My brother warned me that life in the Trullo would be rustic ... that's the word he used.
Rustic.
Did he mention it would be rustic and outdoors? I'm not entirely certain that he did. But by nine o'clock in the morning the temperature was 27°. So how hard can this rustic existence be?
I would like to point out, however, that the Puglian sun does not reach the solar powered water heating system (the upright pipe) until Noonish, so this morning's shower was not hot. It was middling. Which suffices for a day like today; a day spent at home.
Having slowed down after haring around the UK and speeding through Italy before and after Rome, we had slowed so impressively well (I'd say) that we'd come more or less to a stop. At least for ten days.
So, after my shower we had a late lunch (as one does in these parts). Then we toured the estate to confirm it is real. And we did.
It's a Trullo.
It has olive trees, fruit trees and cut logs for 'winter',
And more trees.
And cactuses almost as tall as the house.
And a pizza oven built by a neighbour which we put to good use as the night fell. Spike and Steph did the prep work. Joe baked the veg and the pizza.
I watched but DID NOT GIVE advice or instructions. Then we ate.
And after we ate we sat round the embers and talked until late. Lemoncello -- made by a neighbour -- was taken. I drank my tea.
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