We were on Isola Pescatore. The heat of the day had iessened. It was six o’clock. Odours of garlic, fish and unwashed drains, drifted after us as we made our way through crazy alleys. Houses lolled towards each other; steps rose to join erratic arches, or give access to crooked balconies. The cobbled way played tricks with one’s step.

We reached the limit of the island and were about to turn back, when we discovered a wooden stall, set out with peasant’s ware.

There were mementoes displayed of every kind: little vases of Venetian glass; pots made of local marble; boxes of olive wood, and trays garnished with coloured inlaid designs; bronzes and beads. From the cross-bar supporting the white canvas awning hung rosaries of nuts gathered in the woods and dried in the sun.

Everything was attractive, though much would look tawdry enough away from its setting. I admired a number of trinkets, but saw no gift that would please my friends.

I was moving on, when I heard music and saw the Fiddler. He stood on a rough block of wood, the large black, worn-out boot on his right foot nosing round to the left. His trousers, coarse and biscuit-brown, creased voluminously about his legs, and were secured round his waist by a thin scarlet belt. His coat, blue, a little shrunken, a little faded, was unbuttoned, and revealed his white shirt, open at the neck; his cuffs were rolled back from bis brown wrists.