Glen Lyon

Well. Of course. It's not. Rather the steep winding road from Caiano to Strada in Casentino.

But it was pouring with rain and the wind was blowing. I half expected to see a pickup with oilskin clad shepherds. 

Instead I saw no-one. Not a car, tractor or lorry heavily laden with firewood.

The rain falling. The road winding. The jagged, wired-in rocks, soft layer on hard layer, tipped up with past convulsions, threatening mayhem.

The oak forest still clinging tight to those russet red leaves.

Torrents and streams running with the clearest water down into the Arno catchment.

In Prato di Strada I went to the builders' yard. Bought a slice of pizza and a ciambella in the bakers in Strada. Bought a replacement septic tank lid for €3 in Memenano. Back to the builders' yard for pipes and fittings and a stop at the garage for a new side light from Matteo.

At the builders' yard one of the yard guys said he wouldn't be able to stand a day in Scotland because of the cold. His colleague suggested he liked the heat so much he would be better off inside the gas-cylinder woodburner they were standing around as the rain dripped down.

By the time I was at the house the rain had stopped and the sky brightened.

But it could have been Glen Lyon.