Sunny Days

Sun! And walking is a bliss with the cold clear weather of these days. When I am out there in the woods, the steady clip clop of Kaylee's feet by my shoulder and the mane and tail of TomBoy bouncing and swinging like a fountain of spun gold before me, it is really easy to think that there is nothing, nothing better than this, and that Icould walk on and on like that forever, "into the land of sunset".

Romantics apart, walking with the blondies is becoming more and more enjoyable as our relation (and communication) improves and they come to trust us more and more.

We come to know each other better each day, and deal better with our various eccentricities. TomBoy is a strong and eager horse with a superabundance of energy that seems to spill over at the beginning of a walk, sometimes in an explosive way, and he needs a steady hand and a close eye for half an hour or so, lest he takes off bucking in ebullient equine happiness over the fields. Kaylee on the other hand always looks like a martyr at the beginning of each walk until she becomes warmer and looser. Longing may help with both, a skill on wich we are all working.

After a period of being skittish on the path whenever anything happened (a noise in the woods, a family walking down the road, a dog, a woodpile, another horse, a bike a car, a flock of geese overhead... you get the idea) they are now much calmer. I hope it means they trust our judgement more. Yesterday we had a long walk to the cute village of Lutz, met people, cars, horses, dogs, and no reaction at all. I do devoutly hope we do not have to test this new diligent attitude with another "snuffle" of wild boars! A dashy, classy, white arabian stallion begged to be introduced to Kaylee, with very obvious intentions, but she never even looked at him.

"All the Great Teachers have preached that Man, originally, was a 'wanderer in the scorching and barren wilderness of this world' - the words are of Dostoevsky's Great Inquisitor - and that to rediscover his humanity, he must slough off attachments and take to the road."

"One commonly held delusion is that men are the wanderers and women the guardians of hearth and home. This can, of course, be so. But women, above all, are the guardians of continuity: if the hearth moves, they move with it."

"The Bushmen, who walk the distances across the Kalahari, have no idea of the soul's survival in another world. 'When we die, we die' they say. 'The wind blows away our foot prints, and that is the end of us.'

Sluggish and sedentary peoples, such as the Ancient Egyptians - with their concept of an afterlife journey through the Field of Reeds - project on to the next world the journeys they failed to make in this one."

Bruce Chatwin, "The Songlines"

"He was working on a book of his own: It would be a 'manual of poverty'. He hadn't yet decided on a title.
Today, he said, more than ever before, men had to learn to live without things. Things filled men with fear: the more things they had, the more they had to fear. Things had a way of riveting themselves on to the soul and then telling the soul what to do."

Father Terence, in "The Songlines", Bruce Chatwin

The last few weeks have been dedicated almost entirely to the ponies. Their winter quarters needed improving, and were improved (one day they will work for us for a change), they needed to get used to grooming and fussing and they are now much easier to handle and more patient, especially TomBoy.

However, the greatest and most abrupt change in their (and our) behaviour came about a few days ago after I had a compact course about trimming their feet, something of great importance since we cannot depend on always finding a farrier at every turn of our long way, and we purchased boots for their feet, a more fussy solution than shoes, but one that we can safely handle ourselves without costant need of a hoofsmith. I am also convinced that going barefoot, with the additional help of boots, is much better for horses general health.

Trimming their feet as such did not change our collective personality, but spending 5 hours with Gunter, the "barefooter" who came to do the course, trim their feet and offer advice about the choice of boots, did.

There are persons who seeing you in difficulty in whatever field will immediately point out your mistakes and politely suggest you get help to correct them. Gunter is not like that: a natural born teacher, he saw our mistakes in handling the horses and immediately proceeded to analyze the situation, explain in detail what was wrong in our attitude, and show us in a very practical, no nonsense, direct way how to improve it. I did a fair amount of riding at the riding-school back in my old town, but the horses in the riding-schools are so alienated by routine that there is not much to learn about equine communication from them. So, while the relationship with the Blondies has been steadily developing into a very affectionate family life, there was not much progress in our "working partnership". Both me and Eric are polite and rather introvert people who tend to sit back quietly in loud companies. We don't usually try to dominate people, rather striving to just be left alone. This attitude however was evidently confusing to our horses, who, herd animals to the bone, perceived a lack of clearly defined authority: they did not really know where they stood with us, and some of their confusing and sometimes irritating "misbehaviours" were actually their way to test the hierarchy of the herd, something to need to be clear about if they must be able to think about anything else at all. You can read as much as you want in books and articles and web pages about horse communication and natural horsemanship, but seeing a confident, competent person handling your own horse, with his or her personal quirks and eccentricities is a different thing entirely. Gunter came here to trim our horses' feet and in passing taught us more about "talking" to our horses than a huge pile of books, and years of riding four legs automatons at the riding-school ever did. Thank you!!


At the moment we have three pairs of boots, Kailee's hind feet being yet "unbooted". They are three different kinds, each of them chosen to best fit the shape and size of each pair of feet, so we will be able to test quite a number of brands on our way! TomBoy wears Easyboots on his fronts, and Boa Boots on his hinds, and Kaylee, who had foundered in the past wears Old Macs G2 boots.
The first impression about the Easyboots is that the name is one of the cruelest jokes ever played on customers because nothing about theese boots is easy. They have great reviews all over the net, and stunning exploits were and are performed with them, so I must believe they are really good, but, boy, are they a pain in the bum to handle! They are really hard to put on, and hard to pull off, and the clasp in front should be enough to drive any horse owner to tears, being a devil to push shut, and even worse to pull open ( something that cannot be done without the use of a tool, wether a screw driver or a knife). I do hope they become easier in time, or I become smarter, and that their performance justifies the hassle, and I can only thank TomBoy for the patience he is showing with us during our fumbling first attempts at booting his front feet. For the moment, he seems to be walking really well with them, consistently landing his feet heel first. One of the strings is already fraying, but that may be due to our messy first attempts at fitting them on.
Part of the Blondies' increasing willingness to cooperate may be due to the fact that the hard frozen ground these days is hard on newly unshod horse feet, and it must be evident to them that the boots do represent an advantage.

The Old Macs are laborious but not so difficult to fit, having a number of different straps and belts to be closed in turn, so that there is quite a lot to do, but each step is quite easy. They need to be refastened after a few minutes of walking, because as the foot settles in them they become looser. Kaylee is not stumbling and sliding on everything like she used to do now: the sole of these boots has a very deep profile that offers very strong traction. As long as that does not strain her joints it is all for the best in these icy days.

By far the coolest boots, both in looks and practicality, are however the Boa, a very high tec looking boot that would make any stylish sportman out there green with envy. These are very very easy to slip on and even easier to close, like a pair of really well designed running shoes. A dial mechanism turns clockwise to tighten the lacing, and is just pulled outward to release them. The whole procedure is smooth and quick, completely stress free both for TomBoy and me. Carpal tunnel syndrome left my fingers somewhat weak, and these are the only boots that I can fasten by myself without swearing.

This, concerning the fitting of the boots. If the Boas turn out in the long run to be as durable as other boots I cannot see why anyone could want something different, but their reviews are not sky high, so I guess there must be a catch somewhere.

This is the address of Gunter website, and if you are close enough to avail yourself of his service, do so, you cannot be disappointed:
http://www.hufschuhe.com/

Horcrux

Eric says I created my first Horcrux: I sent a box of cuttings from my garden to my british twin, Claire. A sort of ark, so that when leaving I can feel that my garden still has a tenuous link to my life.
Of course it is not true. I mean, it is not my first horcrux. There is already "Sharp Edge", my favourite painting ever. That, I think will stay with my mother. And the Bottles. And the Wizard Staff. I always felt my things where my only true home. I am ready now, to challenge this feeling, and go out in the world with nothing but the essential, and yet, yet Icannot just dump everything. Too much of my soul has gone into some of the things I made. My garden, my paintings, the lost, lost splendour of my house. I need to leave some things behind, to be found again, pehaps, one day.

Back home to my furries, huzzay!!!

The ponies are growing fuzzy around the edges! I five days their winter fur has grown visibly thicker, which is good, since we have snow on the ground now, and temperatures have plummeted dramatically. They do not seem distressed by the cold, but they trail their nose rather disconsolately on the ground, wondering where all the nice grass has gone.

"Walking alone through the big gates I stood in the street and waited for a bus.
I felt lonely. When a man has lived with a horse, eaten with a horse, swum with a horse, slept with a horse, travelled a lone with a horse for months on end - hundreds of miles - the world seems empty without him. I could no longer hear his footsteps by my side."

William Holt "Ride a White Horse"

I am of course less than a beginner in horse travelling, yet this passage rings echoes in my mind. In a few weeks, the ponies have taken residence in my soul, like my cats did, a long time ago.
I must travel for a few days to Italy, and my heart bleeds. Leaving my cats and, now, also my horses, is a hard, hard thing. To a person you can explain why you must go, and that, crossing fingers, pressing thumbs, or whatever it is that you do to ward off evil in your own country, you will soon be back. But furries do not understand this, and the last look they give you while you close the door is always heartbreaking.

More shooting in the woods today. We stayed at home and played Parelli games with the ponies. It is fun, and instructive for both human and horses. We learn so much about each other, and laugh together. A good day.

Yesterday we had a Hunt. Not that we as in "we" went hunting, but a huge number of hunters convened a few undred meters from our house to go into the woods, flush out some of those darned wild boars, and turn some of them into steaks. At first I did not realize what was going on. Many more people passing our back alley than I have ever seen since I moved here, much barking of hounds in the distance, and horns! Hunting horns! That took me by surprise. In Italy, as a rule, boar hunting seems to be a grisly affair, where people go out quietly on their own, and end up shooting mushroom pickers, other hunters' dogs, or other hunters, period. I never heard anything resembling that except perhaps in the parade of the 25th of April. Wether that is a positive demonstration of the local hunters' musical talents, or a negative one of the City Council Band, I could not say.
With such a mess of people, guns, dogs and alarmed boars in the woods, there was no chance of going for a walk with the ponies, so I stayed home and played the Parelli Friendly Game with TomBoy for a while.
Late at night when I brought supper to the ponies a bonfire was roaring on top of the hill, and a promising smell of reoasted meat wafted around. I was heartily happy. It's the first time I see hunters off into the wild with my blessing.

Did I mention that Muffin is overcoming her shyness of horses by the minute!?!

Finally back on line, after Blogger and Google had been inaccessible for days.Why? How? Mysteries.
Our life with the ponies goes on with ups and downs, they seem to have good and bad days like the rest of us. They are now walking barefoot, which means we must put much caution in the choice of trails to train upon, until they get their boots. There is talk of them having bright red boots, easier to spot if they get lost, and certainly they would suit the general clownish attitude of the family. We shall see. They are extremely cooperative on the road: less on a field. The sight of all that green grass seems to stress their reasoning abilities a bit.
We had an interesting trek incident just before their shoes were removed. We had followed this path in the woods for a km or so and then there we met a lot of fallen trees over the path and branches and I was already a bit reluctant to go on with the horses, but they stepped gingerly over each obstacle, not a worry and then, inexplicably we arrived in this spot where the trail just ended. There was a ditch and then a very very steep back some 6-8 m high all covered in fallen leaves. I stood there thinking I would never manage to drag the horses up there, and was it better to just go back over the fallen trees again? There was clearly another, open path on top of the bank, but I did not trust myself to bring TomBoy up. I was there, fidgeting with the lead rope and undecided about how to preceed when TomBoy gave me this look like "Well? Are we going to stay here all day?" and he just stepped away and went up the bank, like you or I would go up the cellar stairs . Half way up he was at the end of the lead rope and he turned back to look at me in a "Coming up or what?" sort of way. I let go of the rope so he could best find his own way, and in a couple of seconds he was on top, looking down and waiting for me. I had to go up on all four and slid down more then I made headway lol. Kaylee came up slower because the hubby could not make it on his own and she half dragged him up. I was so completely stunned by this exploit that I could hardly speak, I just kept saying "Did you see him? Did you see him?" They are more like big goats in long blonde hair. Of course these horses were and are bred on the high pastures in the Alps, but heck, I was in awe. TomBoy is a dutch horse, I don't suppose he has seen many mountains in his youth, and yet he does really very well on steep paths and uneven footing.

The first cart, with the kitchen box is ready, except for the painting of the box itself and its smaller fittings. Still one cart to go, sigh.

Yesterday we cooked a truly delicious chicken dish on the Liard Firebox and Dutch Oven. They make a fine duo, because you need the box to start the coals or wood embers for the oven, and in the meanwhile you can cook on the box on the live flame.
Very well, you need 2 to 4 half chicken breasts, skinless and boneless, 2 cups of basmati rice, some small tomatoes and lots of spices. The amount of spices looks threatening, but trust the recipe and just proceed:

8 (2-inch-long)fresh chiles, red and green finely chopped
2 tablespoons coriander seeds
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
half a head of fresh garlic, squeezed or finely chopped
1 tablespoon black peppercorns
2 teaspoons sea salt
half a cup of good olive oil

Roughly grind the seeds in a mortar (or a grinder, if you are at home), then mix with the garlic and chiles, and cover with oil. Cover the chicken thickly with the spice mix, making sure that all of the surface is coated with oil. Reserve a table spoon of the mix. Start a lively fire in the box, and put a pot with four cups of water to boil. Skewer the tomatoes on barbecue sticks and start grilling them. Keep feeding the fire, as soon as you have embers for the Dutch oven, remove the tomatoes from the grill, and sear the chicken breasts quickly over the fire. Then put them in the dutch oven, with a moderate amount of embers on bottom and some more on the top.
Return the tomatoes to finish grilling and cook the rice as needed. As soon as the chicken is tender remove the dutch oven from fire and just keep warm until everything is done. Mix the reserved spice mix in the rice, and sprinle the tomatoes with olive oil and sea salt.
Another recipe adapted from Epicurious.

Dear diary, today for once we had some really good reason to get spooked and scared and bolty: a flock of foul smelling wild boars galloped in the woods just meters from us. We all got skittish, dragged the bipeds into the woods, broke loose and got all sweaty and wide eyed and unreasonable. But we went back to the bipeds because they have carrots and they scratch our mane soothingly. Then there was grass and we forgot about the pigs. Good day.

Fear

I am sometimes overwhelmed by panic about the "nomad" project. Especially when the horses are uncooperative, or the weather is horrid, or the house, and my bookshelves, are espeially inviting, or when I cook something fanciful and complicated in my huge kitchen. But most of all, I get scared when insomnia gets hold of me, and I lay silent in the bed at night, the grandpa clock upstair beating hour after hour in the dreamless darkness, and endless wreaths of words unfolding in my brain, anchoring me into uneasy wakefulness. I have visions of horrible damp camp places, smoky fires, cold nights, accidents. I created a scale for fear states: 0 is "jolly go merry", 10 is "blind flailing terror". Most of the times, at night I settle on grade 9, "scared s**tless".

I am however in good company. TomBoy is also a scared creature. He is huge (for a pony), and remarkably strong, but he is still a big baby. He has the face and manners of one who still believes in Santa Claus. He has a puppy look about him that is painflully cute. It is terribly difficult to draw lines with him, and establish rules. It must be done, but it always leaves a bitter taste, a sense of guilt. He looks at you with those huge puzzled eyes, and you can figure him sucking his thumb and spilling tears.

Today walk was relatively succesfull. He only "muled" three times. Once he actually needed to do some toilette business, and I had to apologize for being so inconsiderate as not to get the hint of his meaningful looks. The second time was because of a very scary, tarp-covered wood pile. It is well known that tarp-covered wood piles are a favourite ambush place for huge horse-eating sabre-toothed tigers, so we all convened that the wood pile had to be approached with utmost caution, everyone of us trying to hide behind someone else, and no blame was put on anyone. But the third time was embarassing. A family of four, leading a black and white terrier the size of peanut, appeared on the path, and nothing could convince TomBoy to move another step until the father of the family led the offending dog 20meters out of the path into the woods, and every other grinning member of the family had passed us, and sunk the horizon in the opposite direction. "This is my haflinger horse. I call him Braveheart". Who knows. May be he hunderstands things about terriers that we can't even suspect.

In order to gather a bit of courage about our future life I took out the dutch oven today and made roast chicken. This was a variation of this recipe: http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/My-Favorite-Simple-Roast-Chicken-231348
which is the best recipe for roasted chicken I ever met, and one of my favourite dishes. A 12 inches dutch oven is just a tad cramped for a whole chicken, but you can cut a small one in a half, or roast a packet of chicken legs. In any case, pat dry, sprinkle generously but judiciously with salt and pepper, and lay on the bottom of the dutch oven, skin up, with a mere sprinkle of olive oil under it. Close the dutch oven and roast for an hour or until the meat is done, with the cover well closed. When almost ready pile more embers on the cover of the oven and let it slightly open to let the steam out, so the skin becomes nice and crispy. Remove the chicken from the oven, overturn the cover, carefully discarding the embers, and lay the chicken on it to keep warm. Scrape up and mix the juices of the chicken on the bottom of the oven, using a tiny bit of water to mollify them if necessary (but only the minimum needed). Scatter a spoonful of fresh thyme leaves in the juices, take the pot from the fire and melt a nice piece of fresh butter (50 g or so) in the "gravy". Pour over the chicken and serve hot.
You will understand by now, that I will need a pot of fresh thyme on my travels. Of all fresh herbs, it is the oneI cannot abide to do without.

After just one week of living together with us the ponies have made an amazing change, from very wary and suspicious, impossible to catch, to very friendly furry people who trot up to the gate to meet us, accept their halters and lead ropes without a complaint, and listen patiently to my monologues: that feels so good! Carrots and endless sweetness were the keys to gaining their trust.
They are both somewhat fat and out of shape (honestly, they are not the only ones in this condition), so much work must be done, by all of us, before we hit the road. But it feels a lot less daunting now that they are so much more social and cooperative!

The endless task of building our very special kitchen box and sourcing the various pieces of equipment we still need, proceeds between walking the ponies, feeding the ponies (a thankless chore, since, despite their roundness, they are costantly convinced of being starved, so that no feed is ever - ever - enough), talking to the ponies, cuddling the ponies. First things first.

Haflingers are known as a breed of friendly, intelligent and very stubborn horses: I can confirm all of that. They are sweet, they are smart and they are mules: they have their moments of getting stuck on their feet in the middle of a path and saying "No further, thanks." Since none of us can outpull such a tank built barrel of fat, muscles and fur, only infinite patience can get them going again. TomBoy is the worse of the two in this sense. When he walks he is a steam engine with blonde hair, and none of us could really keep up with him if he were not polite enough to slow down his pace and waith for us miserable crawling bipeds. Then he will suddenly decide that it is enough and just stop in his tracks until a mixture of pleading, pulling and various tactful hints at carrots, hay and eternal damnation get him going again. Definitely an authority problem here. Something else to work upon, sigh.

Kaylee is very attached to TomBoy, always getting a bit panicky when he is out of sight for even a minute, an endearing trait, but also a bit exhasperating. I hope she soon realizes that all of us are her herd now, and she needs not be too upset if they are separated for more than a few seconds.

The cats are taking to the ponies very easily, especially Muffin, who is quite fearless and enterprising. This is very curious, since her first contact with horses, years ago, in Italy, sent her into a fit of spookiness that lasted three days. But I guess living so close to cows of every size for several months put everything into a different perspective. I hope her daredevil attitude towards the big furries doesn't get her into trouble. Luckily they are only mildly curious and quite tolerant toward her.

Socializing with the horses in a very soft way, just spending a bit of time with them in the pasture several times a day. Not working together, just talking, cuddling and offering apples and carrots.

Now that they are here and real, it is scary to think how our plan depends on the good will and cooperation of these intelligent and sensitive creatures, which is not something you can buy, or build to size, or talk yourself into: only love, and dedication, and endless patience will get us on the road together. I hope they are patient too, and forgive our inevitable mistakes.

The Blondies

Please meet our new mates,

Kaywinnith Lee Frye (Kaylee), with the halter,

and Thomas Summer Bombadil (Tom Boy).

(who said only racing thouroughbreds can have long names?)

The Dutch Oven

One night over the next few years you may cross a little clearing in the woods, in some old celtic place of western Europe, on a dark night, and stumble upon a scruffy looking witch poking a wooden spoon in a black cauldron and muttering to herself. Nothing to worry about, it will just be me and my Dutch Oven.

The Dutch Oven is said, by some, to be the simbol of the Pioneers way of life. My view of it is less grand, but more practical: it is what I need to roast chickens and bake pies out there in the wild (the witch impersonation is accidental). You can also cook all sort of other things in a Dutch Oven, but the baking part is what captured my imagination.

For those of you that (like me, until a few weeks ago) have no idea what a Dutch Oven is, a brief description follows: a dutch oven is a heavy cast iron pot (aluminiums ones are also available, a sign of corrupt times) with tree stumpy legs underneath and a cover with a lip running all around it. The legs hold the pot high over a bed of coals, the lip of the cover contains a further layer of glowing embers so that whatever is in the pot is heated from both bottom and up, like in a proper oven. They come in many sizes but the basic design is always the same.

Some companies sell dutch ovens that are merely pots. Beware of these tricksters. Le Creuset is one of these: Their Dutch ovens, however colourful and attractive, are only good for the kitchen oven and would be useless in a campfire. If you are looking for the real thing look for Lodge, or Qvist or Maca. There are many other brands, but these are the ones I readily remember.

My own comes from the Dutch Oven Starting Kit, from Qvist, which include heavy gloves (huge), a cover stand (very handy) and cover lifting tool (necessary). It should also include a carrying bag, but we had not the privilege of receiving it, wether by their fault or of the dealer I know not. I guess I will sew my own.

The first trial of the oven was a success, but admittedly I only cooked a stew in it. The bread or pie trial will be the real test. I adapted very loosely a recipe from this lovely website:

http://papadutch.home.comcast.net/~papadutch/

It is really the only website you need to understand the subject of dutch ovens.

My stew:
1 kg of good fresh beef, chopped
2 large onions, cut into rings
5 chilli peppers (mine are disappointingly mild this year... if your chillies are more serious two may be enough)
1 cup of Schlenkerla Rauchbier (if you cannot get Rauchbier where you live I am sorry for you, ans some other beer will have to do)
1/2 cup of Worcester Sauce
4 cloves of garlic, squeezed
the juice of one lemon
3 tablespoons of sugar
1 cup of water
Salt and pepper

Roll the meat chops in salt and pepper, and arrange in the bottom of the oven. Put the onion rings on top of them. Mix all other ingredients in a bowl and pour this sauce into the oven. Put to heat over glowing coals (from a campfire or barbeque), heap more embers on the cover and let to simmer for at least two hours, or until the meat is tender and the sauce thick and sticky. Serve with fresh spaetzle, or whatever plate ballast you have at hand (please notice that the Germans really use such an expression).

The Road goes ever on and on

Gandalf, by John Howe

Exchanging mails with Claire (my British Twin), about Middle Earth, trees, Ents and Rohirrims.
Will I see Tom Bombadil during my travels, just for a moment, just out of the corner of my eye?

I blame "The Lord of the Rings" for my budding wanderlust, even if it took 20 years for the book influence to become manifest.

"The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say"

Fond as I was, even as a child, of my familiar things and home (a real hobbit in the making), I was always a bit horrified of Bilbo running off "without a hat, a walking stick or any money, or anything that he usually took when he went out" not even a pocket handkerchief. And yet I always was fascinated that you could live so light that those things were not important any more, and all that mattered was the Road, running ahead, and on and on.

The Lord of the Rings (and the Hobbit with it) is so deeply a "walking" book. Horses, eagles and boats do provide an occasional burst of speed to the story, but if one thinks of the book in its whole, it looks like the hobbits are always walking (or eating, on occasions). The very slowness of their progress brings Middle Earth to life in the tiniyest details. It is not just a succession of framed landscapes, but a true winding trail, alive with flowers, pebbles, old trees, soft grass, rustling leaves... mushrooms. I think it affected forever my way to conceive travelling.

I have three different editions of the Lord of the Rings, an italian translation, the first version that I had, in five volumes (including the Hobbit and the Silmarillion, all in one box), luxuriously bound in red fabric, with gilt, embossed titles, and huge folded maps on thick parchment paper, a format that Bilbo would have thoroughly approved; a beautiful heavy tome illustrated by Alan Lee and a humble and much abused paperback which is to this day my favourite edition... perhaps because I was always able to tuck it into my rucksack for travelling. The cover is an illustration of Gandalf purposefully striding through a grassy landscape, under the rain. It was painted by John Howe. The spine of the book is faded, but Gandalf's grass is still richly, deeply green.

I aquired this paperback when I was 19 in perhaps the first holiday I ever made without my family. It was also the first time I could read Tolkien in his original language, and one of the very first books I read in english at all. It feels so much like my first very own book, in a certain sense.

John Howe other paintings can be admired in his own home page:

http://www.john-howe.com/

Waiting for the horses to be deliverd to us, just can't wait for them to be here. They are two Haflinger ponies, a mare and gelding of 6 years. Very well behaved, very cooperative and friendly. The agreement is Eric will name the mare and I will name the gelding.They were both "family horses" before being put on the market for different reasons. They don't show any of the nevrotic symptoms of riding school horses.

In the mean time I am building the kitchen box (chuck box) for my cart. A bit of a shock passing from the 6 meters of work top of my kitchen to this tiny thing, but, funny enough, the working surface is not much smaller than it was in my old kitchen. Everything is relative.

The tent trial was fun. We had the tent in the meadow for four days and always slept outside during the trial. I love how the sleeping bag warms up the first minute you are in. The bed feels a lot colder. One night I was especially tired and Eric asked me if I was up to sleeping in the tent at all. I said "I just can't take the cold tonight, yes, let's sleep in the sleeping bags."

We never had any wind though, while the tent was up. Just typical.

We have horses. Today life is good!

The Tipi

Our tent arrived today. Weeks of painstaking searching through catalogues, pondering over different sizes, materials and features, drawing and cutting models of equipment, and a substantial transfer of money (groan...) resulted into this neat box being delivered to our door, about 27x27 cm and 70 cm long, for about 13 kg of weight. Our home for the next three years or so, hopefully.

Planting the pegs, with the measuring string.

The Tentipi Safir 9 is a huge thing,not something that normally two campers would chose for an expedition, but we are not going to be out there for a week or a month, and we have more equipment, more carrying capacity (hurray for horse power) and all in all different needs from the usual campers. We needed something we could call home, not just a sleeping shelter. We also wanted someting where both the Shuttles could be stored at need without making the living space totally cramped. And we wanted to be able to cook inside, and be able to rely on the quality of the materials. And after being cursed with two severely windswept gardens for years on end, we wanted something hopefully storm safe. And it needed to be practical to put up and bring down in a short time. We don't ask much, do we?

Unfolding the tent.

The traditional tipi developed as a shelter in zones of very high winds, heavy snowfalls and freezing temperatures. Its conical shape allows the snow to slide down, and the wind tends to press it to the ground rather than lifting it. It also creates a chimney effect that allows to have a campfire inside and push out the smoke from the top. Native Americans who used the tipi could spend the all winter in theyr lovely tents in confort.While I hope to be out of snowy regions by next winter, wind resistance will often be a point of interest on our route.

Spreading the tent flat.

Even at the first trial the Safir 9 went up remarkably easily: for all its sturdiness it is still constructed in a way that allows for very easy assembling, an important point for people who will march all day, set up a tent in the evening and be off again the next morning. Muffin did most of the job, as the pictures show. It is important that tasks are divided evenly among the various members of a camping expedition. Much perplexity was created by the sickening scantiness of the instructions: while the tent is a thoroughly well made product the little sheet of instructions that goes with it is laughable. But she managed, a proof that either Muffin is a genius (which I do not exclude, of course) or that the tent is pretty self explaining.

Tipi is up

It is currently fully assembled in the meadow, surrounded by a veritable forest of pegs, all the storm lines spidering out and around it like the shrouds of a ship mast. If there is good place for testing wind resistance it is certainly our meadow, but the day is calm, if rainy. We will sleep outside tonight. The pale dun colour of the fabric gives to the interior of the tent an inviting warm glow even in this dismal weather. The hood covering the chimney is half lifted, like a winking eye. No better day to put the conforts of our new home to a severe test.

Checking on the air intakes, very important point.

Never trust humans for the important tasks.

Scraping old paint off brought to light the brass plates bearing the year and serial number of our carts: mine is from 1917, Eric's (the green horn) from 1923.
I am dumbstruck. Such venerable ancient fellows. I am glad that some old wiseass is joining this adventure. "You need people of intelligence in this mission... quest... thing".

"All I ever wanted to do was live my own life. And I'm having damn little success at that."
She laughed low."Only because you keep standing back from it. And turning aside from it. And avoiding it." She shook her head. "Trell, Trell. Open your eyes. This horrible mess is your life. There is no sense in waiting for it to get better. Stop putting it off, and live it."

Robin Hobb, The Liveship Traders saga

We have agreements: stabling and pasture for our horses, right on our doorstep: we need the horses now!

Leaving my home behind!

What a terrible thought. Not my home as in "this" house, however lovely it may be, but my home as in the things and clutter that have followed me through my life, creating year over year, the emotional and visual world where my mind is at ease. I always loved my things in a fierce possessive way that would certainly have raised much scorn in the old wise Buddha. But then I never pretended to be a very ascetical person. It is very little excuse that none of my possessions are worth much in terms of money. They are only worth for the story that goes with them and makes them part of my past, of who I am.

Or does it?

Are they really indeed part of who I am, or are they only projections of my fear to lose myself?

Why should a bookcase, a raku dish, or an old set of silver forks be part of my essence? If I gave them up would I really be diminished? Even those things I painted back to life, after everybody else discarded them as useless junk, am I more "myself" by possessing them, or is it enough to my essence that I made them in the first place?

My friend Claire said something that had me wondering and reflecting for days now... that if you possess something that you cannot let go it becomes a burden, not an asset.
While the theory of it is familiar enough, in an abstract way, its true meaning is haunting and overwelming in this moment when I have to make so many choices: can I keep, somewhere, my 18 century green chairs? And the cups that Robert made for me? And the kilim carpet? And those glasses I found in the abandoned house. Do you remember the abandoned house? Do you remember how its cracked floors seemed to slide down the side of the hill? Do you remember the sunset over its wild garden, the young walnut growing through the roof? Do you remeber?

It is very curious. The memory of the old house is in my mind not in the glasses I found dusty and dirty in the ruined kitchen. I don't need the glasses. I just cherish how they witness the story, how they write a silent paragraph in the novel (romance?) of my home.

For the first time in perhaps 15 years, today, I saw the beauty of a windstorm.

Without fear.

The Garden was stolen from me, the link broken. Storms hold no fear today. They will... in days to come. But not today.

"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off -- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. "

H. Melville, Moby Dick

There, sums it up nicely, no?

But apart from the morose mood I feel these days, there is more to this plan.
It is becoming a pattern, a recurring thing: I long for a home to call mine, but I don't seem to ever feel home anywhere, at any account, not for long. May be I am more of a natural rolling stone than I thought, although admittedly I wish I could roll away with all my carefully hand painted furniture, and my garden and, most of all, my library.

I lived in Norway for some months in 1999, I remember the heartbreaking feeling of having to chose a mere handful of books to bring with me. And the deep deep joy of the reunion, when I went back to Italy, and in my room, all my books twinkled and winked to me through a thin layer of dust, waiting, welcoming. I felt my brain could expand again. I love the feeling of having to only stretch a hand behind me, to the bookshelf, to pore over the familiar words of my favourite authors, pick a fitting quote, get lost in the flow. Once again. I am a re-reader of books. My favourites are steady friends, that I meet regularly. That is why I generally wish to own them, physically, in a paper incarnation.

If my library is home, then I am in deep **** here: how many books can I possibly pack on one of the Shuttles, among firebox, camping cooking implements, sleeping bags, tent, winter clothes, summer clothes, water canisters, Eric's dulcimer, cat transporting case (we will come to this), assorted tools, watercolour kit, rainproof tarps and foldable buckets, spare tires, spare horse boots, food supplies, inflatable mattresses, and... and...

Well, you get the idea.

The world of books is divided in two main categories to me. Books that I use mainly for reference, and books that are deeply, emotionally "home". Books where I can curl in, and be at peace, whatever may be storming outside. Of these "The Lord of the Rings" is one, as you may have guessed by now. "Possession", by A. S. Byatt is another. The Aubrey-Maturin series is the third big pillar of my paper castle. Now, "The Lord of the Rings" is a mighty tome in any edition, but the paperback I will surely fit somewhere. "Possession", too. Jack and Stephen... now, there's a problem. 20 and 1/2 books. I have a complete edition, divided in 5 tomes, in a box, that is probably the slimmest available, but is still a terrific lump of luggage. By the weight of it one would never believe that it is made of paper. After all the specific weight of paper is not supposed to be comparable to that of lead. It is the density of words in it that creates a little black hole in the universe, I am sure of it. I could probably fit weels under the box, and trail it after the cart. It is probably massive enough to carry some luggage of its own. However tempting the idea may be, I fear a different solution is needed. E-books? Audio-books? It's not the same, I know, But it will have to do.

I had not set out to write about books today. I had intended to reason about home and homeless-ness and exhile. Duh! Curious how such a theme immediately brings up books to my mind.

Ass of Spades

Yesterday evening we were so completely crumbled by the unloading, assempling, disassembling of the Shuttles not to mention the manhandling of the things into the worksop that we were not up to any cooking more complicated than hot dogs, but since the evening was sweet and the light wonderful we decided to cook outside in the meadow, on the firebox.

We had a plan to place to box on the grass this time, to test the impact of the thing on a living carpet and I set out to diligently cut a little rectangle in the turf (well, in the coarse grass, rather) where to place the box. Eric designated that this should be done with the foldable spade he got two days ago together with the Shuttles and that I did.

Now. I am not a soldier, not an outdoor expert, I am a gardener, so I guess I am biased here. Gardeners are after all an eminently sensible bunch of people on the whole. We know about digging the ground and came up with the best solutions for it. I realize that packing a full size spade for a camping excursion may not be practical. But. I don't know what the inventor of this thing was thinking when he (I am certain it was a he) invented the thing. There are some sophisticated mechanics involved in this, so I suppose that some kind of thinking was indeed sloshing arount in the bildge of his brains. But this thinking had nothing to do with digging. Only an opinion, mind. Well, Lets say that I manage to scratch away a couple of cm of top soil and peel back the grass, all the time grumbling to myself about the wonderful array of razor sharp spades in my porch, the three different digging forks and the heavy hoe I recently endowed with a new handle. It was a frustrating feeling that I never felt when cooking on the firebox just out of my well furnished kitchen. Teaches you the difference between ingenious, efficient simplicity, and ridicoulous gadgets.

I am not saying that the foldable spade is utterly useless. I am just saying that the common garden trowel, a modest, ubiquitous item with no bigger ambition than serving its purpose, a thing designed not for hard muscled survival experts but for any housewife with a windowbox, will give you the same service with less hassle.

The hot dogs were very nice. Spring onions finely cut and mixed with a little creme fraiche are the best thing for hot dogs, together with sweet mustard.

I have a foldable spade for sale. Really good occasion.

The Shuttles

The shuttles are home, disassembled on the floor of the workshop, ready for cleaning and painting away the military look; no repairs needed except a few minor thing. SOme worn leather straps, a splintered board.

Damn bombproof swiss engineering. More, swiss mlilitary engineering. Much older than we thought, they were apparently produced in 1918. No rust no rot. They are as sound as the day they were first turned out of the factory.

These things are not the flimsy showing carts you see these days. "You buy this ship, treat her proper, she'll be with you for the rest of your life". You can see that they were meant to go through hell, and come out from it untouched. For a lifetime. Or,like in this case, more than one. The ad stated a weight of 70 Kg. First rule of cart ads: don't trust anything they say about weight. Whatever they say, may or may not bear some relation to the weight of the cart stripped of its weels, shafts, any easily movable accessory and cover, and may be a couple of not-too-essential boards for good measure. But my opinion is that the relation, if it exhists, is thin. We stripped them to the bone in preparation to scraping and repainting, but they ain't 70 bloody kilos, granted. Me and Eric can handle, lift, and flip over these things, but it is not a healthy sport, believe me. The Swiss army was clearly not made up of whimps like us. Those were the days were the carts were made of wood (mostly) and the men were made of iron. Tut-tut.

On the other hand, when they were assembled-for-trial in our yard, they were pretty easy to manouvre around. They are tiny and really agile, once they are allowed to stand like good decent fellows, instead of lounging upside down on a pallet, without weels (duh!).

I love how robust they are: I am absolutely confident that we will grow tired of rugged woodland paths long before the Shuttles will. The scantlings (to put it in ship terms) of these carts are terrific. Modern cars look like cheap tincans in comparison. Pins and clips are all chained to the cart to avoid loosing small parts in the grass. They have solid oak shafts for hitching a horse or a mule, and a single, shorter shaft for being pushed or pulled, or just manouvered around by a person. This shaft is stowed in its own compartment underneath, safely secured and out of harms way. They can be attached together so that one horse can pull them both. They have sturdy, no nonsense brakes (ever seen a Swiss mountain path?). Imagine a governess cart built like a tank, and you are getting close enough.

The Shuttles - in tandem

They smell like the back of every brocante shop I visited in my life. They cut a shabby figure in the garage of the retailer, piled over one another, weels off. Zoe lingered ghostly beside us "Did you pay money for this, sir? On purpose?" I don't know why all these shops smell the same all over Europe (can't grant for the rest of the world). I think it is a bottled "OLD CELLAR" scent that goes with the business. I love and hate this smell. It is the smell of old furniture waiting to be restored, and therefore very exciting to me. But it is also the smell of age-long, mummified disuse. It's a smell of dead things, left behind and abandoned. Time to brush the old dust from our Shuttles.

PS According to other sources this model is from 1940. I have no idea, not being in any way an expert or a collector of military mementos. WHo cares anyway. They serve our purpose to perfection, whatever their age!

Serenity

The name of this blog is Serenity because both me and Eric are so utterly in love with the TV series "Firefly". Whatever vehicle would carry us in our "Gipsy life" to come (or more exactly, our luggage, we intend to carry ourselves, i.e. walk), we wanted to call it Serenity. It ain't much, but it is home.
For a short period we entertained rather lofty plans. A western horse-drawn style Planwagen (a very very miniature version of the all famous Conestoga wagons), crossed our dreams.
Unfortunately such a lovely but bulky thing would limit our choice of paths to rather large and well beaten ways, and that is not what we intended. SOmething smaller and nimbler is in order: we came up with two tiny, ancient things that will exactly do for us: infantry carts from the World War II.
They are too small (and there's 2 of them) to be called Serenity... I guess they will have to be "the Shuttles", lol.

We are fetching them tomorrow. Can't wait to start restoring them.

The Firebox

Taking up walking as a lifestyle sounds very natural, healthy and antropological, not too mention romantic, but the truth is one cannot live of mere walking. One thing I am not ready to give up is decent food. And, yes I do intend to keep cooking my food by myself.

It's curious how some things define "home" much more strongly than walls and furniture, although I am very - very - attached to my walls and furniture. Mushrooms soup and applepie are some of the most essential attributes of the "home-idea" that I can think of.

Walking along the countryside these days, mushrooms (and apples, wink, wink!) are a plentiful and inexpensive commodity. If they could be easily turned into soup in a campfire setting was a different question. We set out to explore the possibilities. We felt very hobbit-ish, I have to admit.

We recently aquired a Liard Firebox from a rather lovely shop:

http://www.absolut-canoe.de/Oefen.php

Our first trial was a grand success.

I was never much of an outdoor person. My parents always liked confortable holidays. Adventure, tents and sleeping bags were never to their taste, I don't think they ever - ever - slept a night out of a solid house, not even in a camper, and barbeques are something done once a year in the backyard, with the fridge and the kitchen processor close at hand. I never learned to start a fire before we moved to this house, but I took to it with a passion. Eric calls me "my little Balrog", I am sure that is really an affectionate nickname (mostly). Well, certainly sweeter than the Mouth of Sauron.


Starting the firebox was no mystery then. I was thouroghly honest: no paper, no paraffin cubes, just a handful of dry leaves, dead grass, and shredded bark. Whatever I could find in the radius of five meters from the box in our back yard. We recently scooped up all the wood that could be any use for the stove, so there were only bits and pieces left, a few overlooked sticks. But they served. Oh they served!

The box is a lovely thing: the concept is startling in its simplicity, and throughly efficient, both in the practice and in the construction. Made of 1 mm thick stainless steel, cleanly laser cut, it's a sleek creature, that packs away in little case and magically unfolds (no pins no screws) into a stable, circa shoe-box size, metal wonder able to safely contain and concentrate the heat of a small fire: a little heap of tiny sticks was more than sufficient to cook our soup in a heavy cast iron pot, in little more time that it would have taken on our hyper-high-tech induction field.



A potof water in front of the box was kept warm throughout the cooking, and the last heat from the coals toasted our croutons to smoky perfection. A hand-crank blender is the only thing missing to make outdoor-no-electricity soup a complete reality. Such blenders exhist, and I *really* want one. A good blender is the only sophisticated kitchen tool that I cannot imagine how to do withou, but it doesn't need to be electrical.

The Liard Box is supposed to be resistant to both rusting and warping. It certainly did not warp so far, amazing for such a thinly constructed contraption. But every sheet is pierced and cut in complex patterns that (I suppose) confoud the warping forces generated by the heat so that the metal is unaffected. They also provide ventilation to the fire while containing it (and the sparks), so that three sides of the box are really safe for sitting while cooking, and most of the heat actually does go in the cooking.

I love this box of ours. Supposedly it can be used to bake bread, and while this task will mainly be performed by the soon to come Dutch Oven, it is still something that I have to try.

My out door cooking career is at the beginning, but it seems promising.

The mushrooms soup:

About 1/2 kg of wild mushrooms.

A medium onion, a clove of garlic.

Olive oil, salt, pepper, stock powder (a tea spoon), 1/2 l water

A few dried porcini

1/2 tbs of fresh thyme, stalks discarded

A few spoons of fresh goat cheese (or creme fraiche, or even greek yoghurt)

Fry the onion and garlic lightly until soft. Add the mushrooms, roughly chopped, the porcini (previously soaked in the water) and fry for 10 more minutes. Add the stock powder, the thyme, and the water. Let simmer for 20 to 30 minutes. Blend smooth, return to fire, season to taste and return to boil. Mix in the cheese, and set aside. Toast sliced bread (or whatever bread you have) over the grill. Serve in mugs or bowls.

I suppose the whole village of Macken is wondering why two adult persons are sitting in the rain cooking dinner on a Firebox, with a perfectly confortable house behind them. Let them wonder. It's good exercise for the brain.

About walking

After the last disaster with our landlady, when rage and worry was threatening to overwhelm us, we went for a walk.

This is significative. It is our usual reaction to quarrels, strifes, difficult moment of any kind.

Walking is healing, and it is a form of healing me and Eric can share, unlike gardening. There is something soothing in the rythm of the walk; the slow change of the scenery, perceivable as landscapes and minute details, distracts the brain just enough to allow some choerent thinking in the turmoil of emotions. It encourages constructive reasoning and conversation.

There is no other kind of travelling with these qualities for me.
Cars and trains are too fast, detatching you from the landscape. It is alienating to travel that fast, and yet motionless. It's a trip all concentrated on the arrival, the substance of the travel made worthless. There is no scope for unfolding complicated thoughts in a car. If I am driving I need to concentrate on what I do (or I should... sometimes I don't, and this is an expensive attitude, although very profitable for mechanics and car sellers). If I am a passenger I am soon bored, and unconfortable, the noise makes talking difficult, the view changes too fast for me to actually register anything, so that in short all my thought turns into a puddle of frustrated and confused misery, and I just hope for it to be over.
Trains are only marginally better. I find a train incourages self murderous introspection rather that clear thought in me. May be it is because the train moves on and on following (more or less exactly) a time table, and its moving has no relation to my will. I always feel fatalistic when travelling by train. The world is comingto an end, and nothing I can do will stop it. This is the usual sum of my train thoughts.
Bicycles are fun for a short while. They give an illusion of free, controlled, organic speed, of conquered superiority. That illusion in my case fades in a matter of 15 - 20 km, when my ass (pardon) begins to feel like something one does not want attached to one's body. More than that and the bike becomes a killer. I long for a closer contact to the surrounding, the tiny creeping sedum by the side of the road, a lovely glade of lush greenery, a curius stone, and there, it's done, my weel misteriously ends up into something hard, I swerve, I curse, and I am down, entangled into my own rucksack, trying to save the camera from harm. It doesn't need to be so bad every time, but it is a concrete risk. I had some really embarassing biking accidents in my time.

Walking is a way of moving around that is right for me. I am less of a danger to myself and others, and I earn something by the process that is more, much more than simply relocating myself from place A to place B.

Why is walking so good?
In the next days, I will have to read Chatwin again. He is guilty, guilty. If you want to live your life in a cosy flat, work yourself to safe (?) retirement, never wondering "What if...?", don't ever - ever - read Chatwin.

The Scary Smile

My life has been hit by minor disasters more times than I can count. It is something that happens all the time I guess. But this time is different. I cannot say, really what the difference is, but I feel like a change in nature has occured. Until last week life could have gone on, sailing through its various troubles with minor course adjustments. No more, apparently. For some reason the back of the ship has broken, and I can't seem to be able to stay afloat any more. A drastic change is needed. Sailing won't do now. It's time I learn to fly.

This could be the "bad novel style" start to this new blog.

The realistic start is shorter, and just plain grumpy. I am fed up.

I discovered that in the last weeks I developed a natural inclination, (and some real talent) to imitate the charming smile exhibited by Bruce Spence as the Mouth of Sauron in the Return of the King. This cannot possibly be a positive sign. Worse: my husband loves it.

It cannot be healthy. But I am putting the cart ahead of the pony... as you will understand, in time.

Where to start the tale? It is a difficult thing. I am 31, and a complicated person, and there is number of things to say, but would you bear with me? Perhaps not. In any case this should not be the story of my life,but the story of how I came to consider to alter it... completely.

I have always been a moss gatherer... can you change and become a rolling stone? Literally?

I alway fidgeted with the idea that exile was my true home. Could that be the truth? Could it be that those roots that always bound me, with a mixture of bliss and pain, to my home and garden will one day grow so thin taht I can snap loose and just be... free?