(Orbetello, Tuscany)
About a week after I arrived in Rome, I received a phone call from Lorri Whiting (nee Fraser), the widow of Bertie Whiting (both benefactors of the studio) and sister of Malcolm Fraser. (Yes, that Malcolm Fraser, PM of Australia during the first five or so years of my life.)
When Lorri discovered I was from Queensland she asked whether I was into sailing, or more specifically, whether I’d had any sailing experience. I wish I could’ve answered in the affirmative: it turned out she was looking for someone to add to her crew, to help her shift her yacht from Portugal to Spain (though Gibraltar)! As my answer was negative, we arranged instead for me to visit her upon her return in March.
So yesterday I caught the train to southern Tuscany, a seaside town called Orbetello, where Lorri moved from the studio after Bertie’s passing. She met me at the station, and we headed to the Porto’Ercole (Port of Hercules) for lunch. The seaside village was a welcome change from the bustle of the capital, with only a handful of locals about, sanding hulls, repairing nets etc (though Lorrie assured me the place is swarming with visitors in summer).
When Lorri discovered I was from Queensland she asked whether I was into sailing, or more specifically, whether I’d had any sailing experience. I wish I could’ve answered in the affirmative: it turned out she was looking for someone to add to her crew, to help her shift her yacht from Portugal to Spain (though Gibraltar)! As my answer was negative, we arranged instead for me to visit her upon her return in March.
So yesterday I caught the train to southern Tuscany, a seaside town called Orbetello, where Lorri moved from the studio after Bertie’s passing. She met me at the station, and we headed to the Porto’Ercole (Port of Hercules) for lunch. The seaside village was a welcome change from the bustle of the capital, with only a handful of locals about, sanding hulls, repairing nets etc (though Lorrie assured me the place is swarming with visitors in summer).
(Porto'Ercole 1)
(Porto'Ercole 2)
We had lunch on the seaside, at a dog-friendly place, on account of Lorrie’s bulldog. Lorrie is a visual artist, trained in Melbourne, and has exhibited all over the world. One of her works is hung in the living room of the studio. We talked art, poetry, politics, and her favourite topic, sailing. On a few occasions, she mentioned ‘her brother’, and it took a great deal of restraint on my part to not disclose my awareness of his identity, or to press her with questions regarding him! Unfortunately, Lorrie has recently had eye-surgery, and the long recovery is causing her some discomfort.
After lunch we drove to the top of the hill overlooking Orbetello and went for a lazy amble with the bulldog, the late afternoon light dancing through the ubiquitous silvery-khaki leaves of the olive trees. The air was brisk; a cool change has swept through Italy in the last week, and temperatures have plunged back to almost winter lows, four or five degrees the evening.
(Olive leaves)
We then returned to Lorrie’s place for coffee. The maid that helped nurse Bertie still lives with Lorrie, a dramatic Austrian woman whom Lorrie describes as ‘Wagnerian’. Lorrie mentioned that, on account of an imminent visit from her brother, she was trying to spruce up her garden (apparently Malcolm is a keen gardener). We then went on a tour of her studio in the basement, where she still has many of her works.
(Lorri's front yard)
After a couple of hours, Lorri drove me back to the train station. I’ve had some difficulty recently navigating my way around some of the stations, and would you believe, when my train came, I failed to realize it was the intended one, and it left without me. So to kill the two hours wait before the next one, I went to a bar around the corner, and started a poem about the day.
After a couple of drinks, I became plucky and tried to explain to the bartender – who thought at first that I was South American – why I was here, in Orbetello. Sono Australiano. Il mio treno ha partita senza me. E fredo, e vorrei essere caldo (pointing to the drink). Purtroppo, non parlo bene l'italiano. Which I hoped meant: ‘I am Australian. My train has left without me. It is cold, and I want to be warm. Unfortunately, I don’t speak Italian well.’
After a couple of drinks, I became plucky and tried to explain to the bartender – who thought at first that I was South American – why I was here, in Orbetello. Sono Australiano. Il mio treno ha partita senza me. E fredo, e vorrei essere caldo (pointing to the drink). Purtroppo, non parlo bene l'italiano. Which I hoped meant: ‘I am Australian. My train has left without me. It is cold, and I want to be warm. Unfortunately, I don’t speak Italian well.’
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