It is, I think, impossible to describe the beauty of our pub, The Society for Mutual Aid, on a late autumn afternoon when nothing much in particular is going on -- the old men there, who have known each other forever, and their dogs; Alice having a long conversation about marmalade with one of the regulars; the light from the overhead bulbs illuminating everything inside while the sun, red as blood, drops into the sea unobserved outside. The World Cup is on the TV in the corner, but Italy is not playing so no one cares. Three goals were scored while we were there this evening and caused not so much as a murmur -- the marmalade conversation was more heated. Hams hang from the rafters. Daniele is installing another stove. We are given free snacks with our wine -- antipasto or pate and always bread and olive oil.

At night, from up here the lights on the plain glitter like jewels flung out on black velvet and sometimes I ache from the beauty of it and I don't believe that any of this is quite real except for Jonathan breathing next to me in our bed at night and then stirring in his sleep.