Half past seven, and there was nobody on the road. Not quietly. Not fewer cars than usual. Nobody. I drove for about ten minutes between two bays on the Costa Smeralda and did not pass a single car in either…
Salina, and a Day With Nothing In It
The hotel is a family house that grew. You can see where. A room added on one end, a staircase put in later and left outside, a terrace built over what was probably once a yard, and all of it…
The Water Is the Point
The colour is not a lie. I want to say that first, because I came here half expecting it to be one. Everything else on this coast has been arranged by somebody, and I had assumed the water had been…
Filicudi, and the Green Light in the Cave
The boat leaves early because of the light, and because by eleven the water at the arch has other people in it. There were four of us and the man who owned the boat. He did not talk. I have…
Taormina, and the Mountain Underneath It
The sand here is grey. Not dirty. Grey the way slate is grey, and warm underfoot before eight in the morning, and I had been swimming off it for three days before I properly understood what I was lying on….
Matera, and the Bread They Had to Sign
Every household here had a stamp, and the stamp had their initials cut into it, and you pressed it into the dough before you carried it out of your door. Not decoration. The oven was not yours. Nobody down in…
