Sun 1 May - No Way to Treat Your Best Friend

Last night's curry therapy worked a treat in lifting our rain flattened spirits, but wasn't quite strong enough to lift the rain too.  We opened the shutters with trembling anticipation.  The weather must have broken by now? 

We were treated to the sight of the rain cloud completely enveloping us.  The worst its been.  It was dripping wet, soggy and foggy.  Phil and Sharon are arriving today.  What on earth are we going to do with them?  

A little unsure how they're going to cope with our basic ruralness, this weather will surely be a step too far?  We text Sharon to tell her to bring plenty of fleeces.  Does Sharon have fleeces? Do they come in diamonte?  She reassured us she would bring her winter clothes, her hot water bottle and will be leaving her high heels behind.  Sharon without heels??? But, ok, this is sounding hopeful.  

Phil, on the other hand, was coming to us from Dubai and only had his Dubai wardrobe with him.  Ah.  May be a problem. 

Sure enough, there he was at Pescara Centrale fresh off the train as though he'd just walked out of a magazine shoot for Armani.  Absolutely immaculately groomed in his desert best.  Light beige chinos, complete with perfect crease down the middle, and pale yellow Ralph Lauren shirt, crisp and starched.  Oh God. 

Contrast that with the two beatniks who met him.  A little dishevelled you might say.  Or just two scruffy buggers.  But it was great to see him.  And within two hours we had thoroughly dishevelled him too.  Unintentionally, of course... 

After settling Phil in at home and having a long drawn out lunch (outside, in the much improved weather), I suggested going for a shor t walk around our little hamlet to walk off lunch and show Phil the charming delights of Garifoli. We wouldn't go beyond the village boundaries, and would keep to the tarmac paths of course.  With Phil's desert best and soft leather loafers, how could we do otherwise?  

Reaching the outer edge of the village, the temptation to continue on along the old mule track was just too much.  Just a bit further.  Phil's doing OK, his shoes aren't slipping too much, and he's only got a couple of splashes on his chinos.  Think we'll be alright.  

The stony mule track did get a bit more muddy, and I'm sure we'd have been OK (ish), but KP thought he could find a short cut over to the Abbey.    Oh God, we're going off piste.  This isn't going to be pretty.   And pretty it was not. 

We climbed, scrambled and slid down gorges, and up.  We ploughed through mud, waded across rivers and broke through thick brambles and undergrowth.  KP stopping to take breath every now and then to point out the fabulous views.   Is the man totally mad? 

His best friend, no longer Armani Man (and probably no longer his friend either), was behind him, mopping his brow, hair sticking out like Wurzel Gummage, his trousers and beautiful leather shoes totally trashed.   

But we did make it to the Abbey.  And to the bar beyond.   Phil was still smiling, and I think it was genuine.  But then he did have a pint of beer in his hand, and we had yet to pick up Sharon... 

Wonder if we can do the same to Sharon?   Somehow I think not

A right pair of Del Trotters