Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.
Fast cars, big hills, and beer. What could be better? Even the weather was unusually good for November.
It’s a lake. It’s a big lake. And it’s very popular on a warm Sunday afternoon in August.
A wander round another lovely old city, which turned into a search for ammonites in the pavement.
A quiet day spent at our hotel just outside Venice, chillin’ by the pool and relaxing in the room.
Canals and crowds. To be honest, once you stray a couple of streets off the main drag, it’s not very busy.
We couldn’t come to Northern Italy without searching out the original home of the Bolognese.
San Marino is like Italy, only run by Swiss people. Spotlessly clean, ruthlessly efficient, and pizza with chips on.
An absolute gem of a location which we stopped at totally without planning. It was on the way.