Safely home. I’m sorry for the delay — no sooner had we set foot on British soil than both Archie and I were flattened by a severe diarrhoea. I think I’m beginning to pull out of it, but I have very regretfully decided not to go down to London tomorrow for the latest great-granddaughter's christening.  Archie blames a grotty cafe where we had lunch last Thursday. I blame Air France and the “beef stew” we both ate Catania-Paris on Saturday. At the cafe, he had pasta and I picked at a salad. Occam’s Razor, a favourite principle of mine, would suggest Air France. It was the only time we ate the same thing. 

All went pretty well in Italy. I’ll try to put together an account for you, with some pictures. I was right to be  scared in advance, though. I am not strong enough for such an adventure. Archie’s patience and strength saw us through. I fell badly in Reggio Calabria — whither we had gone to see the Riace bronzes — and got away with scrapes and bruises and broken glasses, no broken bones. A miracle.

I hope to be back here very soon.