We’re bell-proud here in San Maurizio. The church which serves this village of 500 people has six bells in the campanile. Day and night the bells toll the hour in the usual fashion; or almost the usual fashion. After ringing the appropriate number of times for the hour, the whole thing is repeated again three minutes later; maybe we’re particularly inattentive up here on the hill.
In addition to the hours, the bell rings once on the half hour. This is fine for most of the day, but it leaves us unsure in the middle of the day and the middle of the night: 12:30, 1:00 and 1:30 all sound exactly the same, both a.m. and p.m.
Twice a day there is some bonus bonging. At 7 a.m. and again at 8 p.m. a slightly deeper bell rings 50-60 times between the two soundings of the hour. The reasoning for this, I’ve always imagined, is to say, in the first instance, “Hey, it’s time to go outside and start your work. Get going!” and in the second, “Okay, quittin’ time; dinner’s ready, home you go.” Then on Saturdays and Sundays, and sometimes on Thursday afternoons the bells play a short selection of tunes, most quite jazzy. Of course there is also extra ringing for weddings (few and far between) and funerals.
There is something awful about this for dogs. The normal ringing of the bells doesn’t elicit any canine response, but the sonic frequency of the extra long, low peals as well as the songs must hurt their ears. North, south, east and west, they all start to bark, howl, squeal and moan. Every dog in town weighs in saying, “ow, ow, ow – stoooop!” Finally the bells stop and so do the dogs.
There’s a sound clip of one of the regular tunes our bells play here. If you listen carefully you may hear some canine dissent. Apologies for the quality of the video – my camera isn’t really designed for it, and I’m a bit jiggly at the start.
Don’t you have an image of a monk, robes flying, racing from one bell pull to the next to play so fast? Or perhaps several, trying not to trip over each other? Or maybe a Quasimodo figure up amongst the bells themselves, ringing them with a big mallet, as if they were a xylophone? Alas, those days are over. The bell ringing is done by computer. There’s a control box under the bell tower, and the priest can select the music he wants to play.
The dogs don’t care how it’s done. They just don’t care for it.
When we lived in Connecticut we had a ‘flock’ of hens. I use the term loosely; we had three hens. Ever since my grandmother told stories about making little rubbers for her chickens so their feet feet wouldn’t get wet, I wanted to raise chickens. It seemed more interactive than dolls, and less responsibility than actual children.
States the relatively pale yellow yolks seem anemic to us. But I must say, even our own flock of Connecticut hens produced the pale American yolk. It must be something in the Italian diet … even for the chickens.
It is a small fair, held along the banks of the Torrente San Maria, and it is always a delight. The big tree and shrub fair comes to Rapallo in January. This April fair is for buying chicks, ducks, turkeys, geese, goats and sheep; for buying flower plants; and for dreaming about a new piece of equipment for your farm. It also gives the local woodsmen a chance to compete in various wood-cutting skills, felling temporary trees and limbing downed trees (this is the only competition I’ve seen at an Italian fair yet).
One of our favorites is the man who sells a sweet wafer from Tuscany. The machine that makes the wafer is so complex, the product so simple. It reminds us a bit of an elaborate tortilla-press. Best of all, the vendor gives samples of his product, a delicate, slightly anise-flavored treat, Tuscany’s sweet answer to the potato chip.
Sardegna
An Ex-Expatriate 
