Boats In The Bay

Mist Over Pendle

Pendle Hill dominates the eastern end of Lancashire, its long prow pointing north east like a tanker sailing through the Ribble Valley on a glacially slow journey towards the North Sea.

The colossal barrow hunkers long and low over the hill country of the Ribble plain always in view, as when the A59 motors alongside for a mile or more.

On a good day, the blue skies dotted with white, scuzzy cloud, Pendle offers a chocolate-coloured warmth and comfort for walkers.

But, when the clouds lower and the mist descends over the ridge, the hill takes on a rather more ethereal air. You don't need to believe in ghosts to feel a brooding, only just hidden presence here.

For a good afternoon's solid hike, there is the satisfaction of taking on the steep slope to the top, followed by a stroll along Pendle's lengthy summit; finally to traverse down through the valley.

It will take some by surprise by the exertion required on the way up, but the panoramas across and around the whole county - from the Yorkshire borders north and east, to the coast and the Irish Sea beyond - are a satisfying return for the effort.

A few minutes across the Ribble valley and there is the splendid garden terrace of the Shireburn Arms in Hurst Green. Properly kept, hand-pulled bitter and unrivalled views across the Shire (since this part of the county is said to have been the setting for the home of the Hobbits in JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings).

Eating Pizza in a Palazzo in a Piazza in Pisa

In Pisa, the doors of the duomo in the Piazza dei Miracoli (the Square of Miracles) are bronze and were made around 1180, 830 years of welcoming worshippers and visitors inside the cathedral.

The bas relief Biblical scenes are notable for the heads of the figures represented. Their golden pates are shining from the centuries of the devout who have rubbed their fingers on their small heads before entering the church.

The square was finished by the end of the 13th century, as was Pisa's brief reign of dominance as one of the great sea ports of medieval Europe.

There are little cafes alongside the square to drink a cold Peroni and reflect on the gentle downhill slide away from history's gaze for generations of Pisans.

The rooftops reveal terracotta tiles, jumbles of washing lines against a backdrop of warm-hued walls, faded to a soft blush of colour against the strength of the Mediterranean sunshine.

And often the glimpse, half seen in the distance, the thick, circular, colonnaded muscularity of the tower itself.

Surprisingly, the campanile of the duomo sometimes does not appear to lean at all.

Down on street level, in a maze of inter-weaving, interconnected alleys and lanes, lie the beating heart of all Italian towns, the piazzas. Squares seen through narrow gateways and dimly lit arches, the tenements hang their windows and roofs over each one.

Often a church squats in one corner, door ajar, beckoning in both friend and stranger. In the opposite corner, catching the sun as it squints through the square aperture opening up to the sky, will be a bar or enoteca.

The Vineria Di Piazza delle Vettovaglie is as good as any and better than
most. A cold Tuscan white wine served correctly chilled in a large glass.

The scene is scuffed and scruffy as the piazza's day-long market serves up a steady tide of shoppers and animation. The chatter of traders and the clatter of scales floats over the square.

The afternoon turns to evening, the market stalls close for the day and the sounds crying from all four sides of the piazza are of families, students, lovers and friends; drinking and eating and laughing as the dusk falls over the city.

The sky has shaded from blue and white, through amber and into the red of the night. So too does the wine give way to a deep scarlet Chianti and the satisfied review of a day well spent among Pisa's ancient treasures.