Traditionally in the comune of Gubbio the feast of S. Cecilia, the 22nd of November is when it all used to start, but now we start much earlier.  I blame enthusiasm and workload.  Many believe it is because of global warming (undoubtedly correct), whatever, now we start at the end of October.  That is when our olives are ready to be picked.

Like fruit, olives tend to swing between a good year and a poor year.  One year a bumper crop and the next a humble offering.  These cycles can also be confused and interrupted by weather. Yields can meld into one another.  Hail in late spring can blast the small fruit off the branches, as can a late frost burn the flowers and so reduce the fruit quantity.  Too much rain (no chance these days) causes the fruit to swell and reduce the oil content, but abundant sunshine throughout the summer and like us guys the olives are in heaven.

I spend mid October in farming mode, scruffy clothes – slightly pungent, strimmer in hands I clear round the trees preparing for harvest.  I adore getting down and dirty on the farm.  Six hours of strimming and chopping and I am exhausted.  From the resulting aches, it is obvious that I am not overly fit.  Traditionally in this valley olive groves were also planted with vines between the trees.  I guess it was the possibility of maximising crop production on the land.  Add to that the planting of roses at the end of every line of vines and there is a myriad of creepery growth to be kept under control.

Fifty plus years ago the then contadini tended an olive tree nursery in the land below the house at Bellaugello.  On this sun kissed slope they tended two to three thousand olive tree saplings.  On freezing winter nights the family (huge of course) would light fires between the rows of saplings to protect them from the frost.  When clearing ground I discovered a strange rectangular structure deep down in the ‘jungle’.  A neighbour who had lived in the farmhouse here told me that it was built as a shallow bath, the water then used for watering the saplings.  He explained that the spring water was decidedly cold and the shallow water bath warmed the water a little so shocking the tender plantlets less.  What devotion, can you imagine parents asking their kids to sit all night in the frost and freezing fog to tend fires in the woods?!

Anyway back to 2018 and the olive harvest.  This has been a bumper year.  The trees heavily laden with fruit, their branches brought low by the weight.  Olive trees flower in mid-May and the fruit begins to form.  It grows green, and the varieties of olives at Bellaugello turn black when ripe.  No, not all of them turn black, so to gauge when is the right moment to start the ‘raccolta’ I tend to ask and watch my neighbours!  We have suffered three years of indifferent harvests.  Luckily the olive tree fly is not a huge problem, but annoyingly the weather has not been on our side.  Last year there was a late damp spell and then in summer it was burning hot, too hot.  This year all went so well.  The spring was good and kind, the summer hot and sunny and there was just enough rain at the right time.  The trees looked amazing, olives like bunches of grapes hanging from the beautifully pruned branches.

I pick with neighbours here in the valley.  They come and help me and I go and help them.  Because there are more of them than there is of me I spend much more time on their farm.  It is a work I love.  Never did I imagine that I would have the opportunity to hand pick organic olives in Italy.   We pick in the traditional fashion, no machines, just hands.  A net is spread under the tree, and some comb their hands through the lower branches.  Some climb ladders and reach the middle sections, and on smaller trees the tops, whilst the adventurous climb into the tree proper and pull the olives from the uppermost supple branches.   Your hands get slightly oily, and if tender can be damaged by the constant pulling on the branches, for olive wood is hard.

I am up a tree trying to reach a far out branch and pause to think that I am picking olives in the same way that has been done round the Mediterranean for thousands of years.  It is magical.  Large trees can yield in excess of 170kg whilst the smallest ones a mere couple of handfuls.  We aim to pick all the fruit.  That that is unreachable or overlooked we say is ‘left for the birds’.  The good fruiting years are most satisfying as the branches are full.  Same work, more product.

This year we picked in glorious hot sunshine.  T shirts and shorts.  We always break for lunch, homemade soup or pasta or risotto, sitting together at one table.  After a ‘wee nap’ we head back and work until sundown.  The day’s pickings are spread out in a cool room to wait for the trip to the frantoio or olive mill.

Now like men olive mills come in all shapes and sizes.  Some are tech savvy milling olives in a vacuum controlled by a copmuter.  The frantoio so sterile that it looks like a hospital operating theatre.  Some are new and whizzy, built with funds from European farming grants.  Some are born in the 1960’s white, shiny clumpy, pedantic and noisy.  Some are just plain old fashioned.  Me being me I go to the old fashioned frantoio.   If I am picking olives as has been done for millennia I want to have the oil milled in them most authentic way.

The earlier one picks olives the less oil one gets but it is noticeably higher quality.  Oh yes, you can re-process the olives and it is a widespread practice.  But to get the best oil one requires a cold press and a first press.  This is how we do it.  Come taste it and see.  Heat is a no-no.  Commercial brands sold in supermarkets mill the olives over and over again and add inferior oils from abroad.  They use heat and chemicals to get the last drop of oil out of the fruit with a disastrous lessening of quality.

So I trundle the crates to the frantoio in Gubbio.  We go to Rossi.  They have stone grind wheels and Luciano one of the partners – it is a cooperative, tells me that he and his brother set it up some twenty years ago.  They scoured the Gubbio countryside for equipment and initially found two presses that were in mills that had been powered by water.  I understand that Gubbio had at one time some eighty water mills for flour corn and olives.  Now Rossi is the last frantoio in Gubbio using traditional stone grind wheels, hydraulic presses and one centrifuge, with a bit of modern technology added!  The team is dedicated and a delight to watch and chat to as they turn black fruit into green gold.

My olives are weighed and fed into the washer and leaf extractor.

From there they pass to the grind mill.  These two massive stones are some fifteen years old and hopefully will last another seven before they need to be replaced.  Black olives turn into a surreal pink paste.

The paste is fed into a container where it is constantly moved ready to be spread on the mats.  Traditionally these mats were coir, but are now synthetic.  I am told that the paste was almost impossible to remove from the old mats so a new material was introduced.  The mats are changed every year.

The mats are stacked one on top of the other, mat – paste – mat -paste until the column reaches over 1.5 metres.  Then as the liquid starts to ooze out from the paste mat sandwich they are taken over to the press.  The first hour or so the press exerts zero hydraulic pressure.  The liquid simply oozes out of the tower.

but then the oil master moves a lever which slowly increases the pressure.  The hydraulic ram is heavy, industrial and clanks and groans as it pumps.  Our olives are seen in the middle press.  An obsessively neat tool bench is evidence of the constant requirement for maintenance and adjustment that this old equipment craves.  Finally the pressure reaches 400bar.  Yes the hydraulic pressure does slightly heat the oil, but it is very minimal.

Thence the oil passes trough a series of tubes.  Some frantoio have their tubes under the floor and it is said by the untrusting that there are cases of deviation tubes, like a blind rail siding in a tunnel, so a certain percentage of oil is diverted to the frantoio proprietor.  A former frantoio in a neighbouring town had a reputation for low yields.  I’ve heard told that the grandmother sat in the corner dressed in a scruffy black frock with a shabby headscarf and a little black book with a stub of a pencil and like a hawk watched and noted down everything.  The frantoio blamed the soil and olive tree variety for the low ‘resa’, but the locals, seeing the owners away from the frantoio dressed smartly with gold jewellery and going on fancy holidays could not accept this argument!

At Rossi the pipes from the press carry the un-diverted liquid to a tank high up on the wall.  The liquid is like mud, brown, filthy, and I wonder how this muck can produce olive oil but it does.  As if by magic the centrifuge spins off the dirt and water and intense green oil pours into my fusto.

Newly minted olive oil is green, thick, opaque, pungent and piquant.

After some six hours of waiting watching and chatting, the oil is weighed and we head home, remembering to stop on the way at Loredana’s bakery in Ponte d’Assi to buy her delicious warm bread.  By tradition we head to my friends house where as we carry in the heavy fusti the wood fire is already lit.  Bread is toasted on the wood fire, rubbed with garlic and sprinkled with salt.  Then the new oil is liberally poured over the bread to make the best bruschetta imaginable.  We wash it down with wine made from organic grapes harvested on the farm, which I too helped pick.  Bruschetta with just milled extra virgin cold pressed Bellaugello oil washed down with Pratale wine is orgasmic and cannot be beaten.  You can keep your Michelin three star restaurants.  This is my favourite dinner of the year.

and this year the olives were bounteous and the oil exquisite.  So good I want to bathe in it…

Bellaugello Extra Virgin Cold Pressed Olive Oil 2018 is for sale.   €17 per litre plus postage and packing. Various sizes available. We can ship worldwide.  Drop me a note for further information:

Several decades ago deep in the distant lands of Umbria a group of men met.  Without exception they were Eugubine.  Men from the city of Gubbio.  Nestling on the west foothills of the Apeninnes over the lower slopes of Monte Ingino, Gubbio is one of the most traditional, masculine and proud medieval cities in central Italy.

Fought over for centuries the city retains an erect sense of defiance.  Beautifully preserved medieval streets are encircled by tall city walls.  These still largely intact walls are pierced by four entrance gates which give entrance to the four ‘quartieri’.  Each quartieri having their name church and traditional tunic colours. The belicosity of the Eugubine is manifested today by a series of crossbow competitions with neighbouring cities.  These competitions are ‘must see’ events for the traveller.

So strong is the pride and animosity of  the Eugubine and neighbouring Gualdese, the citizens of Gualdo Tadino that a skirmish occurred only recently.  When the hospital board proposed the closure in each town of their hospitals they constructed  new one to serve both.   Built between the two towns, but in the comune of Gubbio, the Gualdese refused to use the anti-natal unit.  Citizens of Gualdo Tadino did not want their children to have ‘born in the comune of Gubbio’ on the birth certificates.  As a result a local law passed that room in the hospital be ceded to the comune of Gualdo Tadino.

I digress.  How that meeting so many years ago came about I have yet to discover, its history is lost in the mists of time.  What the true purpose of the meeting was, is similarly forgotten.  However the outcome lives to today and manifests itself in the “World’s Largest Christmas Tree“.  The decision to string coloured lights from the city wall to the summit of Monte Ingino in the shape of a Christmas tree is one that still renders me slightly speechless and with a broad cheesy grin.  To think of a group of macho men conceiving a hillside dressed with coloured lights is surreal.  But that decision was made and each December the lights of the tree illuminate the medieval city.  I am so glad that they did, and continue to do so.

The team of volunteers ranging in ages from 19 to 86 years old have been and are busy.  The slopes are being adorned with 8.5kms of electric cable and over four hundred coloured florescent lights.   They work hard, real hard.  The planning is huge and work arduous.  The Eugubine are proud, quite rightly so.  The result is spectacular.  The summit of Monte Ingino is adorned with a huge led flashing star strapped to a massive scaffold.  A few years ago, with the aim of being ecological solar panels were installed to power the tree.

The tree is switched on with a huge party and firework display on 7th December.  Last year I witnessed the event from a friend’s terrace:

The tree remains lit until early January.  Not only is it splendid to see from afar, but the walk down through the lights is magical.

For the past few years Bellaugello Gay Guest House has sponsored a light on the tree.  I am asking you to help this great project by also sponsoring a light.  For a few Euros you can sponsor and have a light named to your choice.  Click on the link below:  The opportunity starts on 31st October and like concert tickets the lights go fast.  Hurry, the clock is already ticking.

To choose and sponsor a light click this link: Adopt a light on the Gubbio Christmas Tree

To read more about the tree click here: Albero di Gubbio website

Let’s see how many Bellaugello guys can get their names on the tree for 2018-2019.  Do let me know.

Amusingly enough one of the most talked about blog posts from this year is the one I wrote asking if anyone had seen my cock.  It was a post I really enjoyed writing.  I remember smiling as words tumbled out of my brain through my fingers to the keyboard and lit up my computer screen. What was so pleasing is learning that so many guys were upset at not having seen my cock.

I aim to welcome personally all guys arriving at Bellaugello for their holidays.  Often I manage to be in the car park.  No, please, behave… I’m not loitering or cruising, but, when I am waiting on new arrivals I keep an ear open for the sound of a car.  In the summer this is often in my hammock slung in the shade of the huge fig tree.  As the car doors open I slip out of my hammock and head up to the car park.   It is magical to welcome back so many guys and to introduce many new guests to my little corner of paradise.

Of course I am dressed.  Let’s face it, a welcome must be professional.  I know my guest house intimately and that a slow reveal works best 😉  From the winding road (beautifully repaired this year) that leads here, you catch only tiny glimpses of what awaits you.  Descend from the car park and the huge southerly view opens up, as indeed, do I.

So many guys arriving at Bellaugello Gay Guest House, have been before.  The joy in welcoming back guys is immense.  Conversations, like a just put down good book, pick up automatically and are animated and happy.  We rapidly catch up on news.  Very often it took remarkably little time for guys to mention my cock.  Wow! my cock an early topic of conversation.

For those of you who are not avid readers of my blog, let me explain.  Earlier this summer I posted about loosing my cock.  It vanished.  One day it was there, then the next it had gone. I was naturally very very upset.  Well, who wouldn’t be?  A cock is so beautiful an object of desire and one to be treasured and taken care of.  It seems that my cock was desired too much by a couple of guys who took it home with them.  They know who they are and I suspect I do too.

Amongst my guests are two remarkably thoughtful guys who are also blessed with a great sense of humour and tremendous kindness.  They were immensely sad to learn that my cock had disappeared and very kindly offered to search the world for it.  We have been exchanging emails on the update to their search.  Recently I learnt from them that they had found a suitable replacement cock in Sitges.

This morning the postman called.  Two packages to deliver.  One a pair of slippers, the other…. well if he only knew!  I carefully opened the package and to my delight drew out the most divine and generously sized cock.  Measuring a whopping 25cm with a girth of 18cm it is really handsome.  Indeed two hands full!  Rigid, and lightly oiled it demands to be touched, stroked even.  It is perfectly proportioned and utterly beautiful.

R & T thank you so very much.  I realise you must have had huge fun and hopefully not too much embarrassment choosing the right cock for me!

My cock is now back in its rightful place for all to enjoy:

I now need to take care to ensure that I do not lose my cock again.  Should I have it pierced and chained to the bar or should I get my cock tattooed?  A cock tattoo appeals.  I’m thinking along the lines of: “This is Alec’s Bellaugello and is stolen from him”.  Suggestions please on a postcard to the usual address!

I didn’t want it to happen, I really did not foresee the possibility, I had never envisaged the prospect, had no desire to be adopted, but it has happened.  It came as a shock and happened in an instant, well almost!

On Thursday of last week I was driving home from Gubbio, and had just stopped to chat to Dino when I was spotted for the second time.  Timidly walking along the road looking sad and somewhat dejected, but, at the same time with just the merest a glint of hope was a dog.  I asked Dino if he knew anything about her.  He said that he had not seen her before.  I had, maybe three weeks ago, the same sad, rejected dog but again with a seemingly hopeful look.

That time I had stopped the car and timidly she came towards me and looked for affection.  Sad but alive eyes, coat in bad condition, but not overly thin.  She was obviously living rough but finding a source of food.  I made enquiries of another neighbour, one who is always in his car, shotgun or truffle spade on the passenger seat.  He told me that she had been wandering the valley for over a month. I learnt that Massimo further down the valley when he fed his dogs he was also giving her food.  I later learnt that Dino casts dog food around for his many dogs and cats, and it was obviously this that drew her to the place where we first met.

Having lost both my dogs early last year, I had decided not to take a new dog.  Except for a brief period I have lived with dogs all my life, and I rather relished my dogless freedom.  Yes, it is true that my guests missed the dogs being around.  One of the many questions asked by returning guests; ‘have you got  a new dog yet?’ My guests are really important to me but I decided that even with their pleading a new dog was not going to enter my home.  Having no dog meant I could be more just me.  Of course there are downsides to not having dogs.

In this past year deer have slowly been encroaching ever more courageously into the garden at Bellaugello Gay Guest House.  At first their playground was below the swimming pool and down by the sauna, near the the greppo.  But a few weeks ago on going down for breakfasts I noticed that the Lobelia had been completely chewed in the vases on the main terrace.  Had to be deer.  Deer in the garden are just about ok, but if the damage is to get more widespread and frequent preventative measures will have to be taken.  I also did not want to think that deer are the precursor to wild boar feasting on my roses..  I stopped my daily walk round the valley, and have not replaced the exercise with another.

Anyway I digress.  back to the prologue.  The second encounter had me convinced.  The dog was so seemingly friendly and in need of a home that I scooped her up, and put her in the back of the car.  Once at Bellaugello she jumped out of the car and circled round me looking so happy.  She smelt – badly – obviously and had a skin problem, so I attempted to keep a distance.  Persistent little thing.  Of course I had no dog food so boiled up some pasta and found the remnants of some left over supper and gave it to her.  Soon scoffed, she looked for more.  I dug out Bobby’s old bed and put it in my porch.  As guests know I am asthmatic and allergic to dog hair so no way was she ever to be coming into my house.  The porch is a great space, amazing views and delicious with the wisteria and jasmine growing outside the windows.  Ideal for a dog room.

The next day I decided to head down to Perugia to the vet.  Of course no lead, so tied by a shoelace I popped said dog into car and headed down the road.  As I suspected she did not have a microchip.  The vet thinks she is about 2 or 3 years old and obviously abandoned by a hunter.  What callous bastards hunters are.  She was given a treatment for eradicating fleas and ticks and a huge pill for evacuating any worms.  I was told she was part Breton part English Setter.  We headed home with instructions to let the flea treatment work and so not to wash her for two days.  Last Sunday l dug out the old dog shampoo and gave her a jolly good wash.  She was quite accepting and did not struggle.  Now smelling nice I had to make the decision would I adopt her?

It took me to Thursday to make up my mind.  In the end I took her back to the vet and we had her microchipped and registered in my name.  “Vita Allegra” is her official name, but of course she does not respond to that.  The vet had said he thought it too long so registered it as name and surname.  Why did I adopt her when she will only be a complication in my life?   Because I cannot bear the thought of a dog being abandoned.  It is cruelty beyond belief.  I also thought that the inconvenience to me pales into insignificance related to a life for a dog on the street or in the dog pound.

She medium small size, is super affectionate, and clearly has been a hunting dog.  Obviously abandoned because she is scared of gunfire, so no use to a hunter, she is very intelligent.  If I tell her not to come into a room she stays on the threshold.  Naturally if I tell her not to chase deer she does exactly what she pleases!  Now being regularly fed and with a stable home she is looking healthier and happier.  Best of all she has got me back to going for a daily walk.

She might not yet have a daily name but I have been adopted 🙂

Listening recently to Yuval Noah Harari talking about developments in “AI” I was struck how increasingly we are left with fewer opportunities in making our own choices.   He cited his own coming out and how already AI is targeting his own sexuality in target marketing products and services.  By monitoring simple things as eye movement while browsing, algorithms adapt marketing strategies to present products specifically for him.  Algorithms pick up minute details.  Looking at an image of a group of people, a gay man’s eyes will focus, not on the girls, but on the guys in the group.   He goes on to say this is used to market product to him with images of sexy guys.  Hot sweaty men appear in Coca Cola adverts and he feels constrained to buy the drink.  To my heterosexual friends different images are used.  All of this on an individual basis and increasingly this invasive AI will creep up and control us ever more.

Now turn this argument on its head.  Ok, technology is replacing ancient inherent life skills, but is it a new concept?  For a long time it has been widely accepted that a place chooses you.  Be it a home or a holiday location, I strongly believe that if you are in touch with the real world, you are drawn to the right place.  Places also have different auras in my opinion souls.  These auras and souls attract the right person to their place.  For you sceptics, please do not click off, please read on, just humour me a bit.

Guests arriving at Bellaugello Gay Guest House are struck by the beauty and tranquillity and positive vibe of the place.  They often ask how I found the location.  The answer is simple; it chose me.  With my ex partner I had been searching for a spot to open a guest house for guys.  The search had taken over five years.  We had specific ‘must have’ attributes for the place we wanted to live and run the business.  In those five years we had seen so many ‘wrong’ places.   Either the location was not right or more importantly the place just did not feel ‘right’.

From the moment I turned into the road at Valdichiascio without even having seen Bellaugello I instinctively knew the place was meant to be.  Four kilometres down an astonishingly beautiful country lane and I arrived at the place I am thrilled to now call ‘home’.   You pass many houses, this was and still is a farming community.  People were born and raised in the houses and many still live where they were born.  I remember that first drive down the road, my heart fluttered, raced, it felt good and so positive.

It took over three years to transform the long abandoned farm to the guest house it is today.  Initially, logically, I am sure there were some raised eyebrows.  A gay guest house in rural Umbria, possibly the first such place in Italy was a new and different concept for this traditional community to have to cope with.  However the community did accept me and as well as good neighbours, they have become good friends.

In our little valley some 14km from the medieval town of Gubbio we are a community of some hundred and twenty.  As I wrote, some were born here and have never moved from the valley.  Some, like me, have chosen to move here.  I am not the last ‘incomer’.  In my years here I have seen the older generation sadly pass on, but happily replaced by a new generation.  Kids have been born here.  Although farming does continue, even though on a smaller scale, many are now forced to work outside the valley, returning home in the evening.

A large tract of Valdichiascio was an estate, which, in the major part is still is owned by one family.  The families living in the various houses dotted along the road all worked for the estate.   The ‘Mezzadria’ ended here in the late 1970’s and the estate gave a small parcel of land to the various families that they could continue to live in the valley.  This, with us incomers, is our valley today.

By tradition residents congregated each year on 8th September for a lunch in a field.  Every family brought food and wine to share, that is the way we do things here.  Living in detached houses, often separated by a few km, and previously without cars, it was a rare occasion to be together.  Sadly before I arrived this tradition had lapsed.   It occurred to me that this lunch should be revived,community is important to me.  Discretely, I made tentative enquiries and was met with a delightfully positive response.  Yes! a neighbourhood lunch would be a great idea.  We formed a tiny steering committee, and set the date of 30th September.  Invitations were hand delivered to every house.  WhatsApp messages buzzed to and fro, and neighbours asked what they could do to help.

Sunday dawned, a blisteringly beautiful day.  Bright sunlight, warm, later hot.  The men arrived with tables kept from previous lunches that had been stored at the church and began setting them up on the lawns at Bellaugello.  The women were all still busy cooking at home.  Bright cheery coverings were laid on the tables.  We opened the box of biodegradable plates, cutlery and glasses bought specially for the occasion.  Bellaugello soon began to look very festive.  BBQs were set up a short distance away so as not to smoke out the party and we lit the old wood oven.  At 11am I began to have doubts, would people turn up?  Was I mad?  Had I, as an incomer have any right to suggest this party?

By midday people laden with exquisite home cooked dishes wended their way down the path to the main terrace.  Soon the table we use for breakfasts and dinners was groaning with quiches, pastas, torta al testo, prosciutto, salads, breads, bbq sausages, bracciole and savouries.  Oh! how well we all ate.  I had set the dining room table for the deserts and it too was totally covered with a vast array of delicious home cooked crostatas, cakes, biscuits and tiramisu.  Everyone brought wines and Prosecco, the youngsters provided the music and the party continued.

I did a rough count; we were over ninety neighbours.  We all chatted and ate and drank, so, so well.  From the very old to the very young, (both requiring help but in different ways) delightfully, so many neighbours turned up.  Those that did not were few and had previous engagements.

As somebody later remarked, nobody was on their cell phones.  It was astonishing, six hours and the only cell phone usage was to take photographs.  People actually talked to each other.  It was a real party.  People mixed.  People who I have never seen talking to each other were deep in conversation.  The priest came, dressed casual, he too is an integral part of Valdichiascio life.

Let some photos do the talking:

So strong is our community that people are vying to hold the next year’s party lunch at their homes.  I feel so very privileged to live and work in this great community.   I realise just how precious and rare it is to be able to live in such an environment.  To be able to share this gem with guys from all round the world is particularly special.

Sunshine and warmth at Bellaugello Gay Guest House have been the predominant feature throughout September.   It is a month I enjoy;  The infinity pool is deliciously swim-able,  the heat of high summer has warmed the land and the stones of our ancient house, and autumn colours just begin to show their golden ruddy hues.

Early mornings are magical, mist clinging to the valley below whirls and swirls gently.  Slowly it lifts and dissipates to reveal another fine day.

I am particularly sad right now as I am not at Bellaugello.  A long planned short trip to Istanbul to both see the sights and meet a friend has me sitting, not at my kitchen window, but, in a hipster hotel bedroom.  My view through a grimy narrow window has me looking down an alleyway.  So very different to the large views at Bellaugello Gay Guest House.   The strokes of my keyboard are punctuated by the hammering of drills, grinders cutting steels and busy city life.

Flying in, the immensity of the city, a city I had long dreamt of visiting exceeded my imagination.  A massive white city with futuristic skyscrapers punctuating blue skies.  Straddling the Bosphorus, the beginning and meeting of two cultures had always drawn my curiosity.   The road from the airport to the city runs along the shore of the Bosphorus.   The water punctuated with tankers and cargo ships each petulantly announcing the movement of global mass trade.  Lining the shore new skyscraper apartment buildings reach skyward.  Stainless steel and glass, security entrances, irrigated gardens, I’m sure they have awesome views and fine concierge services.  Sadly they are unlikely to be lived in, built solely for investment.  Like ubiquitous street furniture architecture has become globally bland and depressingly uniform.  Another day another city but the same banality.  Simply September is best at Bellaugello.

Banal is not a term that you can use about Bellaugello Gay Guest House.  We strive to be normal, but rarely achieve it.  September has been a red month.  We delighted in hosting a young couple of honeymoon guys from the USA.  Red roses on arrival, petals strewn on the bed,  a private dinner cooked for them and served in their suite.  Romance and a honeymoon crafted with love, you cannot beat it!

Their pampering included relaxing massages on a deck deep in the beauty of the Bellaugello Gay Guest House gardens.  Simply September at Bellaugello Gay Guest House.

Recently I spent a hot day at my neighbour’s organic farm harvesting red grapes.  We worked down the rows on the softly sloping hillside.  Conversation flowed as we plucked juicy red grapes from the vines.  The vendemmia is good this year.  Plump luscious grapes yielded 22˚.  A generous jug of the sweet juice was placed on the lunch table.  With hands sticky from the grapes in the shade of the Mulberry tree we ate truffled pasta.  Simply September in Umbria.

Intensely red burns the wood in our oven during our ‘giro pizza’ evenings.  The oven is fired up to 430˚c and pizzas take a mere couple of minutes to cook.  Guys take their hand at making and cooking their own pizzas.  It is not as easy as Matteo makes it look!   As the fire subsides at the end of the evening I bake bread.  Surely there can be little better bread than organic sourdough baked in a an ancient wood fired oven.  It takes a lot of turning and checking, and as I pull the baked loaves out of the oven I put in the beans.  As in the past the heat of the oven is used for many purposes.  I have discovered the trick with Cannellini beans in a bottle.  This Tuscan recipe, which incidentally nobody here in Umbria seems to have heard of is simplicity itself;

  • Soak 500g of dried cannellini beans then boil them for 45 minutes in salted water.
  • Throw a large pinch of rock salt into a sterilised jar.
  • Add two plump cloves of garlic.
  • Two sprigs of rosemary and two bay leaves fresh picked from the garden.
  • Fill to 1/4 height of the beans with Bellaugello extra cold pressed virgin olive oil.
  • Sit the lid on the jar (do not screw it down tightly) and place overnight in the oven.

As the fire cools the beans slowly cook and absorb the flavour of the oil and herbs and seasoning.  Ten to twelve hours should do the trick.  At Bellaugello Gay Guest House we serve them as an aperitivo or snack to accompany a glass of local Sagrantino that best of Umbrian wines.  They will keep in the fridge for up to two weeks.  Simply September at it’s best.

Simply back by popular demand is our breakfast cake.  At Bellaugello Gay Guest House it seems September brought out the sauciest of cakes and deserts.  This time chocolate with gold glitter.

and for a desert rich soft Swedish chocolate cake with a pink sparkle dusting…

Simply September being a bit naughty 😉

And for those of you who follow my blog and were upset at not having seen my cock and reading that indeed I had lost my cock, I have good news;  Recently holidaying in Sitges two Bellaugello guests spotted my cock  or at least wrote “We have a large cock in hand (So to speak)” and they are having it returned to me at Bellaugello Gay Guest House.  I am so looking forward to be reunited with my cock.  Photos to follow upon receipt.  Simply splendid September 🙂