I must take a moment, away from recounting my travels, to speak of my longing, for home, or a home. As I have now finally left Sicily, after nearly three months there (my experience of which, I shall fill you in on, in good time) & moved onto Rome, the beautiful Sicilian summer I was happily experiencing, until only last weekend, has come to an end & in its place, a real Italian Autumn has taken grip.
Here in Rome, the weather is much akin to an English climate, at any time of the year, really. You will wake to sunshine, although, the temperature will be bitterly cold & then, as you wrap up in your snugliest boyfriend sweater, the heat suddenly emerges & you are at once, stripped back to nothing but a T-shirt. Then just as you settle into the heat, out come the ominous dark clouds & down comes the rain. Light at first, gradually building to a heavy down pour. Then, in a blink of an eye, it's sunny again.
This erratic behaviour doesn't bother me, but it does bring on a feeling of longing. Longing for a home I no longer have & so utterly want & need.
Oh to be wrapped up in the softest of blankets, my feet warmed by a pair of chunky knit socks. Mr Pig snoring dreamily next to me, as I watch a, no-doubt, festive film, most likely in black & white. A roaring fire in the room, its heat protecting me against the rain, beating heavily on the window panes. A plate, laden with squidgy chocolate brownies, resting on the arm of the sofa & just to add to my glutenous comforting, a mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table, just within reach. Real hot chocolate mind. Melted down bars of dark chocolate, with swirls of warm milk poured in. Non of this powdered malarkey.
The Christmas tree, alight in the corner. Adorned with all manor of delicately decorated baubles, picked up from Christmas markets all over the world. Small, wrapped gifts, sitting neatly under it. Each one special & hand picked. Not one bought from a store. Not a chain, anyway. Some made by me personally, others sourced from ethically minded small businesses. Wrapped in brown paper, white crochet lace ribbon, tied neatly around & hand decorated paper labels attached.
Alas, here I am, in Italy, alone. Without a home. Without my Pig. Without...A lot of things. Although, I do have a plate of brownies, a blanket, some nice snugly socks, Sir Fleming bought me & thankfully I have the ability to watch films on my laptop. I suppose for now, this will simply have to do.