The Farmhouse

… and other memories …

I moved into the farmhouse, downstairs. It was filled with other people’s furniture. The bedroom had at least two dressing tables with mirrors, and a large wardrobe where at last I could hang my clothes. There were mirrors everywhere, it seemed. There were two bedrooms, one larger and the other smaller, with yet more furniture, a bathroom with a bathtub. There was a large enough living room, but it was stuffed to the walls with furniture. There was a nice fireplace built into the corner, where dried meat was hanging when I arrived. There was a small kitchen, big enough to cook in, with lots of cupboard space.

The living area had a large window with aluminium trim on the door. The bedrooms had wooden shutters. The steps to the upper floor was to the left outside my kitchen door, so I could hear people passing and climbing the steps. I could also hear them walking across the floor, and when they flushed the toilet. A big improvement on the other place was flushing was the only bathroom sound I could hear!

Upstairs lived the farmer, his spouse, the two sons, who may or may not have lived there, but were always present when I was invited for a meal.

In the early days I was terrified of the two sons, having seen the movie Deliverance, my over active imagination chose to work overtime. I saw they had a room where they kept sharp knives, and axes. Were there also firearms? I didn’t know. At first I had more to do with the dark haired son, as he was the plumber and electrician. I soon learned the two son’s scary appearance concealed two shy, quiet and gentle souls.

I was shown the washing machine I could use, which was in an area under the house. All alone, it was plugged into an electrical socket wrapped with waterproof tape. Inside the house electric wires stuck out jauntily from holes in the walls like dried grass. It was weeks until I realised Mama farmer was not using the washing machine. She had a cement tank in a fenced garden where the most beautiful Peonies grew. She washed everything there, sheets, work clothes, underwear. I asked her why she wouldn’t use the washing machine. It was because the laundry smelled better being washed outside. She would then hang her washing on the line, rain or sun, until it dried. I was told I could also hang my washing on the line.

The farm had a large barn, outbuildings with pigs, cows, chickens, a couple of horses, a donkey, and sheep. The sheep were milked twice a day to make cheese. Dark haired son would knock on my kitchen door and bring me a freshly made ricotta, he would tell me his mother had sent it for me. No lie, it was the best ricotta I have ever tasted.

On a level area below the farmyard was the large vegetable garden. It was perfectly cared for by dark-haired son. Everything planted in neat rows, the earth carefully tilled. Beyond the garden, there were green rounded hills. Sometimes I would hear a knock at the door and someone would be there with freshly picked lettuce or punterelle (Cichorium intybus), which Mama farmer taught me to prepare. I have added a link to a recipe below.

When invited to eat upstairs with the family, I would feel so shy about going that I would wait until the very last minute, hoping they had forgotten that I lived there. Then I would hear someone gently knocking at the door. Was I coming to eat? The food was already on the table. This sweet family, excluding Papa farmer, would share their meals with me. They taught me how to eat polenta from a large wooden board set at the centre of the table, with sausages, and everyone took what they wanted. They drank the worst wine I have ever tasted. They told me it was home made. I would sip it to be polite. The wine was strong enough to knock a cart horse into next year.

Horses

I soon realised I could not have brought all three of my horses because there were already equines at the farm. I also learned from my vet that it was just as well I hadn’t brought them because Papa farmer had refused to get a stall number for equines. It turned out that my vet came to treat livestock, and every time attempted to persuade the farmer to register the horses present on the property.

To explain: When I first kept horses at Poggio, the house I should never have left, I hadn’t a clue you needed a stall number. It was the vet who explained this, and guided me to the right organization. Over time, horses needed to have passports and, later, a microchip. This all came about because there was the mad cow disease scare, and everyone switched to eating horse meat. Horses were being stolen, and as they were not registered as well as cattle, it was difficult for the Carabinieri to stop a trailer to identify the horses being transported because, to the untrained eye, a brown horse is a brown horse, and could belong to anyone.

During this period of horse stealing, I knew a place that lost nine horses from thee stables in one night. A family lost two horses from a field where they had been left to graze. I knew a man who died shortly after his much loved mare was stolen from the stable beside his house. One friend found his horse’s head in the field, nothing else. The horses were stolen for the illegal meat trade, for illegal road racing in Naples and further south, and there were Individuals who wanted to buy up grazing land for development.

So, people who loved horses, friends among them, helped devise ways to make it easier for law enforcement officers to stop a trailer, be able to recognise a horse, and where it came from. At some point they came up with a pink slip that had to be filled out with the name of the owner, with the name of the transporter, where the horse was coming from, and destination. Since 2017 this pink slip is filled out electronically by the one doing the transportation.

There was also the requirement to obtain a stall number, for any type of livestock, which went into effect 1 January 1998. It was not until 1 January 2000 that it became a law at the level of the European Union to have a passport for equines. A vet had to come to recognise the horse and draw all its identifying marks. For example, our vet drew all the spots he could see on my Appaloosa, Selva, onto a page in her passport. Then, from 2007, all horse kind had to be microchipped by a registered veterinarian.

While living at the farm, my horses were scattered across Lazio. Selva near Anguillara, Sully and Nutmeg were engaged, with other horses, in keeping land clean at Monte Gelato. Sully’s foal had been given away in exchange for being able to keep Selva at the riding stable. It meant a lot of driving visiting horses, because the owners took it in turns to check on the horses in the more distant field at Monte Gelato.

Cats

My cats settled in very quickly. They soon learned to navigate the grey and white Tom Cat, who I named Squeegee because he had a squished up face, but was very sweet if you weren’t a cat. I learned to feed him at my kitchen door, so my cats could leave by the glass door in the living room. If he saw them he would chase them back inside, which was sometimes helpful.

One day Shanty cat went missing. We, meaning me, cats and dogs, went looking for her everywhere. I asked everyone I could if they had seen her. Papa farmer even took me over to another farm to see if, by chance, she had gone there. It was a full six days later when I was taking the dogs for a walk down the lane past the barn when I heard her distinctive high pitched wailing meow. I looked up and there was dear Shanty’s face up in the barn. I tied the dogs, climbed through two fences and climbed up onto the oblong bales to reach her. I had to shift one bale to get to her. She went limp as she allowed me to pull her towards me. Light as a feather, I held her as I climbed down from the bales, through the two fences, and took her back to the apartment. I put down food for her. She sniffed it, made sure her bowl was filled, but wasn’t hungry.

Boy cats sniffed her all over, and then decided to keep her out of the bedroom for a few days. This did not concern her because she had her mantlepiece, her chair, her sofa in front of the fire. At last they were all playing together again.

I also noticed that the three cats had discovered their reflections in the mirrors. I saw that Rosso would admire himself. He would clean himself in front of the mirror, check his reflection every so often, and adjust his position. Shanty and Matisse would be seated in front of the mirrors, just looking at themselves. I am sure they knew it was them, because they were silent and appreciative of their own beauty, and hissed and spit when they met any of the outside farm cats.

Dogs

There were large white Maremanno dogs and a minute, cheerful, short-legged terrier type dog: Principino. I had to keep my dogs tied because of the sheep and chickens (Porgy was a specialist in this area). It was also a short dog run from the previous residence where my dogs’ canine friends were still living.

Nelly and Porgy got on really well. I would hear Porgy making a vacuum-cleaner sound at the puppy, as though he was rolling his rrrrs. Then I would need to go out to look at them, because usually it meant their ropes had become entangled while they were playing. Also, tiny Principino would get a hold of Nelly’s rope with his teeth and pull at it so she would come out of her dog house to play. When needing a nap, he shared her dog house with her.

It was while walking the dogs that I found a field we could stop and play. It was here Porgy taught me he actually knew the name I had given him, and to come when called. It was he who stood and looked at me with his head on one side and his silly dog grin. So I called his name, and he trotted over to me, surprising me. He also taught me to play “stick”. I really hadn’t thought he was interested. He brought me a stick, and that is how I understood that if I threw it he would play fetch. He played so well with Nelly, the puppy, unfortunately he was also teaching her his sly doggy tricks.

ASPECTS OF LIFE

I had some kind of work that dribbled in page by page, or word by word. Work was mostly translation from Italian, or editing text written by people whose second, third, or forth language was not English. I was being charged an exorbitant amount at the farm, because, as I understood too late, the rent had included board and keep for one horse. As has happened too frequently in my life, my income was hardly enough to cover my outgo.

I would have stayed at this farm for a good while longer, only that I was always on the road to the Internet point in Bracciano, or to visit my horses near Anguillara or as far as Monte Gelato. There were other reasons I felt I had to move. For example, Papa farmer was, although fairly ancient, of the opinion he was still a good catch. He would attempt to kiss me every chance he got, which was annoying, because I liked the location, and felt comfortable with Mama farmer and her sons. There was a daughter, who I never actually met. Perhaps once, as she was getting out of a car to visit with her tall, thin, son and, what I assumed was her young daughter.

Anyway, coming from Jamaica, where most men or boys attempt to corner women and girls saying: “Gimme wan chuuups nuh?” Give me a kiss no? I was fairly inured to Papa farmer’s failed attempts. However, it was beginning to be annoying, and I didn’t feel I could just turn around and slug him, out of respect for Mama farmer and her two sweet sons. I had begun to notice how Mama farmer would have such a sad, worried face when she felt no one was looking at her, but her smile, when I spoke to her, lit up her face and I knew she had, at one time, been carefree and beautiful.

I was becoming depressed. I found myself telling myself I was depressed. This has to stop, I said to myself. Matisse my black and white cat curled up beside me purring. The cats were happy where they were. The dogs were content. I felt stretched by scattered horses, no Internet, erratic mobile connection, missed calls for work.

I must have said something to somebody, because one day my friendly neighbours, who I had lived near at Poggio, had found me a possible living arrangement in Tolfa. It was possible that I would be able to keep all three of my horses in exchange for helping feed and take care of horses, take people out on trail rides, help with a bed and breakfast. It was an agri-tourism that, if it were to work out, would be ideal for me, cats, dogs, and horses. It was near Tolfa, and would I like to meet the owner?

So, having nothing much else to do, I said yes.

Stopping here!

Next I will share how I lived, for a time, in three places at once.

This recipe for puntella Roman salad is from Giallo Zaffarano: https://ricette.giallozafferano.it/Insalata-di-puntarelle-alla-romana.html (Si apre in una nuova finestra)