Tag Archives: living abroad with children

La Nostra Vendemmia 2016

There was no stopping the industrious P. at the land on Saturday. Replicating the vendemmie observed recently, he diligently set the crates out along the vines and grabbed his forbici for cutting.

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Tom was still asking me whether we knew the terms of Carlo’s wine offer. Would we get to taste our own wine or were our grapes going into a sfuso mix? Would he store it for us? Would he bottle it for us? For my part, I was relieved that Carlo, to whom I already felt considerable homage, was doing the first stage of the wine making process.

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There is a meditative peace to harvesting – or rather to a harvest small enough not to be overwhelming and on which one does not rely for one’s livelihood. Standing low in the field, the children’s voices faded to an incoherent babbling, interspersed with the odd rippling giggle. I wrapped myself in the gentle calls of the birds and the slice of secateurs as I snipped the grappe, my fingers gradually dirtied and roughened from picking off unwanted grapes. The rhythmic repetition of the task, as with all manual labour, is liberating. At one and the same time the mind focuses the hands on the task and yet is free to wander through thoughts, memories, possibilities. In turn and in time, this, our first vendemmia, will become the focus of reminiscence, for all of us.

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Later, the clouds draw in and we smell the rain in the air. We have stopped for lunch, the blanket spread under the fig trees, and we hungrily devour Tuscan bread and pecorino, with a drizzle of olive oil and fresh tomatoes.

The children, joined by friends helping us, are filthy, their hands stained with purple grapes and their faces streaked with dirt; they have abandoned the vendemmia now and are digging in a huge pile of unwanted sand. They create a kingdom with underground tunnels, secret passages, a domain for each of them, interconnecting paths. Their play becomes ever more elaborate. They find discarded bricks and pieces of wood to stabilise walls and passageways. Theirs is a private world, it is not ours to enter and nor do I want to. This is how the play of childhood should be: unguided and uncensored, inaccessible to adults and unrestricted by time. I feel a clarity again: this is what this year and this space has offered us. The separation from the pace of life we had. The separation from the need to be, to do, to say, indeed to perform in a certain way at a certain time. I feel more urgently than ever the prodigious need for childhood to be childhood. I feel the incongruity of the choice afforded by modernity juxtaposed with the pressures the same propagates. Gains sit uncomfortably next to losses. The paradox that our choice to come here was facilitated, even made possible only because of, our access to the very modernity we are trying to escape.

 

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The clouds look increasingly ominous. The children, cocooned in their imaginations are impervious to our voices. We leave them to their own creation, their mini-adult world and return to the vines, working with increasing pressure to fill the crates and strip the vines of the grappe before the rain sets in. We stack the crates inside the stone house and the air turns cold with the impending storm and the whole group, children included now, comes together to finish the last fila. The children join forces to haul a crate up the hill and we count them up. Fifteen crates. ‘Poci, pero’ buoni’ says Vincenzo. A small harvest, but a good one. The grapes, it seems, particularly for an amateur, are fine, good, even. Vincenzo drags his boys away from their play, they are stained with sand, inside and out. Dirty children: a direct correlation to a happy day. Adrian helps us load the crates into the cars and our neighbours come up to see how we have done. ‘Congratulazione – la vostra prima vendemmia!’ Harvesting, the coming together of the year and the bringing together of a community.

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Carlo’s cantina is in the valley below our land, with a work space inside and the equipment for the first stage set up outside, under the pergola. Crates of white grapes stand waiting as Carlo bustles around with red flexi piping. The welcome is immediate and warm. We are strangers united by this experience and I try to explain how grateful I am. Carlo is a delight: he started making wine ‘quindici anni fa’ (fifteen years ago) with ‘niente’ (nothing). This was new to him, he learned, not from his father, but from scratch. This is his passion. This and snow: wine making in the summer, ski instructing in the winter. A kindred spirit indeed for Tom. He is alive with the excited energy of a school boy about to start a science experiment. He checks the equipment, ‘speriamo’ he says – let’s hope. It should all work, but there is often something ‘impreviso’, something unforeseen. He will press the white first then move onto ours. There is a final check of equipment and several sallies back and forth into the cantina itself.

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I love the peculiar conflation of the semi-professional cantina, with the huge stainless steel barrels inside waiting to ferment the wine, and the beautifully make-shift approach, as the red piping needs to be artificially shortened, to which end it is coiled back on itself, snakes round the floor and is then strapped to a pillar, the mouth opening into the waiting barrel.

Finally, the machine is turned on and the first crates of grapes are thrown into the container at one end of this machine. Next to this is a square container, which on closer examination reveals a revolving toothed mechanism. To one side of this is another revolving toothed mechanism, opening into an empty box. From the other side the red corrugated piping leads to the waiting vat.

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The machine groans into action and immediately the raspi are spat out into waiting box – the stems are bared of their grapes with remarkable speed. The machine spits them out frenetically and the children soon gather round the crate, collecting stray raspi and tidying them into the box. Tom helps to throw the grapes in at the other end, I am called upon to hold the red piping up – it keeps threatening to break loose and flood the floor with wine, but we catch it just in time.

As the last crate of grapes is loaded in, Carlo turns delightedly to us. ‘Sai cosa abbiamo fatto?’ I love his eagerness to explain and in explaining, to share his passion with us. This first stage separates the ‘raspi’ from the rest of the grapes. Now we have the ‘uve’ with their ‘bucce’ (skins) and the ‘semi’ (pips). These white grapes will be kept in the container with their skins on only over night. The juice will then be drawn out and the grapes pressed again to remove their seeds and skins. Carlo gestures to an old fashioned looking press outside, which will be used for this process. The red grapes, conversely, will be kept in the container with their skins on for approximately 10 to 14 days. Carlo breaks open a red grape to show the clear flesh inside. The only difference between red and white wine is the skin colour. The colour of red wine is achieved through this longer period with the skin on, which also gives the red wine more tannin, the natural compound in grapes responsible for the dry taste in the mouth when drinking wine.

The white wine is finished and there is another flurry of activity as we stand by, waiting for instructions. La Principessa has woken up from her nap in the car, and is ‘in braccia’ now, partly snuggling in for warmth, partly an embrace forced by us to keep her away from the grapes which she is keen to tuck into. ‘Not eat uva, make vino?’ She asks, pouting slightly.

Stretched out to its full length, the red pipe now leads into the cantina, where it hangs over another empty barrel. Carlo explains that he will be harvesting his Sangiovese grapes next week. This barrel is for our grapes. Naturally, he cannot add his grapes to ours next week, to do so would be to ruin the quality of both wines. Tom and I exchange excited glances. The irony of worrying for weeks about the practicality of turning our grapes into wine and now, how we have fallen on our feet, being directed to Carlo at the eleventh hour. Too late to do anything, I nevertheless check with Carlo, ‘Sei sicuro? E vi si imbottigliare anche tu?’ – Are you sure, and you will bottle the wine too? ‘Ma certo!’ – Sure.

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Carlo is vibrant with energy, absorbed in the wine making process so when I propose the 50/50 share of wine which is standard here, he shrugs his shoulders: ‘Ma perche? Tranquilla’. Don’t worry – he is happy to make the wine for us. Seeing we are onto our grapes now, H. and P. rush over to help lift the cassette up, hauling the grapes into the barrel. Carlo gestures to la Principessa, offering her a grappa to throw in, making sure we are all part of this wine making process.

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And it’s finished. The crates are empty. The uve and bucce separted from their raspi. We all take a look in the barrel at the beginnings of our wine. Carlo is dragging the red piping out of the cantina. So, what next? I ask – we come back in April? ‘Ma non! Venete in due settimane’ to see the drawing off of the juice from the bucce. It is as important to Carlo as it is us that we are part of this process. ‘Ci sentiamo’, he says – we’ll be in touch. It’s raining now as we leave and the lightening forks over Montegiovi. We arrive home, wet and cold, but bubbling with the exhilaration from this day of bounty.

*vendemmia – the grape harvest; the same word is also used for ‘vintage’ as in Vendemmia 2016

Transitions

As those of you familiar with some of the best of Italy’s wines might expect, the drive from our house to Montalcino is populated by an exceptional number of vineyards. As we head down the hill, the patchwork of olive trees and vines of our panoramic view is gradually replaced by increasing numbers of perfectly pruned, immaculately kept vineyards, the precision rows of which appear to stand sentry, proud custodians of the finest Brunello di Montalcino. The Brunello di Montalcino, makers of which smile benignly down on the Val d’Orcia inferiore: the Sangiovese grape grown where we live will apparently never be capable of producing such a taste.

 

I am coming to love this drive with its infantry of vines, a guard which seems laced in a fragile irony, its grapes at the mercy of the elements. As a friend of mine said to me yesterday, he is playing a waiting game heavy with nerves. It’s a protracted game, against a powerful and unpredictable opponent. The crop looks excitingly good, but until the grapes are ready, they cannot be harvested. And until they are harvested, anything is possible.

 

Autumn skies on the evening drive from the school home

Autumn skies on the evening drive from the school home

Daily the drive is taking us longer, as more and more vineyards decide the time is most propitious and cars succumb to tractors and camions preparing for, or coming from vendemmia*. We slow down to a mild 20 miles per hour (mind you, we are still overtaken by those Italians insistent on taking the racing line and overtaking simultaneously, those who will not be slowed down by anyone’s vendemmia), and daily take stock of the status quo. At the week’s start, red crates appeared at intervals along the rows, anticipating the cutting of the grappa, hanging tantalizingly above. Today, driving home, many vineyards looked curiously barren and I realised how accustomed we have become over the last few months to turning our eyes subconsciously to bunch upon the bunch of purple grapes. The great cycle of life turns again; the end and the beginning and I feel supremely fortunate. This is what harvest means, this is what autumn signifies. Somehow my usual mixed September emotions, as I reluctantly let go of sultry summer days and yet revel in the burning beauty of autumnal richness, make more sense. The end and the beginning. The bringing together of a year’s labour, the excitement of the fruits yielded as the revolution is completed, only to start again.

P. conscientiously preparing to start school - his new school, my school, an exciting transition for all of us

P. conscientiously preparing to start school – his new school, my school, an exciting transition for all of us

It resonates particularly now as I consider how far we have come since September 2015. It resonates as I stand in the kitchen at dinner time and prepare dinner, while the children sit together, building coronets from tiny bricks, chattering away in their mother tongue, intermingled with Italian phrases aplenty. Last night, disturbed in my sleep as I often am with three children, I couldn’t help but smile – P., who so often talks in his sleep, was muttering in Italian, ‘non, lo facciamo cosi’!’. It resonates as I hear H. in the bedroom giving S. her own private tutorial, the result of which I experience shortly after, ‘Mamma?’, ‘Yes, S.’, I reply, ‘non, Mamma, say, “si”’, she insists. S. sat with me at lunchtime yesterday and picked up the lemon, ‘Dat, “limone”‘ she pointed out to me, in precision perfect accent.

 

Looking from the top door of the tiny house over the land

Looking from the top door of the tiny house over the land

It resonates as I pick up the phone to negotiate a deal on taking our own grapes to be pressed and take stock that I couldn’t have done that a year ago – neither in terms of owning the grapes, nor in terms of conducting the negotiation. This but one conversation in the many negotiations concerning our tiny casa rustica, standing on our hectare of olive trees and vineyards; conversations convoluted in Italian bureaucracy  which generally leave me exhausted less by translation and more by the absurd idiosyncrasies of those translations.

 

 

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Changes to our tiny casa rustica – gone are the rats and cobwebs…

 

It resonates personally as I stop for a caffe’ with our Italian neighbours and share a joke in Italian or as I feel the glorious delight of culture and communication when the owner of a local agriturismo comes over to chat to us at the village’s ‘Festa della Bruschetta dell’Olio Nuovo‘.

Olio Nuovo, as green as it gets

Olio Nuovo, as green as it gets

Later, all five of us – la principessa included, eagerly taste the freshest green olive oil and all five of us give our opinions, coughing slightly on its coveted bitterness.

A ‘mastery’, for want of a better word, of some sort of the language is fundamental to my autumn harvest, all the richer because I know this is but the beginning: the bounty of language is endless. But harvest this year feels rich beyond language and beyond words. It cuts to my heart with that beautiful pain reserved for the most precious of bonds when I look at the children and remember where we were a year ago. I think about the ‘salto nel buio’ we took in coming here. A leap into the dark which was, on reflection, fairly brazen in its naivety and from which we are now reaping our harvests. As with all harvests – particularly of farmers with a variety of crops – there will be fruit which we would rather not keep. It is, naturally, far from perfect but it is plentiful and, right now, as the winegrowers of Montalcino revel in their purple grapes, I too am taking a moment, to pause, to reflect and to appreciate. To feel fortunate and to thank – whoever and whatever we believe in – the freedom we had to choose and the choice we made. I want to bottle the richness of this harvest, I want to lay it down with the best ‘riserva’, to be brought out in that intangible future, when memories will give succour to tired minds.

*vendemmia – the grape harvest

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Processes or progress?

Every time I think I have reached an understanding of quite how frustratingly convoluted this country is, I am confronted with yet more examples of the sublime and the ridiculous.

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You think you dread the queue at the post office in the UK? Think again. It took me 15 minutes to collect a parcel yesterday, and that was after I’d already queued for 10. Bear in mind that I have to collect everything – normal post included – from the Post Office because the Italian Postale refuses to recognise that our address exists. It should all be so straightforward:

Hand the slip of paper with my name on it to the man at the counter
Man reads name. Man gets parcel. Man gives me parcel. Exit stage left.

But instead it runs thus:

Hand the slip of paper with my name on it to the man at the counter.
Man takes paper.
Man looks at paper.
Man wonders what is written there, even though it has been written by a colleague at the Post Office.
Man takes three paces behind him to look at the two parcels left there.
Man examines paper and parcels.
Man seems unable to join dots up, so I help him out, asking to look at the parcel, which I am fairly sure is mine.
Man reluctant to accept help; reluctant to show parcel.
I try again, ‘Fammi vedere?’
This time he brings the parcel towards me, not too close, mind, it’s more of a waft, at several arms’ length… perhaps to show me the parcel properly might be to relinquish control.
I confirm it is mine.
Then we start the painful process of trying to scan the barcode.
I kid you not. He scanned it about 15 times.
Then he walked off.
With the parcel.
I saw him hand the parcel over to a colleague who disappeared with it.

Mamma mia – how difficult can this be? I am collecting a parcel with my name on it, which has already been recorded as entering the Post Office from the deliver company, hence the slip of paper in my PO box.

Some minutes later, the colleague enters, with the parcel, affirming that it has, indeed already been scanned and I am indeed allowed to remove it from the Post Office.

Eh voilà. Parcel collected.

thumb_IMG_3397_1024I think I have said before, Italians actually seem to enjoy this. Nay, they REVEL in it. Give them a reason to create an obstacle to something simple, and create it they will.

Take the procurement of school text books. Not for the Italians a simple system whereby schools receive funding, including that for text books, allowing them to purchase the books and distribute them directly to pupils at school.

No, we can make this far more exciting and protracted, which is particularly fun in the stifling heat of July, the month in which we are allowed to collect our text books.

I say merely ‘collect’ but it’s more of a process than this word implies, a process involving at least two additional bureaucratic steps; this naturally goes hand in hand with additional paper work and signatures. So, a ‘cedola’ – or coupon – is required in order for pupils to receive their books. In the case of pupils already at school, the ‘cedola’ is given in the last weeks of school – with strict instructions, however, not to take the next step before a designated period in July. For those not already at school – such as P., moving up from materna to primaria, – the cedola is obtained from the local education administrative office. Of course, precisely where in the area you leave affects just how ‘local’ this office is. But why create a system which could avoid an additional 40 minute drive?

A ‘cedola’ for each child in hand, we then go to a local ‘libraria’. The books of course, aren’t in stock in the bookshop, they have to be ordered and delivered, which means that we get two trips to the local libraria for the price of one. It’s not that this in and of itself is hard, it’s just that it’s entirely unnecessary. We don’t pay for the books, they are state funded. We don’t choose which books we want, so this isn’t an extra step designed in order for us to assert a degree of autonomy over learning.

For that matter, neither do the individual schools choose their books – they are state written, state distributed text books. Herein lies another problem of the Italian education system. A big one.

Thus at the bookshop we wait while the correct boxes on the cedola are ticked and information is entered into the computer system (the same information which has already been entered at the education administrative office, where it was required in order to enrol children at school in the first place).

In a week or so, we will be able to go back to the libraria to collect the books, which naturally will involve a little more box ticking and paper shuffling.

The whole ‘cedola’ system is simply a way in which we can overcomplicate a system that could be really quite straightforward. The beauty of it, of course, from a bureaucratic point of view, is that it allows for provision of another piece of paper, which must carry an official stamp and be signed by the ‘dirigente’ (director) of the area’s schools – a nice opportunity to assert authority and clarify hierarchies.

Maybe I’m being unfair, maybe it’s all designed specifically to keep people in work and humanity in communication. Perhaps Italy is fiercely protecting its archaic cedola system in order to keep local book stores alive and local authority officers in jobs. Perhaps the several steps required before we are in possession of our tools for learning should be seen as a triumph of the supremacy of human interaction. Perhaps this is something we will yearn for in England when we realise that our pursuit of progress and modernisation consigns us to engaging in futile and furious interactions with ‘online processes’, as we rage against machines and systems which crash on us at the crucial moment

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A Film and a Festa

I’ve written before about Italian bureaucracy, but it really is as bad as everyone says. And worse. Barely a day passes here without someone saying to me, at some point, ‘Ah…. questa Italia…. Beh, siamo in Italia…..’ , usually accompanied by a shoulder shrug which reads to me as a cross between resignation to absurdity and badge of honour.

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ready to bake – biscotti salati

It affects every walk of life, from procuring a loyalty card at the supermarket to taking food into school on birthdays. Indeed, at birthdays, children are only allowed to take into school a cake bought at a shop, accompanied by a receipt, to celebrate with friends. Despite the fact that Italians are so proud of the cooking of ‘nonna’ or ‘mamma’, so protective of family recipes and the correct ways of making dishes and eating food, the law (I have yet to find out whether this local, regional or national) would rather decree that children eat shop bought food, no doubt loaded with excess sugar or glucose fructose syrup, than a home cooked treat. The irony is that at gatherings outside school hours, such as the merenda we shared yesterday after the children’s end of year performance, the table is heaped with a sumptuous array of homemade crostata, biscotti salati, pane, et cetera et cetera. At such events, everyone enthusiastically contributes something and everyone enthusiastically tastes everything.

 

 

We came across the same problem recently when we made our film for a competition run by Social Business World, which asked schools to contribute, through film, stories from every day life about living together in an ethical, sustainable and ecological way. I wrote the short film script, (we were restricted to five minutes) and a friend translated it into Italian. A dynamic Italian mother here found someone to film it, and we were ready to shoot.

Ready, that is, aside from the Italian hoops we had to jump through.

Of course, the school had to seek permission even to be involved in the project from the Dirigente (the director of schools in the area, a sort of head of education for the area).

The Dirigente decreed yes.

The Dirigente then cut a whole section of the script which involved inviting the materna school and families in to eat together. In doing so, she cut one element of the film, the intention of which had been to show community building and collaboration.

The Dirigente allowed parents to come in and prepare with the children food made with ceci (chickpeas, the small village is known for its cultivation of chickpeas, particularly its specialty, black chickpeas).

But she forbade the children from tasting the food once it was made.

Obviously the fact that it was not pre-prepared, shop bought food, accompanied by a receipt, meant it was a potential danger. This despite the fact that the teachers were there, watching the parents prepare it. The children would be allowed to eat it off site, and out of school hours, however. I have yet to understand quite whether or how these two things join up: if a child is going to become sick from eating something, this will happen whether they eat it in the school grounds before 16.30 or outside the school grounds at 16.31, and surely in each instance there would be the same possibility of litigation. Surely, I said, if it is a matter of parental consent (at 16.31, parents are present to consent to their children eating the food), we simply have to ask them to sign a form before we prepare it and taste it?

Apparently not. Given that Italians love signing pieces of paper and disclaimers in all their forms, I was surprised by this.

Nevertheless, we parents had something to sign simply to allow our chidren to partake in the film.

So, with a heavily edited script, we went ahead anyway. The children enjoyed making the film celebrating as they did so something of their community, the local livelihood and the international make up of the small school. You can watch our little film here.

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Cherries – eaten and enjoyed…. after school hours

 

The competition was small, albeit nationwide, but we were pleased to win and be invited to a three day festa in northern Italy.

And then came the process of organizing the trip. I lost track of the number of missives flying between parents and teachers regarding travel arrangements. We seemed to waste several of the four to five weeks we had to organise it discussing whether to go by train or coach, with very little resolution. But finally, with two weeks to go, the Dirigente decreed that it would be impossible, in such a short space of time, to pull together the paper work to procure permission for the trip. (From whom? From where? This I don’t understand – surely as the Dirigente, she can procure and sign the relevant papers…. ).

As with (virtually) all things I have experienced here, there is a block. Then there is a ‘gira’. I honestly think Italians revel in the blocks in order that they can come up with the circuitous way round it. The way round it is for it to be a trip organised by parents, this is naturally a neat absolution of responsibility on the part of the school or the Dirigente. And thus we continue to organise it in exactly the same way as we were organizing it before, but this time, without the need for the mysterious additional paperwork the Dirigente felt unable to deal with. We still had to sign a form, however, saying that we as parents take responsibility for our children on the trip that we are organizing for them, as parents.

Apparently the coach is booked and we leave in a week’s time, for the village of Montello, Treviso, for the Festa of Ritmi e Danza dal Mondo. As with many idealistic celebrations of peace and diversity, there will, I am sure be much talk, all of which will be fabulous, stimulating and aspirational. But if the talk is to turn into action, there will, of course, be a series of bureaucratic hurdles and caveats as well as several reams of paper…

Aspirationally, however, we are excited. Aspiration and small steps are important… After all, the raging fires of revolution start with small flames.

 

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Mission Outdoors. Part 2

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Mission Get The Children Outside continued at the end of winter with Strand B: Bring the Outside into the School Day. Naively, I thought that this might be relatively straightforward in a senza zaino school. Instead, I have stood face-to-face with what it is to be culturally at odds with the place in which I am living. I have felt keenly the British-ness of my blood even as the same blood fires up in the passionate emotion I attribute more readily to a different heritage.

One of the foundations of a senza zaino school is the involvement of parents and the community. Thus it was that I mooted, en passant, with the maestre, the possibility of spending more time outside, particularly given that there was, thus far, no provision for ‘ginnastica’ in the school week. I’m not sure whether it was deliberate misunderstanding, control over the school day or lack of experience of teaching within this type of system, but the suggestion was pretty much rejected. Even under the ‘banco del tempo’, apparently we parents cannot simply come in to play ball games with the children in the field. I rather wondered to myself why not, but for now, left it at that, even while the teacher continued to exspostolate as to how cold it was outside, apparently further fuel to their belief that the children’s health is protected by being inside.

Thus it was that the group of like-minded and, it has to be said, mainly international parents rallied together to consider how we might address this situation, all of us aware of the detrimental effect of limited time outside on our children’s behaviour.

One of the very lovely banco del tempo projects of last school year was the orto or vegetable garden, developed using traditional permaculture and organic methods. Embraced by parents and teachers last year, everyone seems keen to maintain it this year. Thus it was that we decided to try to extend the project and begin it sooner, in order to get the children outside from now, ahead of our schedule to dig the ground over and think about earth, water and planting from early Spring.

So we planned to begin with the children and the community: a core value of the senza zaino school is to harmonise links between school and community and the majority of local children are from farming and agricultural backgrounds. I ran this idea past the teacher…. and was disappointed to be met with, what I considered a fairly luke-warm response*, mainly concerning the number of projects running in the school and the potentially compromising effect this could have on learning… argh, my Italian lets me down again: surely such a comment rather misses the point of senza zaino, where learning should be happening through diversity of projects and a range of non-traditional teaching methods. I showed the teacher the orto plan and suggested ways in which we could bring the curriculum in, there being opportunities for maths and science a-plenty, to say nothing of related writing activities. No, it is ‘piu commodo’ apparently, to teach inside in the classroom… The case for outdoors just grew stronger: such a comment is fuel for my fire. I re-organise my strategy:

  1. get the children outside for the orto project;
  2. try to build some maths into the orto project;
  3. demonstrate through this that it is possible for children to learn through experience, outside;
  4. use the senza zaino philosophy and vision slowly to try to encourage the maestra to have the courage to teach differently.

I start with a) and b); c) and d) are longer term aims. I think I will have to move piano piano, with the support of as many other parents as possible, if we are to make progress.

But it feels like a golden opportunity. This senza zaino school is young, only in its second or third year of being. We need to harness this novelty and surely we should aspire to it being practically and truly a senza zaino school, moving it away from paying lip service to the theory and only implementing those elements such as classroom arrangement which are easy to enforce. The real value of this kind of education lies in how children take responsibility for their own learning; how a school engenders in children a true love of learning by engaging them in their education; how a small school setting can offer an education which is less restricted by formalities and therefore more open to diversity of teaching ideas and methods. So, now it’s time to try to negotiate labyrinthine Italian bureaucracy in a bid to affect small changes…

*More on this next time… suffice to say, for now, that it’s interesting trying to interpret and understand properly nuance and intended meanings cross-culture and language.