As the sun was setting gloriously behind the hills we set out into town. John had found a restaurant with good reviews online and it was just a case of us locating it on the sea front.

I had a memory of seeing the sign, but could not remember where. We crossed the main road at the crossing, with motor bikes weaving behind us as we passed, then crossed the service road, easier as the traffic is one way and then turned left. We sauntered along the front looking left and right to no avail. We turned and walked back, past all the same young men sat outside a bar, still no sign, even with help from John’s phone. On our third pass we fount it. It had obviously been closed for some time. The town was dwindling to seaside cafes, so we turned back once again and headed into the square. The square is very pretty, all potted pelargonium and palms. At the top of it was a Restaurante/Pizzaria with impressive iron gates and mosaic paving. The inside was painted bright yellow, which was excellent, as all the night insects were attracted to the walls not us. There was a terracotta tiled floor and solid wooden tables at which a number of locals were quietly eating. An equally solid looking waiter showed us to one and we ordered antipasti and pizzas. It all came at once and we tucked in, hungry after all that promenading. John and Lara had classic Margarita pizzas, but I went for Carlotta, a blonde with onions and Gorgonzola. She was a revelation. After that we were too full for desert and too keen to sleep for coffee, so paid and left.

I had been very good over dinner and had only drunk water, largely because the food had arrived too quickly for me to order a glass of wine. Now the three of us sat up on deck sipping white wine enjoying the lights and bustle of the town from across a chasm of the still water. Then we noticed the German man. He was wearing swimming shorts and his belly hung over them, red and glossy. He looked glassy eyed and drunk, pacing about the pontoon holding a large kitchen knife. Both man and knife seemed huge. He staggered our way and we all ducked back into the cave of the spray hood, pretending not to have noticed him and to be chatting.  He halted, said Ciao and stumbled back to his own boat, where he stood at the end of the gangplank waving the knife. We speculated quietly. Maybe he had heard us and thought we were intruders up to no good on the boat and had come out to investigate. Perhaps he was night fishing and had stripped off ready to fillet his catch. Or he could just be a drunken nut best avoided. When we saw him dressed and sober next day he looked much smaller, thinner and more ordinary, not in the least intimidating. He was not sporting a knife. We all said Good Morning like strangers and moved on.