The incessant “bella, bella, bella” of Miss Italy blared through a small, smoky hall in our hostel, Bella Roma. The competition lasted a week, today it was being contested entirely in bathing suits. Parades of lithe flesh were periodically interrupted for a demonstration of each participant’s talent: twirling a single hula-hoop, playing volleyball, badly, with a bemused judge and clumsy security guards, dancing in a lycra skirt, strapped on for modesty.
The Spotted Cow
On the day we arrived at The Spotted Cow, the air was filled with dainty tufts of white fluff. Flying around the garden, floating into people’s roast dinners, these downy little things were simply everywhere, snowing down on the scene, as we watched, enchanted.
It was a seasonal occurrence and the nearby tree responsible for shedding this pollen had for many summers caused distress to the inhabitants of the surrounding area. “Most annoying”, one of the locals at the pub had commented. Well, if this was what “annoying” was like in Surrey, I felt quite happy to say goodbye to London’s relatively maddening quirks. Continue reading The Spotted Cow>>
