They passed the white marker and ten kilometres later they came to the road. This led sharply down, and then levelled off to follow the ridge of a line of gentle, rolling hills. The sides of the hills were covered here and there with rows of vines, lines of dark green that made it seem that the land had been touched by a giant comb. At the edge of the vineyards was scrub bush – a tangle of trees and shrubs, punctuated at points by signs of human attention: a small grove of olive trees, a parade of towering cypresses planted along a track that might once have been an avenue on some grand, now vanished, latifundium.

Domenica drove slowly; the road was unpaved and the tyres were throwing up barrages of tiny stones that sounded sharp against the side of the car. After a short while, the land suddenly opened up on one side and they realised that they were travelling on a small escarpment.

‘Look over there,’ said Angus. ‘Oh …’

Domenica slowed the car.

‘That will be Sant’ Angelo in Colle,’ said Antonia. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it.’

‘Such beauty,’ said Angus. ‘Can it be real?’

It was, although it gave every appearance of being a dream. Domenica applied the brakes and the three of them stared for a moment at the sight of the small town, seemingly suspended in blue air like a delicate, shimmering mirage. Cyril, for whom any sight was perfectly possible, attended not to any of that, but to the smells which were now assailing his nostrils – smells that were unfamiliar to him but urgently begged for investigation. Sticking his nose out of the open window, he drew in his breath, and then gave a bark of eager anticipation.

‘He wants us to get there,’ said Angus.

They continued their drive. They were close to the villa, which according to the instructions lay only a short way from the farmyard that they could now see coming up on their left. The farmer’s wife, they were told, had the key and would open the villa for them.

She was waiting for them, having spotted the car coming. Domenica addressed her in Italian, which brought a warm gush of welcoming words. Antonia witnessed this sour-faced.

‘She didn’t say she spoke Italian,’ she muttered to Angus. ‘She has such talents.’

‘It will be very useful,’ said Angus. ‘My own Italian is rather weak. I get by, but not very well.’

‘So everybody seems to speak it,’ said Antonia resentfully. ‘I suppose even Cyril.’

Angus smiled. ‘What about you?’

‘I speak German,’ said Antonia. She was not to be upstaged by Domenica; she would not allow it. ‘And French. And a bit of Spanish.’

‘But not Italian.’ said Angus.