It is a perfect Sunday morning and I’m heading away from the shores of Lago Maggiore. In an hour’s time, the lakeside roads will be suffocated by summer weekend traffic. I take secondary roads, comfortably laid-back paths when time is not an issue. I’ll stop anywhere that catches my fancy. The needles of my wristwatch mark 9.30. By now I should have been on Mount Mottarone hunting for mushrooms, hadn’t Beppe the mycologist called early to tell me that he’d woken up sick. The road narrows and twists as it leads me through a small, deserted village – Oneda. A quick glance at the map sprawled on the passenger seat tells me that I’m approaching Lago di Comabbio and Lago di Monate, relatively obscure lakes. The sun is blazing by the time I drive into Mercallo. Vivid frescoed figures peep at me from the dry, crumbly façades of ancient houses. The winding street opens up into a petite village piazza and opposite, the sky-blue cape of the Virgin Mary accentuated by the salmon-or...
My thoughts and stories