Dark clouds gripping the mountain in a brief pause from the rain, yesterday.I have been back in Italy for 27 days and it has rained non-stop for about 22 days. It can be hard to keep spirits high. The dirty clothes pile up in the corner, overflowing out of the washing basket and the silent washing machine. Sodden towels hang heavily on the line outside where they have swayed wetly for over a week, gently slapping at the wall. In the kitchen a patch of mould has reappeared on the wall, where 2 months ago I had scrubbed and painted it clean.
Skye stands on a chair by the window, here little nose pressed up against the cold glass.
"Please don't rain, please don't rain," she chants, over and over again, staring up at the dark clouds that have taken up residence over Positano. A whole Easter holiday stuck at home has not been much fun for her or her school friends so some parents have attempted to challenge the weather and organise a picnic on the beach. But at midday, after a brief spell of sunlight the heavens open again and the picnic is hurriedly cancelled.
Mountain walks are planned and cancelled, ideas for a herb garden are put on hold, day trips are all organised but still a dream and the rain keeps falling. The most bothersome part of it is all the Italians that stop me and peer from under their hood or umbrella.
"What weather!" They say, shaking drops off their noses, "you must be quite at home, it's just like England isn't it?"
I glance from their wet shoes and soaking trouser cuffs trailing in puddles to my knee high green wellies enclosing toasty warm feet. "In England," I say imperiously, "it never rains like this. In England it stops every now and then...the weather changes often there...look, this is your weather, not mine OK?" I wade off through the puddles, muttering that at least I know how to dress for it, and they stand there in their sodden trousers, shaking their heads and sniggering at the girl wearing unfashionable fishermans boots.
A few days pass and the rain hasn't let up yet, Skye is ecstatic to return to school, her bedroom walls are now hidden under a hundred drawings and paintings produced in the last few days. Carlo is mourning for his canoe and the open sea, the canoe sits on the beach, brimming with rainwater. He starts searching for cheap flights away from here to escape the deluge. I meanwhile, find that I am perfectly happy at home, and have many things to do and make. Ideas bubble and my hands create. It's just depressing having to go outside. It would be nice to sit on a bench, or not wear a hood or carry an umbrella. It would be nice to see the top of the mountain again, or a patch of blue sky, or go for a walk just for the hell of it. But this weather, it can't last much longer can it?