Solo time

15 Minute Write

Photography was just an excuse. It was an enabler for him to have time on his own when he saw fit simply by saying ‘I’m just off to make some pictures’ Whilst this worked at any time of the year, he was particularly grateful for it when away on a family holiday. As much as he loved being away with them, after a few days of chaos he was always desperate for some space, peace and solo time. The holiday, this year, was in Tuscany and it was day five before he had reached the end of his tether and found himself in an ancient alley, shiny, feet-worn flagstones and crumbling sandstone walls, cool from the baking sun and, more importantly than any other thing, alone.

As he took a pic ( which he did in an obligatory ‘evidence’ fashion rather than for any real artistic urge ) he heard the turning of an old lock and the creak of a door pulled inwards and the echo-steps of well-heeled shoes. Before he had a chance to register it, he was face to face with their owner. A medium-height chap - he judged this by the way he was taller than his wife, but shorter than himself, dressed in a pale suit and Panama. Quite the epitome of Italian style which was shattered when the man opened his mouth and a perfectly Bristolian accent poured forth:

“Ohhh sorry fella, should really be looking where I’m go-in”

“Uh, no worries” was his short reply

“Take-in photos then? Nice down ‘ere int it?” he was pointing to the camera with his eyes.

“Yes, it’s very beautiful and cool, and quiet - I particularly like the quiet…” he wondered if this might come across as a little rude, implying that his mood had been shattered by this man’s conversation.

“ Quiet. Yep, that it is, for sure. You think it’s quiet down ‘ere now - you should be here in the winter time - damn apocalyptic emptiness - not a squeak from anything living nor dead. Can drive you nuts you know “

“ Sounds perfect to me - just the kind of thing I crave “ He was wondering why he was opening up to this perfect stranger - and also what he was doing here, this Bristolian chap moaning about the quiet.

“ You know this year I’m not going to be here over winter. At my age you need to keep active, and in the mental way as much as the physical. This place is no good for my soul come wintertime. But I can’t find anyone to take the place. Well, no one I’d trust to look after it - I’ve spoken to around twenty people, I’d say - but I guess that’s because I’m not asking much for it -  I just want to keep it used and warm - god knows what state it would be in if I were to leave it empty “

It was quite the monologue - he felt it was probably time to curtail this inconvenience of a meeting and go on with his ‘photography’ outing. But there was something in what this guy said that intrigued him - what if HE could have this guy’s flat - he worked remotely anyway, there’s no reason why that shouldn’t be in Sienna rather than his ‘home office’ 

“ I wish I could help you out … “ He started.

“ Well, you know you can. You are just the sort of person who’d I trust to look after the place - isn’t it weird how sometimes you can just trust someone the moment you meet them?”

What was he doing - he couldn’t seriously consider spending months away from the family over winter - or could he? And who was this chap? What did he want from him? The bit about trusting someone you just met was odd but then he remembered how he was thinking, this morning, about how you are drawn to people for no seeming reason, perhaps he should trust him?

“Here’s my number - call me” the chap said offering a rather bent but beautifully designed business card.

The card remained untouched for three months after they returned from holiday. 

Things had not been good. His relationship was becoming untenable and he was unsure why - he couldn’t seem to talk, to open up. Every time he thought he could there was just too much noise and distraction to allow him to focus, and his responses, his attempts to clarify things, just made it worse to the point of him closing down for fear of ruining everything. 

It was late one night, flicking through photos on the computer, half-cut, that he came across the picture he had taken that day he had met the chap from Bristol ( or was that accent Plymothian?) He found his stash of ‘holiday ephemera’ and there it was. Without a second thought, he picked up his mobile and dialled the number on the card. The phone at the far end rang for barely three rings before a voice answered:

“The photographer I presume. Are you going to take the place for the winter?”

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Photo: Buonconvento, Tuscany, Italy. 2016. Nikon d200

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