HOW MANY PICKERS DOES IT TAKE.....

To strip an olive tree?







Quite a few, actually- since the trees yield a surprising amount of fruit. Men are vital (especially when precarious ladders are involved!).
You spread nets beneath the trees.....



Which then catch the yield.

















And leave you with crates of beautifully-hued fruit which you can then take off to be pressed into oil.













Umbria is somewhere I've only visited in spring or summer but going there in November was wonderful. Grey, misty mornings - with the growing light illuminating the brilliant autumn colours of the leaves. Nearby we could hear the barking of the hunters' dogs as they searched for wild boar. Evenings were warmed by enormous log fires, toasted chestnuts and delicious stews. We sang (badly) to a beautifully-played piano, slept soundly after so much fresh air and exercise and found the entire experience inspirational. It was one of those times which gives meaning to the term "life-enhancing".

OLIVE HARVESTING IN UMBRIA

This is the view I'll have for the next three days.....







Well, not quite....it'll be missing Celia, Patrick and Rory (poor darlings!) but the lake and the tablecloth landscape will be there in all their glory.
I'll be picking olives, enjoying congenial company and soaking in all that wonderful Italian atmosphere - looking for inspiration which hopefully, I can use in the book I'm writing.
Whatever you're doing this weekend - hope it's wonderful.

WON'T YOU COME INTO MY PARLOUR?

Here's a picture of a spider's web. It's not a particularly good photo (I was just learning about my new camera and, sadly - the misty season of web-building has now passed for another year....) but I was eager to show it. Why? Because the spider gets such a bad press! It is such a clever creature and their fantastic homes/traps would surely make most architects swoon with envy.

Okay, I concede that they're scary....particularly when they're mouse-sized and scuttling across the floor. But life is too short to be scared of spiders and that's why I have included the following childhood rhyme. I was only going to put in the first two stanzas - but it turns into such a magnificent morality tale that I've included the entire poem. Because, like me - you may have only ever heard the first few lines.














Mary Howitt (1799-1888)
The Spider And The Fly


"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show when you are there."
"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high.
Well you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
"Oh no, no," said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning spider to the fly: "Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "kind sir, that cannot be:
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings; how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;
If you'd step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,
And, bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly;
Then came out to his door again and merrily did sing:
"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple; there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer grew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes and green and purple hue,
Thinking only of her crested head. Poor, foolish thing! at last
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast;
He dragged her up his winding stair, into the dismal den -
Within his little parlor - but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words I pray you ne'er give heed;
Unto an evil counselor close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly.



Do you have a favourite childhood poem?

GET STUFFED!

David Nicholson has the best pub in Winchester. It defines the word idosyncratic and is stuffed full of treasures wherever you look. Here I am with a sweet little dog I found while I was having lunch there the other day.
















Of course, it isn't a REAL dog













See?














It occurred to me that stuffing animals or birds is a subject which fascinates or repels the onlooker and I wasn't quite sure what compelled people to do it, or what purpose it served. So I asked an expert for his personal philosophy of taxidermy, and he said:

"Most people judge taxidermy by its worst examples: distressed specimens with bald patches and stitches stretching open in granny's attic or the junk shop. But there is another side to it. Some taxidermists are keen naturalists. They strive to capture and immortalise the beauty of detail in the natural world, and are meticulous about anatomical accuracy as well as correct and natural poses. They aim to express the inexpressible qualities of a creature being alive, and pausing for just an instant before moving on. The struggle to capture and express such ethereal qualities in a solid medium is the essence of pure art".

Thanks for that, Russell - and I wonder if you agree with him?


In the meantime, here's a more traditional aspect of David's pub.

DESKS AND NOSTALGIA

A reader wants to know what's on my desk. A brilliant, bright-red phone. Solid and reassuring, it also makes me feel very nostalgic. Here it is (the three empty coffee mugs are out of shot!).

It's a replica of the phone my school friend Heather had in her house in Ashford, Middlesex. As an only child, I spent many happy hours round at her house (she has three brothers!). Strains of loud rock music would filter through the house while we two experimented with make-up (often with terrifying results) - and ate sickly cakes.
What makes you nostalgic?




Here's a wider view of the desk.
You can see my shiny new Mac. Next to the phone is a fabulous pink jewel - which, like the phone - is also a replica, but this time of the famous pink sapphire of Karedes (which you may have read about in THE PLAYBOY SHEIKH'S VIRGIN STABLE GIRL). Beside that is a wonderful deep blue stone which I bought when I was visiting my son in Siena. My daughter drew the portrait of me when she was eight. The jewel-encrusted alligator was given to me at an amazing party in Santa Barbara and the books in the foreground are Italian dictionaries (my latest hero is called Giancarlo Vellutini). You might just be able to catch a glimpse of the paper-weight, designed by Antony Gormley for his Blind Light exhibition at the Tate Gallery. This was a rather terrifying experience when you walked into a giant cube filled with dry ice, limiting visibility to practically zero and making you feel completely disorientated. Which sounds a bit like shopping just before Christmas.
What's the most precious thing on your desk, I wonder?

WHERE AM I?

No, I am not in the fictional soap street named Coronation Street, which is in Manchester. If it was Manchester it would be raining, wouldn't it?



Neither am I in ancient Greece - although here I am posing next to a stunning Corinthian pillar.
















Nor am I in Narnia - even though Mr. Tumnus would just LOVE this lamp-post!













You've guessed now, haven't you? I'm outside King's College, Cambridge - where I was attending the memorial service for ex-Press Association boss David Chipp, whose illustrious career included thirty months spent in Peking as Reuter's correspondent - the first non-communist Western correspondent to be granted residency by the Communist government.

The service was sublime - especially the music. Lit by guttering candles, the sweet song of the choir soared high up into the vaulted ceilings as dying light filtered through beautiful stained glass.
At the reception afterwards, there was the opportunity to pick up a copy of David's memoir - a fascinating tome entitled MAO'S TOE.
Why?
Because he once stood on Chairman Mao's toe.
Honestly.

BE PREPARED

Yesterday, in dire need of inspiration - I went to visit Waddesdon Manor. This is a luscious (and completely over-the-top) country pile, built for zany Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild in 1874.

First sight of it left me swooning. There were turrets galore. Latticed shrubbery. Spurting fountains, avaries - and enough sweeping views to keep Halloween witches jealously guarding their broomsticks.
The problem?
My camera ran out of battery after the very first photo.

Which was this:



So if you want to see more of Waddesdon's wealth of historical and idiosyncratic detail (the "Batchelors' Quarters" with billiard room, cosy smoking room plus sparkly 13th century vase is particularly fine) - visit http://www.waddesdon.org.uk/
Or you could tell me about a place which inspires YOU.....

Meanwhile, I must now go and phone a divorce lawyer on behalf of my latest heroine....