Caught in Lake Garda’s magic spell

IT IS market day in Desenzano on the southern shore of Lake Garda. Along the waterfront, vendors hawk their wares: clothes, jewellery, handbags and pottery beckon to passersby.

Italian football jerseys hang from stalls, looking a bit sad with memories of what might have been in Brazil. Rows of food stalls rumble the stomach with fresh loaves of bread and foccacia stuffed with olives and peppers. Fruit and vegetables shine in the mid-morning sun, olives glisten like emeralds. Tubes of meat and cheese hang like lanterns. An assortment of fresh pasta stirs dreams of lunch.

We are sitting in an outdoor cafe, sipping what surely is perfect coffee, watching the beautiful madness of the market rush and the boats in the harbour. Two old men next to us drink campari, gesticulating with passion as they do so. Small cotton-ball clouds float across a blinding sky of blue.