The whole thing became personal when we had to call in Lorenzo, our plumber, to install a new boiler. He arrived on a Tuesday after lunch, worked for a few hours, then said he’d have to pick up some parts and come back. I’ve heard that before, in London. Tuesday passed. Wednesday passed. Thursday arrived. As did Lorenzo, after lunch, complete with parts.
Stonkingly annoyed, we asked why it had taken two days. Incredulous, he blurted: “We go hunting on Wednesdays!” looking as if we were mad for not knowing such a basic fact. Of course you go hunting on Wednesdays. Forget customer service. Forget the fact that I haven’t had a shower for three days. Enough said.
Our friend Alberto is another avid hunter. Thirty-eight going on 58, Alberto is a true country man: short and stocky with a fine black beard, piercing blue eyes and a hunting outfit that can only be described as Camouflage Fleece Chic.
Each Saturday he comes to the bar after 12 hours of tramping the woods. Now there are urban myths and there are Tuscan hunting myths, and Alberto can certainly spin a yarn about the excitement of the chase and the gore of the kill. Until one of his mates admitted that the best bit was sitting high in the hills, swigging grappa and smoking joints. And so we started to take his stories with a pinch of salt.
Alberto and his mates hunt high in the mountains of Alpi Apuane, overlooking the Mediterranean and the Versilian Riviera. His family have what he describes as a “cabin” up there. Actually, it’s a 200-year-old stone cottage, set in two acres of cleared paddock, with three bedrooms, kitchen and living room, worth about €50,000 (£35,000).
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The downside? About three miles of unmade road to reach it. No running water, just a diverted spring rigged up to an outside sink, and a daunting cooking range. Nobody lives there. In the summer, it’s a weekend place, and in the winter, it’s Hunting HQ.
We were invited for lunch last summer. There were about 30 of us, taking in Alberto’s family, various friends, kids and dogs. Of course, there’s killing and there’s cooking — men’s work and women’s work. And so Alberto’s wife cooked a huge lunch with three pasta courses and three meat courses, all on the infernal range.
Stella, our labrador-maremmano cross, thought she’d died and gone to heaven. The guys were eyeing her up as a fine specimen of a killer hunting bitch, when in fact she spent her first 18 months in the dog refuge and would run the other way if a fieldmouse came towards her.
In recognition of her fine Terminator looks, they fed her copious amounts of unwanted pasta. Next, she found three vast trays full of cooked olive oil, which she downed quickly. She then spent an hour in the paddock, barfing oily pasta, to the delight of the kids. After that, Stella had no chance with Max, a five-year-old springer spaniel and trained hunting machine. Stella wanted to play. Max was disdainful.
We saw Max again last Saturday. Alberto came to the bar and started the story of the kill. I suppose we were suitably unimpressed, because he quickly rose to the challenge. Come outside and look in the Jeep, he said. Two wild boars. This I had to see.
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We trooped outside, and there were two enormous boars, the size of full-grown pigs. Twice the size I’d imagined. Coarse, steaming, wiry bristles, 6in tusks and a stench like Dante’s Inferno. Max was sitting proudly on top of the corpses. Job done. Did I want to touch a boar, Alberto teased? No I didn’t. I was absolutely terrified, dead boar or not. Trust me, we’ll scoff no more.
www.borgo-lucca.com