Every picture tells a story...

The Great British Bunion has returned from the Continent. That's what we used to call Europe when I was young. My paternal grandmother who liked to appear more worldly than she was, would insist that we should all go a little continental and have afternoon tea on our laps. "You know, thé chantant," she'd announce with flair but little understanding. I asked my mother what it meant. She shushed me, and said that it was Grandma Jones's version of French.

We have spent a few days in Italy, travelling across the continent by train to Stresa. We have two watercolours of Lake Maggiore at home and one wet weekend, Dearest decided that we should visit  and see it for ourselves. It is indeed exquisite. The islands are beguiling. At the end of the season, nowhere was crowded. We went in search of sun which was in meagre supply. But what impressed me was the warmth of the welcome wherever we went on our travels: France, Switzerland, and Italy. Brexit has not seemingly coloured the attitudes of the locals towards well-intentioned travellers. May it be ever thus.