Very Quiet In A Cloud

It is still astonishing to live surrounded by mountains - low mountains, almost high hills, but they are called mountains. They curve in a huge arc round the Arno valley, rising slowly from the river and its flood plain into the sand peaks and spikes, the cliffs and outcrops of former islands when all of the plain was an inland sea, then start being serious just after Monculi and all the other cities, towns and villages standing on the tallest of the islands.

As they climb the vegetation changes through tender, to temperate to tough, like a toytown version of a serious mountain region. The settlements do that too; go from the grandeur of Florence, the beauties of the hilltop cities with their churches and their palaces, and into pocket versions with only half a dozen stony streets and a couple of serious houses surrounded by former castle walls.

Only right now I am sitting inside a cloud and can't see a thing, not even the garden, and if I go onto the terrace will be wringing wet in seconds. Light the fire and read a book just like in London; even the light is that solid whitish grey. Oh well.