Imagine this. You were born by the shores of the Mediterranean. Your childhood summers were hot and your winters temperate. But now you are grown, and you are a soldier, posted to the furthest reaches of the Empire where icy winds blow down from the north and snow falls in the winter months.
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Gubbio took a little while to weave its spell on me. When I first started to explore it seemed simply an old and attractive Italian town perched invitingly on a hillside, like so many others. Then I attended the Palio, the festival of the crossbow fighters, a centuries-old tradition.
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Brightly coloured beach huts are a quintessential part of the British seaside. Along with ice cream, sandcastles, fish and chips and the unpredictable weather they evoke childhood memories for many of us of summer by the sea.
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I have lived in Ealing for 39 years, and in our present home in South Ealing for 34 years, but I never knew until very recently that Margot Fonteyn lived near here, or that Agatha Christie’s parents are buried in our local cemetery. I didn’t know that Spencer Walpole, who was Home Secretary under three different Tory governments in the mid-19th century, is also buried there.
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Towards the end of the 19th century, one of many Italian families to leave their home town to seek their fortunes in England was the Quaglieri family from Arpino. They settled in Newcastle as did several other families from that region of Italy.
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For those who like a coastline to be photogenic rather than picturesque, and who are more interested in exploring than lying on a beach, Dungeness is close to perfect. But don’t come here expecting to swim, to eat ice cream and to make sandcastles. Dungeness is for fishermen, walkers, photographers and lovers of the wild and windswept. Oh, and it just happens to be Britain’s only desert.
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For three days we had wandered the streets of the ancient walled city of Lucca. It was all very laid-back and very Italian. Then on the last day of our stay, everything changed...
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When the architect Sir John Soane built his weekend retreat, Pitzhanger Manor, in what was then rural Ealing, his aim was to design a showcase for his own idiosyncratic architectural style with its stripped classical detail, radical colour schemes and inventive use of space and light. Here he would entertain some of the most influential people of the day.
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What is it that makes so many doors and windows beg to be photographed? Is it that they intrigue us by hinting at what might lie beyond, if we were to open them? Or more simply, that they provide decoration and interest to what would otherwise be blank walls?
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'Here terrible portents came about over the land of Northumbria, and miserably frightened the people: there were flashes of lightning, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the air.'
