That rain was needed here is undebatable. True, those long drawn-out post-summer days swimming in an autumnal Tyrhennian sea were enviable but for every languorous afternoon spent on the beach there was a thought ‘we might have to pay for this’. And we did! For over two weeks now the sun has been a very occasional,very pallid visitor and when it doesn’t pour like a myriad of celestial waterfalls the atmosphere appears still drenched by aqueous droplets.

Every river has its tributaries. Our main one, the Serchio, is fed by that temperamental stream, sometimes a torrent, other times a river, sometimes labelled feminine, other times masculine: il/la Lima. At Bagni di Lucca it certainly makes a howl, a roar even, that can be easily heard where our house is on the slopes of the hill leading to Granaiola.

The Lima has its own tributaries, of course, among which is one near us, the Camaione. Normally a tame torrent, sometimes dangerously dry, the Camaione has metamorphosed from its usually somnolescent self into an angry beck carrying every fallen branch with its amplified flow and sounding out every corner of our valley with its cavernous echo.

Never have I seen such a transformation in a usually purling brook whose waters are normally inhabited by dryads and nymphs instead of by tempestuous monsters.

Nevertheless I lay complete trust in that our house will stand firm especially since the construction of our Albanian’s wall. I also lay my trust that soon the sun will cease being so shy and come out again to dry my ever damp washing!