; my breathing getting shorter as my mind began to race with mental notes “tent poles? Check. Glitter? Check. Wine? Check” I took a deep breath. One step at a time. First mission: Coffee (not that I needed more stimulation...)

It was time for Gottwood, the first festival of the year located 6 hours from Bristol in Anglesey, Wales. I zoomed over to N’s house as the caffeine levels peaked, half dragging along my camping gear that was awkwardly strapped to my body. We packed the boot of his newly acquired, 1960’s baby blue Volvo, shut the bonnet and sat down to fiddle with the ancient seatbelts. As the hum of the engine began to reverberate through the leather seats, I rolled down my window, closed my eyes and felt the Bristol breeze as the first of the day’s tunes began to play.

The flow was easy as the hours passed, countless rollies were smoked and conversation continued … until we hit standstill traffic. The summer sun beat down hard on the bonnet, the temperature gage was stuck on ‘hot’ and we began to feel like a slow cooked, Sunday roast with no ‘fan assisted’ option to cool us down. “Please can the engine not blow, please can the engine not blow” was the mantra for that moment as I supressed the possibility of getting stranded in the middle of Wales.

One hour later, when patience had reached its limits, the traffic started moving and so (thankfully) did the breeze. We drove on, engine intact, brain half baked but managing to keep our cool and save the full cook up till later. It wasn’t long before we’d made it through the tedious queues, bargained down the shuttle bus driver and arrived, along with the rest of the crew to the camping spot that T and D had patiently saved… poles, pegs, mattress pumps and many hands – soon enough we’d erected a little village with I and B’s totem Bell tent adorned in fairly lights and incense, serving as a signpost and safe-haven for when the rain fell.

Gottwood was the perfect festival to start the season; the music was mostly funky house with the line-up including amazing artists such as Joy Orbison, Bradley Zero and Archie Hamilton who played in stages dotted around the Welsh woodlands; the lake-stage holding the perfect day vibes for when the rays were out and the pyramid stage, with its 3D mist-filled visuals transforming the night-time into a multidimensional reality of sorts. With our beautiful crew who could often be found slutdropping under the neon arrow held by Queen L, we wondered through the woods, dancing along and branching off to discover magical venues.

It’s funny how fast we create routines for ourselves, the motive of our waking life became the music instead of the sun; rising late-afternoon, beginning the ritual of glitter and fancy dress, packing some real nutrition in at the avocado stand followed by a caffeinated beverage of some sort: re-set, re-charged and ready. Should the griminess and overflowing portaloos get too much to bear, the glorious options of a shower or a posh poo were game changers. Although, it did rain enough for a daily cleanse (free of charge!)

I chuckle to myself as I reminisce about the first downpour. I was sat against a hay bail, talking to a beautiful stranger about our love for the elements and nature. A deep, monotonous techno tune was playing and every 4 beats, a woman’s voice would quietly chant “rain”. Sure enough, synchronicity was in effect and the droplets started arriving, rapidly picking up pace and shifting the tone of our conversation from appreciation to annoyance; we cursed the elements that we’d loved only minutes before, gave each other a squeeze and ran off to join our separate crews. We clambered into the bell tent, leaving our muddy wellies at the entrance to enter the west world of yoga and slut drops to a harmony of kumbaya… “Inhaaale” everyone lifted their arms “and exhaale”, as their eyes closed and their arms came down “OI OI OI OI OIIIII!!! CHUG IT!” We creased at the vibe-kill as the group of lads next door began chanting loudly, jeering their mate on to chug his beer and then like clockwork, L stumbled in to the centre of the circle, eyes rolling and 2 bottles in hand. What to do but laugh…

From laughing to tears, the times took an emotional twist. I truly learnt the effects of sleep deprivation due to being convinced that the festival finished a day early and pulling a premature all-nighter. I realised I’d gone from half-baked to fully frazzled when I bumped into our mate O (who we’d spent all morning with) in the middle of a crowd, looking at me as he called my name, still dressed in his policeman outfit from a few hours before. My blood froze, thinking I’d been hunted down by security and was being kicked out of the festival. I stood in shock for a few minutes before my very slow brain began to recognise him and I loosened the grip on my rucksack and broke the confused silence with a laugh. A new song came on and the rhythm continued, as it always does.

So, although there were shit moments (like when we were dancing at the pyramid stage and the guy dressed in the inflatable poo-suit popped up on top of the hay bails), most of them were incredible (like when the whole crew coincidentally found each other around a random tree, like woodland creatures responding to natures call). On the last morning, C & I were the last to leave the deserted campsite due to our deadened response to all the attempted wake up calls. I managed to luckily reclaim my phone at lost and found before we spotted N & D who’d been patiently waiting for us by the car. As we drove off in that baby blue Volvo, I smiled; still riding the buzz of the weekend and feeling the warmth of beautiful company, like an aftertaste of the Chai-rum that had always given us that much needed lift at the end of the night. Until next year, Gottwood.

Song of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-s32ESIR-4 

Mix of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1hIxht83h8

A Summer Song

The sun is shining, the breeze is fresh and the background symphony is a combination of skylark, goldfinch and magpie calls, broken up by the odd splash of a Pollock’s tale in the estuary. The sounds of summer in the Devonshire countryside… lush. How liberating it is for the mind to be free of the burdens of city life and its hard, dense energy.

In Psychology, there’s a term ‘sensory adaptation’ that describes a common, unconscious behaviour that we use to blend into our environment… you know when you walk into a room with an overwhelming smell and it dominates your attention for a while, until your senses quickly adapt and your attention moves elsewhere… my point being that with its constant sirens, flashing lights and pungent smells, I think city living massively desensitises us.

In one way, it’s probably necessary; creating a coat of sensory armour to shield us from the tumultuous tumbles and shin splints inherent to the rat race. But on the other hand, it causes us to lose touch with our feelings, our common-sense(s)… our human nature. Despite our technological advancements and ability to instantaneously ‘connect’, we’ve sadly become so disconnected…

Now, while this may be my comedown epiphany,

RIP Gary

My macro evaluation of society,

Or my mind finally getting the chance to run free…

Whatever the reason,

The beginning of this season,

Has given me the space to see.

Summer time in England is when the true magic happens and for once, I am not jetting off to miss the show.

The wand has been waved

Tunes <3

And all those enslaved,

In grey clouds and monotonous drizzle,

Have been freed to unleash,

Their well-groomed beasts,

As the candy pops, cracks and fizzles…

From Gottwood to Glastonbury and somewhere in-between, I’ve been swept up in a rhythmic wave to dance to the sounds of summer. The disconnection of city life has been thrown to one-side as the crew re-assembles in tents old and new, to dance and laugh and sing; Ay ay me hearty’s I feel it in my soul, I feel that pirate ting up in my soul…

Glastonbury 2016

Like the smooth transitions of a really good mix, the days have merged into one another seamlessly and for the first time in a long time, I’m stopping to process the metamorphosis.

Weeks ago, we flitted and fluttered as forest fairies in the Welsh woodlands to funky, house-filled beats. A wave of the wand, another weekend and whoosh! The times took a tropical turn and we floated for hours passed London’s bridges and towers, feeling somewhat wavy aboard the Captain and Co’s birthday vessel. But rougher seas were in need, so the spell conjured up something greater for us to do…

Boat Party
London, 2016

Gottwood, 2016

We became reckless and wild, like an unsatisfied child, attempting to take over every vessel in site (unless they were in the kids playground area during which all crew members [unless gold], were instructed to come back at 7pm…); we became pirates for the night and exercised our rights to groove to that sexy disco beat (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBpYgpF1bqQ ).

The fairy dust has finally settled on the windowsill in front of me.

A momentary breather from the mass of blissful confusion,

To ensure it hasn’t been an illusion,

And that the sounds that I’m hearing are real…

Om Namah Shivaya

Because one must not forget,

That in our attempts to re-connect,

We must still keep our feet on the ground.

For it’s too easy to get swept away,

In the tide of worries we try to keep at bay,

And we end up missing the current sound.

The one sound that we call,

The Uni-verse.

Quote of the day: "To be grounded is to be connected to our emotional-electrical currents, to the waves of our needs and images and the rhythms of actions which comprise our physical-psychic processes: the rhythms of the human and natural ground." - Stanley Keleman