AFTER THE BALL WAS OVER...

Last night's neighbourhood festa would have been a late blip so I went back this morning to photograph the aftermath -- the tables, the plastic chairs, the rubbish -- but it was if nothing had happened there at all. Only a basket of large wine bottles, a hat and a sandal left behind, remained.

The festa is strictly cosa nostra, our thing, a small, simple affair for people living on this side of the hill, a tradition of five years. A religious person stands up on a hillside and says prayers, to which those assembled below made responses. One year it was a friar in a brown frock, rope belt and sandals. This year it was to be the circuit riding priest. After that, a little choir sings a hymn or two and then everybody strolls up the road to an olive grove.

There, spread out on tables is typical festa fare: prosciutto crudo, prosciutto cotto, salami, peccorino, chunks of bread, olives plus red or white wine. No charge, gratis as they say here. There is also a tombola. I assumed the takings from the tombola paid for the food via an advance from a local, well-off divorcee who also mans the tombola.

We delayed going this year because we find the religious preamble a bit lengthy so we chugged up the hill late. It was only ever a chance for everybody to say hello, complain of aches and pains and to enjoy a sunset in the mountains under the olive trees. If somebody from across the valley came, they were welcome but not quite one of us.

This year, wham. The terrace was packed with people. Hundreds of them. A new person was in charge of the tombola which looked none too exciting. I knew almost none of the people. As the evening wore on I discovered there were people there from as far away as Cappella and Lucca. Horrors! There is nothing like a free nosh and a social gathering to attract crowds but I didn't think it applied in this case.

There was also a large glass bottle with the word, offerta, offering, above it. I noticed with satisfaction that there were quite a few euro notes in it. The reason for my pleasure was that I found out who paid for the food and wine. This year, we did.

So, all the festa pics have to be secondary and here they are:

If you are planning a trip to Lucca in the near future, mark the face of this woman well. She almost always has a revolver tucked under her jacket, she is a very high ranking police officer and she can land you in it or get you out of it in a twinkling. With her is her son who is the Italian fencing champion in his age group. He reckons to make the Olympics in 2020. A face to remember

The evening sun lights the olive trees and shines on one of the food tables. In this group of people I know only three. In the other direction, I knew none. Crowd

And, you couldn't get more typical than this. These rather chic, older men reflect another generation although almost everybody dresses neatly, if not flashily. Some chaps

PS: We were refunded our advance this afternoon but discovered that the priest cost as much as the food. Maybe he learned it from Sarah Palin and Tony Blair.