Here was peace absolute, the only noises were the sound of footsteps on the stone floors, the whispering of servants, the ringing of church bells, the calls of the street vendor. The smells were of baked bread, garlic and pasta. Near to the piazza was a garden. From this, perched on cliff edge, could be seen the glittering bay and Capri, the road snaking down the mountain to the coast, Amalfi and Positano, the Grotto Esmeralda. Isailed the bay in a Monotipo, long days tacking in the silence of small unthreatening noises, wind in the sails, waves on the hull.
This was the rural shires of Dunbarton and Argyll in Mediterranean guise. Here was equanimity and health.