‘Lunch there one day for sure,’ Ursula declared, peering back over her shoulder as they passed.

Then the road curved and Zia gasped, ‘Oh!’ She slowed and pulled to the side of the road to let the traffic whizz on without them. Below nestled sun-drenched Montelibertà, the land rising like an amphitheatre around three quarters of the town and falling away in the last part. Church steeples poked up between terracotta-tiled roofs, buildings were painted cream, ochre or apricot, the major structures gracing the town centre while houses huddled on the slopes like children hatching mischief. These last were what caught Zia’s eye – normal homes for average families. She wondered whether any of those families was hers.

‘Pretty,’ she breathed. ‘I can see why the tourists love it.’

‘It seemed more ordinary when we came from below and passed through,’ Ursula observed, gazing at the sunlit jumble of buildings.

Then a scooter beeped angrily as it buzzed close by the car windows and Zia stirred. ‘I’d better park properly.’ In a few minutes she was able to slot into a space near a hotel called Casa Felice.

‘Happy House. Even I can translate that,’ Ursula said as they locked the car, scooter engines whining by and trucks changing gear. They wandered downhill along busy pavements, passing restaurants, bars and shops interspersed with houses graced by balconies and shutters. Occasionally there was a small garden behind a wall. The scent of lavender accompanied the musical sound of Italian, tourists adding a percussion in English and German. Crates of plump, shining pears and apples stood outside a shop on the corner of a side street so narrow Zia felt she could touch both sides at once like the vine that formed a living arch above. She peeped up at two elderly ladies enjoying lunch on a shady wrought iron balcony barely big enough for them and their table, apparently unconcerned by people milling beneath or a van nosing along within inches of the walls. She murmured, ‘They look so civilised drinking red wine up there.’

Ursula was more interested in a shop that devoted its entire frontage to ceramic goods. ‘Are these what Lucia used to make?’ She traced the brightly coloured geometric designs on a plate with her artist’s soul shining from her eyes.

‘Maybe. Ask her later.’ Zia admired an oil pourer decorated with deep purple grapes and though she said, ‘This would be good in my kitchen,’ she didn’t buy it. The Georgian and Regency buildings of Brighton felt a long way from a noisy Italian street where the sun kissed her shoulders.