The ledge

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Behind the old stone house where the wall rises straight up from the rock, a mosaic of limestone, terracotta, bricks and mortar, is the ledge. In its more pristine past the ledge was pretentiously known as the terrace but nature has imposed its will on this man made pretension and it has returned to be being an overgrown and irregular piece of land no bigger than a small balcony.

When we first arrived the ledge held promise of sunny breakfasts and balmy evenings spent with a fine wine and friends and despite the contortions required to reach it: down through a narrow opening into the cellar, squeezing through a narrow slit in the wall and manoeuvring over an array of pipes, the promise in part was fulfilled.

In the early days chairs and tables were lowered on a piece of rope out of the narrow kitchen window above, and teams were organised to lower lunches ,drinks and ,breakfasts out of the window in a basket and unload them on the ledge below. Not quite the sophisticate dream of Tuscan life I had had in mind but it was a start.

After some years the ledge experienced a make over. A new wall was built, terra cotta tiles were laid and a ,hammock was strung across under the tree .An opening had also been made from the cellar which negated the need for the complex gyrations involved when squeezing through the slit in the wall.

Then one June the rain came, and a cascade of water trying to escape to the river below, gathered its force and knocked the terrace down.

When we arrived, we found that the wall which supported the terrace had fallen over forming a blanket of 100 lb concrete blocks which slid down the mountain side crushing all in its path before coming to rest in the Olive groves below. An amalgamate of the debris of Tuscan mountain life spewed behind it.

Now the ledge has returned to how it was when we first stood on it all those years ago. When we were warmed by the April sun taking the chill from the cool mountain air, dazzled by the clear light, and moved by the sad sonorous echo of the church bell from across the valley.

In the early morning I sit on the improvised steps which lead to the ledge. To the east the sun rises over the mountains casting shadows where it can penetrate the ancient tree which shades the ledge from the full onslaught of the sun.. In the distance the foothills and peaks of the Apennines form a boundary to my view their contours delineated by the fall of light and shade. Every now and then something sparkles like a small gem in a forest of green, evidence of human life. Houses of Terracotta tile, yellow ochre and stone mingle in a huddle of community.

The piecemeal patches of level land are freshly mowed around the tended tress which will later bring precious fruits of Olive, cherry and peach .Small figures move deliberately around the ordered Orto’s where tomatoes, onions and, potatoes sprout from the rich red soil and where the vines are sprayed a rich turquoise. Next to each orto stands a brick shed with a corrugated terracotta roof an improvised water barrel and a plastic chair in the shade.

Then the land disappears and only the echo of the river below indicates the depth of the chasm before limestone cliffs reach up beyond, tree covered, green, white patches of rock, all angles.

Swallows in twos and threes sweep across the valley circling, looping, diving, the roar of the river a backdrop to their chatter. A car starts and children’s footsteps clatter past on their way to school.

On the ledge, the musty earthy smell of the cellar mingles with moist warm earth and a waft of wisteria, as a colony of ants climb steadfastly up the wall carrying supplies to their home somewhere in the crevices above my head .A wild clematis clambers erratically up from below smothering the edge and entangling the sage and thyme planted in more ordered times .Everywhere I look there is a new plant springing from the gritty soil and a profusion of insect activity .

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