Il Mare

With an hour or so to kill I drove down to the Pisa Marina, which sits at the mouth of the Arno.

The sun had shone all the way but as I reached the opening-out light of the Tyrrhenean Sea - as I think this part of the Mediterranean is known - I could see a huge front moving in from the named-storm further to the west.

I walked out on the breakwater as the great arc of menacing cloud moved in. By the time I was back to the car the rain had started.

That's a fishing hut on stilts with a big drop net. Behind are the Apuane Alps and the marble quarries of Massa-Carrara. In front the rock of the breakwater.

I drove past the super-duper-super yachts in the harbour into the older part of the town. It had a great windblown, slightly neglected feel, with its squat buildings pressed down under the big grey sky. You could have almost imagined a post-modern spaghetti-western.

By the time I had skedaddled through the coastal umbrella-pines and the flat emerald-green wheat fields singing with frogs in the drainage ditches beyond to the airport it was raining hard. The Boss' plane was on time and it was almost the perfect airport pick-up.

Later as we tooled along the super-strada back to Florence past the five speed cameras it got really wet.

We made it back eventually and staggered through the rain into the house. The Boss brought essential supplies and news of a splendid night out with Stella Kerry.

The nightingales sang us to sleep, the window wide open, the rain lashing down.