Ways With Words

Christmas and Commercialism

Jeudi 8 Decembre

The Christmas decorations in Paris are stylish and muted – unlike England. The ice rink outside Hôtel de Ville only starts on the 10^th.  I have been pontificating about a country with strong Catholic roots not wanting to commercialise a religious celebration. Then we went to the Christmas market which stretches from the top of the Champs-Elysées to the Place de la Concorde. The biggest and best in Paris we read but we’d say the biggest and worst. Forget non-commercialisation of Christmas here. Think instead of the Winter wonderland in Hyde Park. We rushed by in our judgemental way.

Earlier that day we walked along the Boulevard St. Germain. There we lingered over more creative Christmas stalls. We revisited Rue de Seine; a favourite street from our past. There were even more galleries than we remembered. Two had black and white photographs by Mario Giacomelli. We were entranced by his photographs of lively, running and dancing priests with flowing robes and his stripy landscape shots of ploughed fields. Familiar pictures but we didn’t recognize his name. For old times sake we had lunch at La Palette where artists meet – apparently. 

A new addition to the museum scene is musee du quai Branly, “Where cultures meet in dialogue” is its strap line. We had read about the extraordinary building designed by Jean Nouval. Aptly described – the building was an experience in itself. I am very interested in Oceanic art so enjoyed the whole experience – “an innovative and diversified approach to non-Western cultures”. We spent a long time in an extensive Maori exhibition.

A friend Diana had recommended the restaurant, Chez Omar, but had no address. We stumbled across it on Rue de Bretagne so went for dinner. It was great fun: very cheap, very cheerful. There were always about 20 people waiting for tables.

The waiter insisted I had what appeared to be a fig biscuit with my coffee. Not figgy biscuits as we know them.

 

Vendredi 9 Decembre

We can’t believe it is our last day. So much we still want to do.

I called in at a clothes shop I had been admiring all week. Some flamboyant clothes in glittery brocade, some restrained shift dresses in black linen: "I could dress myself from here", I told Steve. "You could but it would close the business" he said, when he saw the simplest dress was over 400 euros. I particularly liked the army beds along one wall filled with grey linen cushions.

Diana had recommended Musee Carnavalet too so we decided to go there. “The most outstanding buildings in the Marais”, we read. The museum is housed in 2 buildings. It has over 100 rooms filled with paintings, models and displays showing Paris’ history. We saw loads but missed Proust’s bedroom. I decided I needed to learn more about the French Revolution so shall start by rereading ‘A Tale of Two Cities’.

Definitely a place for another visit.

Lunch at another memorable, very busy, very French restaurant.

We planned to go to Madeleine to see a Giacometti exhibition, to go to Jeu de Paume, but we couldn’t bear to leave the lovely Marais. Instead spent an hour reading on the sofa under the Gary Hume. This evening we had snacks at Café de Progres. Kate said they make the best Croque Monsieur she has ever had and she’s right.

I read that Paris is the city of small studio flats which is why the cafés and restaurants are so full. We loved the space in this flat and lingered in the mornings and evenings yet we also loved sitting on heated café terraces watching all life go by.

So sad our week is over. Au Revoir le Marais, l'appartement fomidable and all the delights of Paris.

 

 

Locomotives and Hunting – we act out of character

Tuesday 6 December

We had a list of Monday closings but now it was Tuesday in Paris and time to catch up with galleries, restaurants, shops, life.

Not far away is La Passage de Retz, a former toy factory but now a gallery for contemporary art. This turned out to be simple, abstract collages from ripped paper by two artists whose names I can’t remember which is a bit shameful as we liked their work. I was even more taken by the building. From the main gallery space was a zinc, spiral staircase leading to a balcony. Steve tried to convince me it would not look right in our 16^th century farmhouse but I’m not so sure.

Chloe and Videl went to see Musée de la Chasse when they were staying here. We wouldn’t have considered visiting a museum of hunting but I trusted their judgment so we dutifully shot along. (Any metaphor I chose suggested hunting or animals: shot, trotted, flew, galloped, skulked, prowled, crept – funny). The museum was quite amazing. Unusual avante garde art was on display amongst stuffed animals (Scary, Theo would say) and traditional paintings; there were exquisite wooden cupboards with drawers that opened to show animal poo and other curios; you could press buttons and hear bird song. We spent ages surprisingly mesmerized by hunting displays.

Did much wandering around discovering strangely, quiet places and quietly, strange places. (I wish I’d said this but I’m quoting from an art book.) Then on to a less quiet place : Musée des Arts Decoratifs. I’d imagined this would be small but I was wrong. Fortunately we had a fortifying lunch there at Le Saint de Loup. We could have seen decorative arts from medieval times but decided to concentrate on the 20^th century. We enjoyed designer chairs from 1960 onwards accompanied by film extracts where the furniture had appeared. We had sat in similar Eames chairs while visiting friends recently. We should have been filmed.

Most extraordinary was the retrospective exhibition of Jean Paul Gorde’s work – a flamboyant icon of fashion, advertising, photography. The centerpiece was a giant locomotive, installed because of Gorde’s celebrations for the bi-centenary of the French Revolution. There were videos from the display with Margaret Thatcher looking entertained. 

We checked out Colette, because everyone says you should. Expensive and boring. Give me a department store like Merci.

Finished the day at a concert in Notre Dame of Renaissance songs. Haunting music.

Well – didn’t quite finish the day at Notre Dame but stopped at Café Charlot for ear wagging and drinks. Fastly spoken French sounds so intense I can’t believe these conversations aren’t about existentialism and the meaning of life.

Merci for Merci

Monday 5 December

We thought we had missed Merci and then we saw the small yard full of white Christmas trees and a red car with the registration MERCI. Ha ha. Kate had recommended this department store but didn’t say I’d find it bliss. We nearly didn’t go. A department store suggests John Lewis and I could never get excited about John Lewis whereas Merci . . . It wasn’t that I wanted to buy anything but I could have bought everything: misshapen pottery, murky coloured towels, wonky glass vases, non-glittery baubles for Christmas, but most of all I wanted to buy the oatmeal coloured cement floors, the grey metal stairs, the iron pipes. This was industrial shabbiness on an industrial scale. Kate wasn’t to know it was what I love.

After wandering from floor to floor and buying waffled face clothes in grey and mustard and a white porcelain squashed vase we had coffee in the café. This was called “The Used Book Café”. That says it all. It was a floor to ceiling, book-lined room with dim lighting from old glass chandeliers and strong coffee. It took a lot of effort to move from the Merci café but out there was Paris. 

The Pompidou Centre by comparison seemed conventional. We took the elevators up and up. I am reminded of the time we saw the exhibition L’Année Pop and 60s pop music blared as we ascended – and descended – several times as I was enjoying the nostalgia. The shop and bookshop need as much time as the gallery. I bought a book on myths about Banksy. I read that a man walked along the queues of Banksy’s exhibition in Bristol patting people; then they found they all had a sticker on their backs saying, “Idiot”. Was the mysterious back-patter Banksy or not? I hope it was him.

The Niki de St. Phalle sculptured fountain was colourful and around it were lots of wall paintings/graffiti. Friends of Banksy?

Steve wanted to see the Seine. We crossed the bridge to Notre Dame and were drawn inside by candles and choral music. Despite our lack of belief we like to pay our Euros and light candles. He for his mother, me for grandsons. The Christmas Crib was huge with loads of tulips – not very Merci.

Back to the flat through the lit-up Marais. Not very marshy now.

 

 

 

 

Is Monday the New Sabbath in Paris?

Sunday 4 December

I expected Sunday to be very quiet on the streets of Paris. Surely everyone will be at Mass followed by a large family lunch? Obviously my stereotypes are many years out of date. Rue de Bretagne was even busier than Saturday. Many stalls lined the streets selling desirable bric a brac like globes and old anglepoise lamps. Kate’s favourite bookshop, Comme un Roman, was full of browsing readers. Surely they’d love a literature festival? There was a long queue at the bread shop. When I tasted their buttery croissants I knew why. Café Charlot, opposite the market, was filled with young, talkative, black clad, espresso drinkers. Not all my stereotypes are wrong.

My red gloves were out of place – not very Simone de Beauvoir.

Later we walked around Canal St Martin at the 10^th arrondisement. At this point Paris became Amsterdam. There were lovely old locks; high wrought iron bridges; people on bikes and leaves in the canal. We found a brocante market. We often visit these in the Dordogne where they are called Vide Greniers, but I expect there aren’t many greniers to empty in Paris. In Perigord we have the car to carry old jam jars and pots. Here we were frustrated by the thought of our Eurostar travel when there were so many old leather chairs we wanted.

Browsing our guides I see that lots of places are closed on Mondays. Maybe that’s when everyone goes to Mass.

I Think Therefore I Am – particularly in Paris

Saturday 3 December

When we arrived at St. Pancras to get the Eurostar I had a Margaret Drabble moment. In her new volume of short stories Margaret Drabble writes of a woman who is very excited by trains going to foreign destinations. I felt the same. In a very short time we would be in the heart of the Marais with elegant Parisians drinking wine, smoking aromatic cigarettes and discussing politics and philosophy. And we were.

Clutching Kate’s artistic and thorough guide we arrived at the big doors and entered. We climbed the wooden, spiral staircase to the 3^rd floor. As she wrote, C’est formidable. If we were on a television programme to guess who owned such a flat we would be saying, “Striking, modern art; wooden floors throughout; minimalist, stylish furniture: must be an art dealer or designer.” Spot on! We explored the rooms, shouting with pleasure. In the end bedroom we saw a wooden K and T and deduced that was Kate and Ted’s room and so ours for the week. Out of the windows we saw typical Parisian buildings with iron shutters and balconies and perfectly proportioned windows.

Opposite the flat was a restaurant packed with Parisians having long lunches. We went to join them then turned to Kate’s personal guide again. Rue de Bretagne, Le Marche des Enfants Rouge (why is it so called, we wondered), Café le Progres, Les Succulents de Cactus, galleries, quirky shops: we enjoyed them all. Then back to the flat for a late afternoon rest and read.

We wanted a simple, unfussy but French scene for dinner and found it at Robert et Louise: a crowded, shabby restaurant with large tables, unmatching chairs and a huge fire where they grilled meat, including our wooden boards full of lamb steaks. Very Café Oto, we thought, very us.

Back to Le Progres, as we now call it, for coffee and cognac and to absorb Saturday Night French Fever.

The peace and beauty of “our” flat was very welcome – so was bed.

Does Umbria Make You Creative?

Sitting in the courtyard at Villa Pia someone said to me, “This place makes me so creative.” She was spending her mornings in the writing workshops then doing her own self directed painting in the afternoon. I am amazed at the level of creativity that happens on Ways With Words' courses. On Friday evenings in Umbria we have a Private View – a posh concept for a fun/informal event when we all gather in the painters’ barn to see a slide show of images from the week (people, places and art work) and more paintings and drawings on the walls. We drink prosecco and marvel at how much has been achieved.    Saluti artists.

After dinner we sit in the lounge while the writers read short selected pieces from their week’s writing. One week they were linked by the theme of objects. Each writer had written a description of an object chosen from around Villa Pia, and then transformed the object into a person. The next the writing accompanied slides of a figure drawing class. Such wit and invention.

Meanwhile Bepe, Patrizia, Jesse and Marinella are creative in the kitchen and we marvel at their skill and inventiveness as the huge buffet appears at lunchtime and the 4 course meal each evening. They create with their knives and wooden spoons instead of charcoal, paint and pens. I won’t try and tell them that they are food artists.

Is it the place - Umbria with its pink skies, ploughed fields and hill top villages? Is it people – helpful tutors and supportive colleagues? Is it being away from all the pressures of daily existence?

I think space has something to do with it. Large rooms, high ceilings, panoramic views; does physical space help ideas fly? Psychological space seems unquantifiable but I’m sure there’s lots of that too.

If you need space for yourself and your creativity consider a Ways With Words course in Fingals in Devon (29 April – 4 May 2012) or here at Villa Pia in Umbria  (22 Sept – 29 Sept. and/or 29 Sept - 6 Oct.).

Peace and Quiet in Umbria?

I’ve been lying – unwittingly. I suggest on Ways With Words publicity that our courses in Italy are perfect for a peaceful, quiet holiday. Not true. It can’t be denied - Villa Pia is very noisy. We’ve been coming for about 15 years so I should know that but I always forget. When I sit in a deckchair in the courtyard in these hot autumn days I enjoy the sunshine; the symmetry of the knot garden; the views through the wisteria of hills, cypress trees, olive groves – but not silence. The four Italian chefs shout all the time. Maybe they are shouting instructions to each other as they bang about in the kitchen; maybe it's gossip. My Italian is not good enough to tell but I do know it is friendly and from the kitchen come pleasant cookery noises of chopping, stirring, simmering, pans clattering. At meal times there will be a vast collection of delicious, home-cooked dishes; nothing is spoilt by the noise. The cleaners here never sweep and mop in resentful silence but instead keep a flow of loud, cheerful conversation. Often we walk across their newly mopped tiles but no problem. They shout welcoming greetings. Soon one of the course members will decide to make a cappuccino. The beans are whizzed in the electric machine and ground to powder. Next the large plumbed-in coffee machine starts to splutter and pour. Upstairs shutters bang. Footsteps ring on the tiled floors. Another opens the fridge for a beer. Bottles clink. However the writers and painters can find quiet corners to think and create. Some disappear onto leafy terraces to look and record. Others go to swim and wonder at the Umbrian landscape. They swish gently up and down the pool. Many pour a glass of wine and read. It is possible to revel in quietness but most enjoy the familiar cacophony of Villa Pia. Yet the English are reserved. They whisper to each other. Even hoots of laughter are quiet hoots. Maybe that’s what we come to Villa Pia for. Besides the wine, food, heat, pink skies, fields of sunflowers and golden mornings we want the babble of Italian voices and the crashes of shutters and doors in this large tiled villa. I’ll stop promising peace and quiet. That would be lying. A mark after the first week for noisiness would be: Italians - 10 out of 10, English – 3 out of 10. If you would enjoy the noises of Villa Pia we shall be returning next September 22 for 2 weeks of Ways With Words courses on writing, art, book groups and ideas-based discussions. All details on website or by phoning the office and talking to Bryony: 01803 867373

BLOGGING FROM NEW YORK – it’s a bloggers’ paradise

 

THE JOURNEY

Before we left Heathrow we enjoyed observing an American family – not typical American; not typical of anywhere: pregnant mother, father and about 3 little children between the ages of 2 and 4. In their oversized, dressing-up-style clothes the children looked as if the parents had said, “Choose what you want to wear from our wardrobes”. On a previous NY visit we’d seen a notice that said, to our bemusement, Respect the fence. These children didn’t respect fences, ropes, boundaries of any sort. They climbed under, over and on them, ignoring all attempts to divide and marshall the passengers. The parents were indulgent. “I hope they aren’t sitting close to us on the plane,” Steve said. They were, but the whole family was charming. As we were getting off the plane in New York a feisty, American mother, with her immaculately dressed daughter, said to them, “Can you let me off before you? You have about 10 children, whereas I have only one.” We’d been saying to them, “After you. Can we help?”

The West/West divide starts here.

THE ARRIVAL

The yellow cab drew up and the doorman carried our cases into the lovely building. In the lift we smugly pressed PH. The familiar smell of books, wood, leather - the indescribable smell – greeted us when we entered the flat. We sighed, laughed and danced with pleasure at being back. The sunlight was streaming into the spacious rooms. We opened the French windows, walked around the roof terrace and breathed in New York.

It was early evening here, about midnight in England. Following Christian’s suggestion we went to a nearby Italian restaurant – Nonna’s - for cheap, quick food then back to our giant bed and to watch NY 1 – a NY news channel followed by the sleep of the jet-lagged. We are so happy to be here.

FRIDAY 2 September

Today was supposedly a quiet, relaxing day but it was our first day back in NY so no chance. Breakfast on the roof garden then we were off. We picked up Village Voice and bought The New York Times and Time Out New York. We walked down to the Lincoln Centre. A large screen was up in the courtyard and hundreds of chairs arranged in rows beyond the fountains. We discovered that there were free screenings of operas from the Met for the next 4 nights. Amazing. These screenings are almost as expensive as the opera tickets themselves in England. Our next few evenings are sorted.

Walked on to The Modern  - a posh hotel next to MOMA. Its restaurant overlooks MOMA’s lovely sculpture garden. Had a long, restful, delicious bar lunch then walked a few more blocks to Bryant Park. I love the story of Bryant Park: once a wasteland, home of drug dealers, avoided by everyone. Now it is filled with flowers, trees and people relaxing on the grass. Children play, workers have their lunches, others play chess, read, meet and talk. It has been developed so imaginatively with an Outdoor Reading Room (my inspiration for the one at Ways With Words): classes in juggling, Thi Chi, yoga; a regular piano recital. I think the courtyard at Dartington should be just like this at Ways With Words.

Back to Moma for the free entry on Friday evening. Crowded but partyish. Overheard: Next time I’ll pay the 25 bucks to escape these crowds. We didn’t feel like this; we liked the busyness. It wasn’t as crowded as some exhibitions in London where you pay an entry fee and then can’t get near the art.

We had been told to get to the opera early for free seats so we did. It slowly became very full. Perfect: a balmy evening that remained warm, the lights of Manhattan twinkling around, the swish of the fountains and an unusually egalitarian opera crowd. Puccini’s La Fanciulla del West had dire words (at least in translation) and a mundane plot but sublime singing – and all the excitement of the Met. We clapped as if it were live.

Bed Bed Bed – and a huge one too.

OUR TIME HERE MOVES ON - too quickly

Some Observations

Food Shopping: New York seems expensive. The recession in England has resulted in shops doing loads of offers and reducing prices; it’s almost impossible to buy one of anything in supermarkets. Here I am amazed by the price of a jar of peanut butter or a lb of black grapes (yes – lbs).  I probably don’t know where or how to shop.

Television: We have found CNN for our news (though Steve reckoned he got repetitive strain injury pressing the buttons through the channels to find it).

One presenter in an interview: Wow, hey, um, that’s amazing. I just don’t get it.

With straight reporting the presenters gabble at break neck speed as if they are afraid of forgetting.

Not the 10 o’clock news.

Health: When we were here last there was worry about swine flu. Now there’s much measles anxiety. Also many adverts for flu vaccination; it’s that time of year.

Obesity awareness seems to have increased judging by the adverts on how to avoid it.

Am I better informed or made more neurotic? Not sure – but long live the National Health.

Books: The book shelves here tell us so much about their owners. Obviously the titles reveal their politics, interests and concerns but the vast numbers of books in every room suggest a reading way of life. The faded covers and pages of many books indicate the age of the owners and a long, book-filled life.  Books talk.

If a Kindle replaced this book-collecting life people would become more anonymous. No longer could you surreptitiously scan the book shelves when you enter a room.

To get just a fraction of this information we’d have to say, “ Can you show me your Kindle?” and probably we wouldn’t feel able to say this. At least the English wouldn’t.

Research: counting numbers on busses and subways reading paperbacks, hardbacks and from E Books. So far hardbacks winning. Encouraging number reading altogether – but why not “read” New York instead of books? That’s what I’m doing.

SUNDAY 4 September

“Shall we have our traditional Sunday?” I asked Steve, feeling smug that we have a regular NY Sunday.

So we set off with our books for Central Park and found a shady bench overlooking the lake. We were distracted at seeing exercising New Yorkers run, cycle, skate board and sweat. Some young black men were doing a show with chanting, jokes, break dancing, acrobatics. Part of it involved leaping over a small child they took from the audience. Then they said, “We need an Asian man.” None volunteered so they picked one out of the audience. “Do you speak English?” they asked. All of this bothered me. Am I being too PC, too up-tight? Can’t help but feel they wouldn’t be happy being asked if they spoke English.

The Great Lawn was full of people picnicking, sun bathing, playing instruments, talking.

We often have brunch in the Boathouse but as we approached we were bombarded with demonstrators with giant blow-up mice, posters, leaflets. We were told not to go there as the kitchen were dirty and the owner a sexual harasser. “ Probably someone with a grudge,” Steve said. We had only one side of the story but we gave the protestors the benefit of the doubt, mainly because we were impressed with their energetic, organized and colourful protest.

We moved on to the Metropolitan Museum of Art – paying 1$ each as an entry fee instead of the suggested 25$. (Our hosts’ rules, but we do agree. High entrance fees don’t encourage a thorough appreciation of art. Instead you try to consume too much on one visit. Also so divisive: museums for the middle classes.)

We went up the elevator to the Sculpture Roof and saw Anthony Caros against the treetops of Central park and the skyscrapers beyond.

Later went to see the film of One Day. Frothy but quite fun.

NEW YORK IS DRIPPY – LITERALLY

After very hot days the rain has come. The television told us to beware of ponding – with good cause. Lots of ponds underfoot.

Drips and Young People on My Head:

On Labor Monday unexpected drips. We were sitting in a very full downtown diner (Peels – sister to Freemans) when water started to fall on my head and food. We politely pointed this out to the receptionist in case someone had left a tap running. “ That’s because of bar-tender error”, she said.  They found another table for us and produced buckets. On a nearby table a woman drawled, “What a situation! ”

Upstairs was packed with scantily dressed youth. Any minute the wet ceiling could have collapsed and they might have landed in my grits.

TRACES Off Broadway: Later I had further worries about young people landing on my head. We went to see Traces at Union Square theatre. Off Broadway, neo circus acts. Six fit young men – and one woman – did alarming, daring acrobatics/dancing. We sat just 4 rows back and I was sure they’d land on my head when they flew through the air. Amazing! As Chloe emailed, “ There’s worse ways to go than having gorgeous men fall on your head in New York”. She has a point. 

Parks and Places

The parks in New York reveal all that is best about the city. We were in Washington Square Park and a small group of musicians started playing together. Soon a large group – all ages and races – gathered around them to sing, dance shake, bang and join in. “Stand by me,” they bellowed. Such energy and lack of inhibition. 

Others were playing chess together. Parks are the solution for the lonely I decided.  My new mission in life is to be a park creator – starting in Totnes. 

St Pauls: a tiny church next to Ground Zero that was built in the 18^th century, and miraculously wasn’t hit on 9/11, is giving free Bach concerts each lunchtime this week to mark the 10 years since the attack. (Bach at One – a title which really amused  Steve) We have tried to avoid the 10^th anniversary hype (What about the thousands that die every day in other parts of the world? I usually say) but we were very moved and impressed by this tiny church. It had been a place for support for all the distressed after 9/11 and the church had been filled with beds so that firemen and volunteers could go there for a sleep. There were banners and gifts from all over the world. Before the concert they had 2 minutes silence and a short service.  There was a great emphasis on taking care of everyone whatever their faith, race, politics, beliefs etc.

The Bach was fantastic too.

Videl and Chloe’s friends, Christian and Emily, live in the Upper West side so came for drinks then we went out to dinner together. Lots of lively discussion on NY life. They were great company.  Stopped talking in the early hours and leapt over ponds home to our cosy bed. (Well not really cosy; it is so huge.)

NOT THE ENO

“Why are so many people wearing tee shirts with ENO on?” I thought. Is the English National Opera in New York? Then noticed I’d missread them. Actually they said FNO – Fashion Night Out. One Thursday a year shops focusing on fashion, in Chelsea and Soho  particularly, stay open very late, have bands playing, give out free cocktails and food and most importantly for some – discount their clothes. Marquees appear on street corners; I’m not sure why. The streets were packed with young people (mainly) in decorative clothes and dangerous shoes. We milled and drifted around.

While we had a drink in Pastis we watched rows of bikes appear. Each had been decorated by a designer. A man offered one to me to ride around New York. I liked the idea of riding the streets on a bike covered with buttons and lace but the roads were very busy so instead  I photographed them.

We found respite from the crowds at the 18^th floor, rooftop bar of The Standard. The place was too blingy for us but what views – 360 degrees of the sights of Manhattan, the Hudson river and New Jersey. A jazz band played and we sat on cream leather sofas and marvelled.

The most disconcerting experience was going to the loo. One wall of the small cubicle was plate glass, one mirror. So you could watch yourself having a pee way above the lights of Manhattan. Terrifying – but you definitely were not overlooked. 

THE HIGH LINE  - is just that. A high walkway created from an old rail line. About a mile and a half walk filled with grasses, flowers, stylish benches and sculptures high above the bustle. NY is all about views.

La Vita e Bella

ITALY: as soon as I type the word I sigh with pleasure. It could be because the place suggests what for me constitutes a good life: food, wine, relaxed time, conversation, sunshine, books and visual feasts. Slow living in fact. Any country that has a name for an evening stroll that involves wearing your best clothes, cafes and meeting friends is the place for me. If England went in for la passeggiata wouldn’t life improve?

I feel Ways With Words’ festivals involve some of the best aspects of Italian life. Sitting with a glass of wine and watching visitors and writers walk around the medieval courtyard at Dartington Hall comes quite close to la passeggiata. The stone buildings, the terraced gardens, the 14th century Great Hall, the babble of discussions about events, people sitting in groups quietly observing the passing scene, the chance to relax over a light or more substantial meal: definitely la bella vita.

At all our festivals we aim to provide a range of topics that has a wide appeal to audiences - not just topics to appeal to the programmers. Yet looking at this year’s programme for our 20th festival at Dartington Hall I see many Italy-related events.

On Monday, 11 July, David Gilmour is talking about Italy’s political system.

On Tuesday 12 July, Anna del Conte, the cooks’ favourite cook (Nigella Lawson’s guru for a start) is appearing on stage with her daughter and granddaughter to talk about food and family. Coco, her granddaughter, is her regular kitchen assistant. Lucky Coco is learning the art of Italian cookery as an apprentice to the mistress of the art. Like all Italian cooks Anna del Conte believes in good food, prepared with love and care for those she loves and cares about.

On Saturday 16 July Katie Hickman talks about 17th century Venice.

   

For an Italophile like me this is bliss. I’ll be there at all these talks. 
 
At present I am reading two books (I usually read at least two books at once), both about Italian life. On Thursday 14 July at the festival I am interviewing Tracey Lawson who has studied the longevity of the villagers of Campodimele, so I am reading her book, A Year in the Village of Eternity. As a food editor she was particularly interested in the diet that seemed to produce such long, active, healthy lives amongst the villagers but she writes, “I discovered something much more important – how to live well.”

The other book that I am reading is by Julia Blackburn, Thin Paths. Julia lives with her husband, Herman, high up in the mountains of Liguria. There she has made close friends with people of all ages who have lived in the area all their lives. They tell her their personal stories as well as the history of the region. This is intermingled with incidents from Julia’s own life and her insightful and entertaining observations – all related in her striking prose.

People who have been on Ways With Words’ writing, reading, painting and philosophy courses in Umbria will remember Julia as an inspiring writing tutor. This year I shall be indulging my passion for Italy further in September when we return to Italy to run our usual courses. For two weeks around 25 Ways With Words people will be staying amongst hills, vineyards and olive groves at the 17th century Villa Pia. Tutors will encourage writing and painting for those who are focusing on their own creativity. Large Italian meals will be served by the four Italian chefs in the sunny courtyard. We shall marvel at the works of Piero della Francesca who was born nearby, enjoy the umber colours of the fields and buildings glowing goldenly in the early autumn sunlight. Food, wine, relaxed time, conversation, sunshine, books and visual feasts: slow living in fact. I know I am repeating myself but la vita e bella indeed.

Ways With Words courses run at Villa Pia, Lippiano, Umbria from Saturday 24 September for 2 weeks. It is possible to book for one or two weeks. A few spaces have become available. There are more details on our website wayswithwords.co.uk. Or phone Bryony on 01803 867373.

The Telegraph Ways With Words Festival takes place at Dartington Hall, Devon from 8-18 July. Come to hear the Italy related events mentioned here or any of the 160 talks which you can view online.


 

Grasmere Walkers Discover the Words by the Water Programme

 

Two women walkers came into the café in Grasmere where we were having lunch. Previously we had left a pile of programmes for the Words by the Water Lake District festival on the window ledge. One put down her walking sticks and picked up a programme. She proceeded to open it at the beginning and read it carefully word for word. Maybe she felt that was the right thing to do considering its title but I wouldn’t access the programme like this. If I found this programme I’d flick excitedly through it.

“Wow” I’d say. “Look who’s coming to this festival! Oh I’d love to see Roy Hattersley or Salley Vickers; her novels are great. Oh and Valerie Grove is speaking on her biography of Kay Webb, the founder of the Puffin club. And there’s an event on the history of the Ordnance Survey maps. Can we go? I want to spend all 10 days in Keswick.”

In other words I’d babble on in an incoherent way if I came across the programme. Not our fellow diner. She never mentioned the programme to her companion, never discussed it. Was this because she was totally unimpressed? Or was she just filling in time until her pannini arrived? She had read through Melvyn Bragg’s introduction where he explains he is programming Saturday 5 March as it’s our 10^th festival. Friday 4 March: Michael Frayn, Claire Tomalin, Raymond Blanc – no comment. (“The first w/e is amazing. We’ve got to go!” I’d be babbling with joy.)

By the entry on Maureen Lipman ( Sunday 6 March) the walker’s lunch had arrived and she put the programme down – with no comment.

I wanted to ask her what she thought of the programme, to ask whether she would be coming and if not why not. All this would have been good market research. I could have introduced myself as the director of the festival but I’m so British, so reserved.

She probably is too and would have been polite but dismissive. I know some writers who have been unable to resist telling a stranger who was reading his/her book that he/she was the author only to be met with cold stares. So I remained silent – but curious.

We continued through the torrential Cumbrian rain to leave thousands more damp programmes around. Such serendipity. Will someone pick one up and respond as I would? I feel like the sower in the bible: stoney ground or fertile? Who knows?