13th March 2010

Why on earth did I say yes?

Agreeing to officiate at Harborough RUFC’s Sevens competition sounded harmless enough at the time, a bit of light touchline flag-waving, some fresh air, a few muddy lads charging about. But when I turned up at 11.00 am on a bitterly cold Sunday morning, I quickly realised the depth of my misjudgement.

Jim Hankers had also been roped in, and we foolishly agreed to run the touchline for every match on the first team pitch. From 11.30 am until 5.30 pm, we ran up and down like demented penguins, chasing shadows and occasionally players. There were no scheduled breaks, just frantic gulps of tea and the odd soggy sandwich between whistles. By the time I stumbled through the back door at Willow Bank, I was somewhere between frozen and fossilised.

Naturally, any thought of rest was quickly dashed. Jamie needed help writing a letter on the study computer, and then I had to pack for Italy. I crawled into bed at 11.30 pm, utterly shattered, and barely able to move anything that wasn’t attached by ligament.

At 5.00 am, still half-dead, I rang Roger Woolnough to check he was awake, misery loves company, then made a cup of coffee and waited. He arrived at 5.30 am, and after whispering a goodbye to Sue (who remained snugly unconscious in bed), we hit the road to Stansted. I connected my phone’s SatNav to his car’s cigarette lighter… only to discover it had no power. Marvelous. Undeterred, we relied on the phone’s dwindling battery and, by some small miracle, made it.

Our Ryanair flight to Ancona departed on time at 9.55 am, and a couple of hours later, we were warmly greeted in the arrivals lounge by Joan and Phillip, who looked unchanged since last year, proof, if ever it was needed, of the life-extending properties of Italian sunshine and red wine.

Their home in Santa Vittoria welcomed us with better weather than last time, actual warmth and sunshine, not just the theoretical kind. We were introduced to their temporary canine lodger, Wags the Alsatian, who belonged to Luke and family and was enjoying a Tuscan-style sabbatical while they were in the UK.

Joan and Phil had made their red wine from the previous year’s grape harvest, and after extensive testing, we agreed it was dangerously drinkable. Each evening, we did our patriotic duty by emptying bottles. We also discovered a delightful Italian lemon liqueur, Limoncello, hand-crafted by Joan. Served chilled, it was deceptively delicious and likely to confuse even the sharpest brain after a couple of glasses. I now have the recipe and every intention to replicate it, purely for cultural reasons, of course.

Our hosts took us out on a few excursions: a scenic blue lake, snowcapped mountains, and some charming hilltop towns that hadn’t featured on our last visit. The visibility was excellent this time, and the Marche region was as stunning as ever. During our stay, Phil celebrated one of those landmark birthdays that sneak up on you like a tax bill. Roger and I treated them both to a very fine meal in town, a lovely evening of pizza, merriment and mild middle-aged denial.

We also had dinner with friends Rob and his wife. Rob is a BBC/ITV cameraman turned semi-retiree and full-time wine enthusiast. A considerable amount of wine was consumed, and by the end of the evening, we were all very mellow, bordering on horizontal.

After running up and down a rugby pitch like a lunatic the day before flying, my legs took several days to forgive me. I hobbled about like a pensioner chasing a bus. Nevertheless, Roger and I managed to while away many a contented hour in the garden, planting vegetables and moving soil, always in pursuit of the elusive wine weevil (a creature we may or may not have invented after the second bottle).

Wags the dog joined us for long walks, but on one particularly warm day, came back utterly wiped out and collapsed in a blissful heap on the gravel. Inspired, I sneaked off for a two-hour nap myself. I’ve no idea what Roger did during that time, but knowing him, it involved cheese.

Speaking of food, I was once again astonished by Joan’s vegetarian cookery. Last year, I was pleasantly surprised. This year, I was nearly converted. Her meals were nothing short of gourmet, worthy of at least a couple of Michelin stars if anyone at Villa Waggalino could be bothered to invite the inspectors. After the main course, my dessert of choice was Cheesy Heaven: a platter of at least six varieties, while the poor rest of the table tucked into sugary things destined to rot their teeth and souls alike.

Despite the threatening ash cloud overhead (volcanoes, honestly, such drama queens), we flew home safely at the end of the week. The idea of returning in September was planted firmly in our minds; Italian autumns sound like just the thing to wash away the memory of British weather.

The return to Harborough was predictably grim. Cold, cold, and more cold. The garden’s in protest, the plants have gone on strike, and the golden evenings in Marche now feel like a half-remembered dream. Still, there’s always Limoncello…