Normally, October is my least favourite month of the year. Summer fades away and in its place are dying leaves, cold air and Halloween. Pass me the puke bag, please. But this year I’m distracted and hardly notice that the earth is tilting away from my beloved sun, that last flash of beauty as nature sheds itself and prepares itself for winter’s sleep. I’m too busy cleaning, organising, making phone calls, booking a moving van and giving notice to our landlord. Because we’re doing it! We’re moving back to Italy. And I’m so fucking scared and so fucking excited and don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m doing it anyway.
We’re moving to Ischia, the island in the bay of Naples, nestled right into the volcanic bed of the Phlegrean Fields. Napoli and the towns that stud its velvet sulphuric cloak are in the lovely position of being ready to blow at any moment. O that beauty of straddling life and death, the paradox of simultaneous violence and joy, and the conviviality between reality and the imaginary. We’re going right to the heart of it ready to realise the dream of having our own lemon tree.
I’ll keep writing here about all the paradoxes, contradictions, culture clashes, panic attacks, spiritual adventures, Italian discoveries, gastronomic gut-busting orgasms, and lazy explorations of island life in the meridian. There’ll be a lot of joy in there, too.