Sensing Carmine

Hot and sunny. Summer holidays in full swing, although for some reason Mama this afternoon finds herself chained to her desk and working - now how the hell did that happen?!

In my eyes, shady greens, greys and browns. Spots of red, pink and white. Luminous sky. Muted fresco colours.

In my nose, chiesa dust, wax for the pews, decades-old laundry smells from the vestments drawer, locked there by the hands of predecessor women who've now left us. Then mossy dankness by the old river-fed wash-tub where we go to get cool.

In my ears, the streams babbling, a boat way on down across the lake, cats squabbling, tourists gossiping, children calling, cockerel crowing.

In my mouth, taste of homegrown tomatoes and basil. Fresh white bread, pickled garden cucumbers, grana padano and sweet gorgonzola.

Under my fingers, grey stone warm outdoors cool indoors, perfect white linen and handmade church lace, sleek cat-fur, soft-smooth child skin. And the striated wood of my old desk.

Nice to be home.