We know this young man – but we don’t – that’s why we remember
Paestum and its temples are suddenly there, on the edge of a Tarmac road in a sunny field close to the sea, just across the street from a couple of cafes and a museum.
It all seemed unreal until we met the diver …
Vesuvius from the Castell dell’Ovo
We should have known better – nothing is obvious about Vesuvius.
The volcano has sat across the bay from us all summer – big, blue and balmy. It reclines like some artist’s prop, a balance to the curve of sea and islands, a backdrop for the scuttle of life on its slopes and down to the shore.
It looks benign, the perfect place for an afternoon stroll, perhaps even a villa or two.
The thing about Italy is that it is both so antique and so alive. You can choose to be statued to a standstill or else to let the days wash past in seafront sunshine and pizza.
Mid-August, temperatures white-blue, we ripped ourselves out from under the umbrellas of apathy and girded up the little Fiat for an expedition to Pompeii.
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