It could be a poem, a dialogue in a movie, a paragraph in a book. Words that can help you see things from a different perspective, or describe a feeling which is yet too overwhelming for you to grasp. Words that can open your eyes, inspire you, help you find a new determination.

Words you hardly forget, slivers of wisdom that become part of you.

[…]
And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on.
[…]
Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college, but it was very very clear looking backwards, ten years later. Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward. You can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future, you have to trust in something, your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. Because believing that the dots will connect down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart, even when it leads you off the well-worn path. And that will make all the difference.

[…]
Sometimes life is gonna hit you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith.
I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for work as it is for your lovers. Your work is gonna fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. And don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on.

So keep looking. Don’t settle.

[…]
When I was 17 I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, some day you’ll most certainly be right”. It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I’ve looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I wanna do what I’m about to do today?”. And whenever the answer has been no for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something. Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything – all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked, there is no reason not to follow your heart.

[…]
Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinion drown out your own inner voice; and most important have the courage to follow your heart and intuition, they somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

[…]
On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.” It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Steve Jobs – 2005 Stanford Commencement Speech

At 05:45 AM we meet with the others in Ronchi, near Moena, in the direction of Passo San Pellegrino. In the dark, one by one I discern my travel buddies’ sleepy faces. A few greetings, not many words. It is too early for conversation. It is too early to even think.

In silence, we get on the first of the two Lusia cable cars that will take us up to Le Cune summit, at 2,200m (7,217ft). Taking the cable car at night is quite the odd experience: as soon as the cabin leaves the station, it is engulfed by darkness and you feel like you’re floating in outer space.

When we get to the top, it’s only a couple of minutes past six. Our timing is perfect. Subtly, the majestic outline of the Pale di San Martino Group takes shape right in front of our eyes, like it’s being sketched out of the night.

Slowly, the outline becomes clearer and clearer, and the landscape gains more detail, like a painting being slowly unveiled.

The cold light of dawn slowly turns into warmer shades of pink and orange. The clouds beyond the mountains transform into skilfully-placed brush strokes. Finally, the sky bursts into an amazing bright red.

The sun surely knows how to make a theatrical entrance and, when it does, you can’t do anything but stay there, chilled and mesmerized, witnessing the beauty of it all.

I’m fascinated by how nature seems to highlight these moments of transition, almost as a way of reminding us of their importance. It’s no coincidence that sunrises and sunsets amaze, move and inspire men since the beginning of time.

While I take shelter from the humidity inside the bar, I think that it’s not by chance that nature puts up such a display every single morning.

After all, it’s the birth of a new day – and probably nothing in the world deserves more to be celebrated.

—
Date of travel: 15 September 2013

The minibus leaves us at Fusina Terminal. I have no idea of where we are and I can’t find any reference point to orient myself – but that’s fine. In fact, I’m setting out to explore the Venetian Lagoon in the best possible conditions: with no expectations, nor preconceptions. On a sunny Saturday morning of June.

We get on board and the boat quickly leaves the pier. Soon mainland disappears and all around us it is just water and sky, the thin line of the horizon emerging out of the haze like a mirage.

I feel like I’m entering a different world, moving through a delicate ecosystem with its own set of rules – a world made of invisible and potentially treacherous roads and yet immersed in a peaceful atmosphere.

I want to know more.

I go down below deck and ask Gianluca, the captain, permission to enter the bridge. He’s a down-to-earth guy, the kind of guy you can tell straight away that he’s not afraid of hard work. In his amusing ciosotto accent, Gianluca tells me of his past as clam fisherman and how fishing in the lagoon has changed and diminished, forcing many fishermen like him to reinvent themselves. I sense a hint of nostalgia in his voice, but no grudge. Surely his life has changed, and yet – thanks to tourism – he still is there where he most feels home: in his lagoon, steering his boat.

While steering us safely through ship canals and around shallows, Gianluca warns me not to be fooled by that calmness: the Lagoon can be dangerous, especially when the Bora blows. That is hard to imagine while looking at the flat sea in front of us, and yet I believe him. Still waters make me wary, they’ve always had.

Slowly the scenery changes. Moored fishing boats, wide suspended nets and several palafittes (which people here call casoni) come into view. On the horizon I glimpse a strip of land. We’re approaching Chioggia.

We get off in the hot silence of midday and are welcomed by Roberto, one of Gianluca’s friends. He’s by no means a tourist guide, he just loves Chioggia and Gianluca has asked him to show us around. As if we were long-time friends, Roberto first invites us all to stop at his place for «n’ombra de vin» (a “shadow” of wine). Then – pleasantly numbed by the fresh white wine – we all set off to explore the city.

Streets in Chioggia are narrow and buildings seem glued to one another. «The narrower the street, the higher the risk of brawl» Roberto tells us. In his opinion, this forced promixity is what often causes the infamous baruffe ciosotte, common scuffles also described by Venetian playwright Carlo Goldoni, in his 1762 play Le baruffe chiozzotte (Brawling in Chioggia).

Everywhere I look, I see bright colours, blooming balconies, laundry out to dry, tangles of electric cables: Chioggia has that messy beauty that captivates for its authenticity.

When I reach Canal Vena, I stop in my tracks in amazement: the resemblance with Venice is undeniable.

Nevertheless, in Chioggia you find a completely different atmosphere: slower, more intimate, more authentic.

Unknown to mass tourism, Chioggia has preserved what Venice seems to have lost: its personality. Whereas Venice does sometimes feel like a chaotic theme park, in fact, Chioggia still has that small town atmosphere. Here life is slow and there are no tourists around. Sure it is a bit sad to see restaurants and shops half empty, but locals don’t really seem to mind. The truth is – Roberto confesses – that locals love to keep Chioggia all to themselves and are happy that it stays out of the main tourist routes. It’s not a matter of provincialism or narrow-mindedness though, but rather a healthy instinct of protection.

An instinct which, to be honest, I understand and can relate to. While from the bridge I take one last picture before heading back to the boat, I wish for Chioggia to stay loyal to itself. With its canals, its odd chimneys and its laundry waving in the sun.

And don’t you dare call it “Little Venice”.

—
Date of travel: 15th June 2013

“Where are you from?”

“Italy.”

This answer is usually enough to make eyes sparkle, while images of excellent food, stunning architecture and picture-perfect Tuscan countryside flood the mind of the person I’m talking to. It is, however, a short-lived dream, which gets abruptly interrupted by the question that normally comes next.

“What part of Italy?”

“I’m from Trentino – South Tyrol.”

The sparkling eyes fade into a puzzled look.

“It’s a region in Northern Italy” I add convincingly.

Nothing.

“…bordering on Austria and Switzerland…?”

Nothing. No sign of recollection. The sparkle has gone.

The truth is, most people don’t know about my region. And even when they do, they don’t normally associate it with Italy. In all fairness, it doesn’t quite look like Italy.

Villanderer Alp (1,880 m) – South Tyrol, Italy

Villanderer Alp (1,935 m) – South Tyrol, Italy

Nearly completely mountainous, Trentino – South Tyrol is a land of forests and lakes, where villages are small and isolated and cows still graze freely in high mountain pastures, often with the stunning Dolomites as a backdrop. I affectionately think of it as my own version of The Shire, as I can hardly imagine a place more beautiful, more peaceful or more bucolic.

Villanderer Alp (1,972 m) – South Tyrol, Italy

My Canon and I at 1,977 m, bringing you South Tyrol in white (Photo by Harald Steier)

Villanderer Alp (2,021 m) – South Tyrol, Italy

There is something almost magical about it. Despite being born and raised here, I can’t help being fascinated by the sheer beauty of its landscapes. I feel grateful and proud that I can call this place home and I know that – wherever life will take me and no matter which new summits I’ll climb – these are, and always will be, my mountains.

I’m from Trentino – South Tyrol. And I look forward to sharing more of it with you.

—
Date of travel: 22nd March 2013

Last May, I was setting out to spend a quiet weekend at home, when I received a text message from my good friend Elisabetta, who lives in Dublin.

Hey bella, come va? We are in Venice this weekend. If you fancy a lunch and a hug, drive down. We would love to see you. Baci.

Yes, I’m that lucky. Not only do I have some great, contagiously spontaneous friends but I also happen to live only a couple of hours from one of the most incredible cities in the world. It took me about two seconds to decide. On the Sunday, I was on a train to Venice.

It wasn’t my first time, of course. As a teenager I had visited the city several times, both with family and school. Yet I was looking forward to seeing it again, as a grown-up and now that I had seen more of the world.

After about three hours, I stepped out of S. Lucia train station and found myself in the middle of yet another busy Sunday in Venice. Bridges and sidewalks were bursting with tourists and traffic in the canal was hectic, with ferries and water taxis constantly vomiting more people onto the sidewalks. I wondered how people in Venice can cope with such a massive and constant flow of tourism, all year round. I know I couldn’t. Luckily, I soon met up with Elisabetta and Trevor and immediately forgot all about the crowd. Their beautiful wedding in Tuscany the previous year seemed like only yesterday – as is ever so with good friends you don’t get to see very often.

We spent the day chatting, catching up on each other’s life and wandering around. Priceless. Needless to say, I also managed to snap a few shots with my camera.

Walking aimlessly through the labyrinth of narrow streets and small bridges, I realized that no matter how many times you visit, you can never wrap your head around how unique this city is. A city so deeply intertwined with the lagoon that you cannot tell them apart. It seems like the water is supporting the whole city while connecting and holding it together.

There is a fascinating, almost magical balance to it all.

Yet, while waiting to get a tourist-free moment on the bridge, I couldn’t help but wonder whether mass tourism could crack such a balance. Is Venice sinking under the weight of tourism? Is one of the most romantic cities in the world losing her romance?

Personally I don’t find crowds and fixed price menus very romantic. I’m old fashioned that way. Yet I still believe Venice can be romantic. If you move away from the main tourist areas, you can still find traces of the city that has inspired poets and lovers for centuries. Quiet courtyards. Moored gondolas lulled by the sound of the water. Narrow alleys. Short bridges crossing over quiet canals. Balconies that might have heard a serenade or two.

That is the Venice I’m going to look for the next time I visit. That is the Venice I would be happy to share and discover with somebody I love.

—
Date of travel: 6th May 2012

When I booked the 3-hour horse ride with Cape Farewell Horse Treks I had no idea it was going to be the best ride of my life.

At the stables, while waiting for our mounts to be ready, I killed time browsing the newspaper articles pinned to the office wall. One was a letter from an American woman. Recounting how during their trek one of her sons threw himself down-hill at fast gallop, she reported a comment from Gail, owner and guide at Cape Farewell Horse Treks:

He doesn’t think. He just dares and damn the consequences.

I liked that. I thought I was kind of doing the same: joining a 3-hour fast ride with an experienced rider in the group without having ever had a proper horse riding lesson in my life. Yet I wasn’t scared. I felt it was going to be exciting.

Well, it was. Far beyond my expectations.

I was matched with Kahn, a strong, mature, dark brown horse. Before mounting, while I was stroking his head, I catched a glimpse of deep pride and far-away wildness in his eyes. Things were going to be interesting.

The first part of the trek was along a gravel road, where we practiced a bit of trotting. At one point we left the main road and climbed up a steep narrow path which led us to a peaceful and untouched landscape. All around us only green hills swept by the strong wind and scattered with sheep. Initially Kahn was giving me a bit of a hard time by being cranky with the other horses, but after a while he seemed to calm down and we started getting along pretty well. The first time I launched him into canter I immediately felt that pride I’d glimpsed in his eyes – and it was a nice feeling.

Following our way up and down the hills, we finally reached Wharariki Beach.

What a view. Just past the white, ever-changing dunes of sand, the empty and wind-blown beach seemed endless. High rocks towered over the slight sea, giving shelter to several sleepy seals. It was astounding. And it was in such an incredibile set that we pushed our horses into gallop. In few seconds we reached a considerable (and honestly totally unexpected) speed and I was now feeling like Kahn and myself were one single thing. The sound of Khan’s hooves hitting the sand, his deep breathing, the wind blowing hard from the side: it was simply awesome, like sensing freedom with your own skin. Completely raptured by the adrenaline rush, I encouraged Khan to go faster and race the other horses. He seemed to like it, as he quickly sped up, getting ahead of everybody else. We were now riding so fast that my eyes kept filling up with tears because of the strong wind passing through my sunglasses. But I didn’t mind, it was such a great feeling that I wished the beach really could be endless, so that we could ride like that forever.

When we stopped, I think my heart was beating as fast as Khan’s, and I had the widest smile on my face.

When I thought it couldn’t get any better, we dismounted for a short break and, just a few meters away, found several baby seals playing in the rock pools left by the receding tide. Incredibly funny and very, very cute. I felt so lucky to get to see them up so close in their own habitat.

Back at the stables, with my legs stiff and still the big smile pinned to my face, I felt glad that I did not think. I did dare and damn the consequences, and it was just awesome.

—
Date of travel: 14th February 2010

At weekends the small fishing village of Boccadasse in Liguria comes alive. The colourful narrow buildings, which seem to be holding on to each other to avoid sliding into the sea, surely attract a few tourists. Yet, it is mostly people from Genoa. Those who live in Boccadasse and meet near the beach to chat and catch up. Those who look out the window and watch the world go by. Those who come from Genoa for an afternoon stroll and gelato. Couples of friends. Couples in love. Families. There is chatter, laughter, sea air. But when the sky starts turning orange, everybody looks towards the horizon and – for a moment – there is silence.

20 October 2012 – Boccadasse (Genoa), Italy.

From afar, it looks just like another one of those beaches you’ve grown to like, here in Western Australia. Wide. Deserted. Just a long stretch of sand fading into aqua blue water under a vault of blue sky. It’s only at a closer look that you notice something is different. The sand – is not sand at all. You are looking at shells. Billions and billions of small white shells as far as the eye can see. They go for miles, and up to 10 meters below your feet, shimmering in the sun like snow crystals. It’s odd. It’s beautiful. It’s nature’s fascinating – untouched – balance of things.

14 October 2010 – Shell Beach, Shark Bay, Western Australia.

I loved it. And I wanted more.

Umbria is definitely one of those places that make you wish you had more time. On the morning I was supposed to leave, I felt like a kid who wants to stay and play a little longer.

So I did. I left my car at the hotel and went off with my camera to explore the city of Perugia. That moment – when I set off on my own, not completely sure of where I’m going and with no idea of what to expect – is one of my favourites. I had a map, my camera, a beautiful sunny day and a new city to explore – I couldn’t ask for more.

I walked to the closest Minimetrò station (Case Bruciate) and took the cable car to the upper part of the city. I knew I could only stay for a few hours but had no intention to rush it. I had no monuments or must-sees I wanted to cross off a list before leaving: my only plan was to walk around at random, take photos and see for myself how the city was like. I took it slow, enjoying the April sun and pretending I had all the time in the world.

That soon proved to be the right approach. In Perugia you can’t just focus on the must-sees because the whole city is worthy of attention. Every steep narrow alley, every staircase, every medieval arch, every piazza has so much character and charm that it’s just as interesting and beautiful as the majestic Palazzo dei Priori. In Perugia, you have to take it slow. That’s how you notice the small details, linger on the passing smiles, catch the different languages and accents. That’s how you notice the flowerpots adorning the windowsills, the different kinds of stone walls, the lantern-like street lamps and the trees popping up where you least expect them. You notice how newer buildings blend in nicely with the old ones, leaving you with the feeling of walking in a modern city that has been there for centuries.

Almost every corner of the pedestrian city centre calls for a photograph. After four hours of such wandering and photographic bliss, I literally had to force myself to head back to the hotel.

Sure time wasn’t enough. Perugia deserves better.

Yet, sometimes, four hours are enough to fall in love. Sometimes, four hours are enough to make you promise you’ll be back.

—
Date of travel: 25th April 2012

In the weak light of dawn, many people are waiting. Their eyes still imbued with sleep, their cameras ready. They all look towards the monolith. And wait. The giant rock lies asleep, uncaring. Subtly, the cold blue of the receding night slowly disappears into a warm, comforting red. The sky flares up. The rock awakens, wearing countless shades of red. In Uluru, a new day begins.

28 October 2010 – Uluru, Northern Territory, Australia.

A lake with the most amazing turquoise water, gem-set in a ring of smooth mountains. A quiet shore. A chair under a friendly tree. The sun passing through the branches, burning my feet. A little, perfect, moment.

5 February 2010 – Lake Tekapo, South Island, New Zealand.

This is how we met Jonathan.

The poor thing had just tumbled down the chimney and was obviously quite scared, all covered with dust and soot. Crouched in the middle of the fireplace, he didn’t move and had his left wing half-spread, but seemed to be ok. Trying my best not to scare him even further, I gently helped him closing his wing so that I could pick him up and put him outside on our terrace. Once there, I was hoping that he would pull himself together and fly back to his nest, up on the roof. Unfortunately, we soon realized this plan had a major obstacle: he yet doesn’t know how to fly.

Right there and then, I decided to name him Jonathan, after famous and unconventional seagull Jonathan Livingston.

Jonathan has been with us ever since and seems to be doing ok considering that he can’t go back to his nest. Luckily, his parents spotted him on the terrace and are often coming down to feed him. I’ve been taking care of him as I could, leaving him some food and fresh water every day. I’ve also found myself studying his behaviour. It’s quite interesting to observe how he’s slowly adapting to the new place, and to witness all the effort and frustration he puts in trying to learn how to fly.

Observing Jonathan made me think how he’s not that different from any of us after all. Sometimes in life we might tumble down a chimney and find ourselves stuck on a terrace. Sooner or later, we have to decide whether to stay on the safe, known, maybe unexciting terrace waiting for something to happen, or rather lean out the edge, take a deep breath, spread our wings and jump towards the unknown.

Some people stay. Some people jump.
Either way is fine, as long as you don’t stay only because you are afraid to jump.

I like Jonathan. Even though he is incredibly noisy.
Yet every morning I walk to the office hoping that he won’t be there.

What do you think? Have you ever felt stuck? Would you stay or would you jump? I would love to hear your thoughts on this – feel free to share them using the comment form below.

What I didn’t expect though was to come upon a story that tastes like a modern fairy tale. A story that tells of ideals and possible worlds, in which words like capitalism and ethics not only do not dissonate, but are indeed deeply intertwined.

It’s the story of a little boy, Brunello, who leaves the peaceful Umbrian countryside to move to the city with his parents. Still very young, he can read in his father’s eyes the toil and humiliation of factory work. And in that tired look – more than in any of the values he learns from his parents – Brunello grasps the importance of respecting human dignity. Growing up, he doesn’t forget and when at 25 he starts his own business, he does it his way. Betting everything on quality. Not just the quality of his products, but first and foremost that of his employees’ working and living conditions.

I felt that profit for profit’s sake was not enough, and that had to be a higher, collective purpose. […] giving business a meaning that goes beyond profit and reinvesting to improve the life of workers, to enhance and restore the beauty of the world.

The opportunity to fulfill this double goal comes in the form of a small medieval town, Solomeo, about 15km West of Perugia. In this half-asleep, timeworn village, 32-year-old Brunello glimpses the future of his company: the place where it can evolve and effectively become a community. And that is exactly what happens. Thanks to Brunello and his business, Solomeo’s 14th-century castle gets restored to its former beauty and a new life of offices, workrooms and colorful cashmere collections floods in. Then from the castle life does what it does best: it spreads. Like sap it flows throughout the village, arousing Solomeo from its centuries-old sleep.

Within the castle, offices and workrooms are bright and tastefully furnished. Like paintings windows frame the surrounding landscape, letting the calmness of the green Umbrian countryside in. Despite the machinery and many busy working women, it looks anything but a factory.

It’s not all about the look, either. Within the company everyone’s work is treated with trust and respect: nobody in Solomeo has to punch the clock and salaries are 20% higher than the national average. By respecting people’s work and giving his employees a pleasant working environment, Brunello turned what could have been just another knitwear factory into a unique, close-knit community that rests on a scale of shared values.

[…] whoever works with us is a part of the company’s life, no matter what job they do: everyone knows that their work is a key part of a greater whole.

Convinced that a company’s quality is the direct result of the inner qualities of every employee, Brunello cares for his business by caring for his employees. This is why every year so much as 20% of the company’s annual turnover is reinvested in Solomeo’s further development, at each turn taking the shape of a library, a theatre, even a “Philosophers’ Garden” where employees can stop for meditation.

I dream about a modern form of capitalism with strong ancient roots, where profit is made without harm or offence to anyone, and part of it is set aside for initiatives that really make a difference in people’s lives […]

Solomeo is the embodiment of this dream, the physical and tangible proof that capitalism and ethics not only don’t rule each other out, but can coexist and actually feed one another. While Brunello Cucinelli’s business philosophy might sound like wishful thinking, in fact, its results are far from imaginary. With 50 mono-brand boutiques and sold in 1000 multi-brand stores all around the world, Brunello Cucinelli is internationally recognized as a high-quality informal luxury brand. Counting over 700 employees, the company ended 2011 with a turnover of 234.5 million euros, showing a steady growth despite the economic crisis (+ 19.1% compared to 2010).

Could it be that putting people and their dignity at the centre, investing to create a better life for everyone, pays off better in the long run than chasing profit for profit’s sake?

Food for thought entrepreneurs. Food for thought.

—
Date of travel: 24th April 2012

Tourism-wise, competition is pretty tough within Italy. With such a high concentration of art, history and natural beauty, it’s hard to shine through.

Enclosed within Tuscany, Marche and Lazio and only a few hours from towering icons such as Florence and Rome, the small region of Umbria doesn’t have it easy and gets often – unfairly – overlooked. Located right at the centre of the country, it is the only peninsular region that is landlocked, thus earning its nickname as the green heart of Italy.

Whereas Umbria’s secluded nature might seem a disadvantage, I think it might be its best strength. In a country like Italy where some popular destinations get celebrated world-wide like famous top models, Umbria has preserved the beauty of the girl next door: genuine, discreet, unpretentious. The kind of beauty that can win your heart.

Simple. Quiet. It’s the beauty of the olive trees, with their wrinkled trunk and silver green leaves. Of the yellow rape fields that look like picnic blankets laid out on the grass. Of vast Lake Trasimeno that constantly changes its colours to match with the sky. Of the tidy vineyards and the winding roads. Of cities like Perugia and Assisi, where every step is a step through history.

Although Umbria’s beauty is undeniable, there is more to it than meets the eye. Whether you are visiting one of the main cities or exploring the countryside, you can’t help but notice how everything in this region is permeated with a deep sense of calmness. From the quiet alleys in Assisi to the tranquil shores of Lake Trasimeno, life in Umbria seems to move at a slower, more natural, pace.

Should you decide to visit, my advice is to take your time. No matter how long you are going to stay – take your time. Slow down and just meander, forgetful of itineraries or time. Touch the stone walls and the cold marble. Follow a staircase just to see where it ends. Lose your way in the narrow alleys. Eat gelato. Listen. Look up.

This is exactly what I did in Perugia last week – and I loved every slow minute of it.

While that of slowing down is my general advice when travelling, I find it particularly true for Umbria. Interestingly, this appears to be as true today as it was 140 years ago, when after visiting Perugia a young Henry James felt like giving the potential visitor the very same advice (minus the gelato bit):

His first care must be to ignore the very dream of haste, walking everywhere very slowly and very much at random, […].

Henry James – Italian Hours

I firmly believe that if you’re good at something there is no need of shouting it to the four winds. It will show and people will appreciate it.

This is how Umbria shines through.

—
Date of travel: 19th – 25th April 2012