The evening is balmy. In front of me a blade of pale grey tarmac underlines the green field that runs across my field of vision. A car just drives by. In the middle of the field a spit of luxuriant woodland; a farmhouse half-hidden. Further away, beyond the anti-flood bio-barrier, the treeline runs horizontal. I am viewing east.

To the south-east hills push to be young mountains. It is there that Bacchus pisses Bonarda. To the north, on a clear day, you can see snow-capped alps.

Behind me the sun cuts sharp shadows on a white wall. All around birds tweet the reggae of the impending night. Two bicycle riders look small in the distance. Time running so fast to seem still.

We moved just outside Pavia just before last Christmas. Into rural settings. Towards the tip of a tongue of earth defined by two major rivers: the Ticino and the Po'. The land as flatly crumpled as the page of an ancient book. The agriculture of subsequent civilizations hangs in sub-historic particles in the air. Today, all around is extreme green.

(to be continued...)