To give them credit, the Italyns look at us with great sorrow and explain that never in memory of living pasta has the weather been so bad. Since our arrival in this mythical land of warmth and sun it has rained, thundered and lighteninged. Still, the country is beautiful and you’d have to be blind not to see it.
The people are charming and talk with their hands, just like in the movies and the women have laughs which roll up at you like water from a piazza fountain. Here then are some photos of an area called the Cinque Terre, five villages nestled between mountain and sea on the Italyn Riviera.

Unlike the rest of the coast and its cousin in France, these villages have been spared urbanicide by the saving graces of geography. On the outskirts of the villages, olive groves and vineyards hug the mountainside with breathtaking grace and in the villages themselves, the ochre coloured homes stand silent under the Mediterranean port bustle. There are plenty of Americans so you can practice your English, and we are aware that as we leave the coast and lumber up the hills into the Toscane and to Florence that we are entering a sacred space of beauty and art.

For centuries British writers have come to Florence and we now have the privilege of possessing a little bit of Florence in our hearts. If I must tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, then
I would confess to being afraid of going to Florence; afraid of being overwhelmed, afraid of receiving so much light and joy at one time that I would never want to leave, never want to close my eyes again.
Our next message will certainly tell more. For the moment we fight the rain blues and push on.

Maïr and Marie-Do