Italy’s cough rattled louder than most this springtime. The north reeled and sweated and locked itself inside; the south peeped up as if fearing a second Vesuvian lash. And then July ticked over into August and Italy went on holiday, just like that. The nation went to the beach to cure itself, maybe to kid itself too – but it certainly knew how to make itself feel better.
August in Italy is like noon struck on a Schwarzwälder cuckoo clock – except the little soldiers parading from their sentry boxes are guys in tiny swimming briefs; the milkmaids, girls in bikinis who make you think, someone should call the police. You can still set your watch by it, by Italy’s exodus to its Tyrrhenian, Ligurian and Adriatic edges.
