Watching Vesuvius, waiting for a sign. Seen from the rooftops and cliffs of the Amalfi coast, the most active volcano on the European mainland is suspiciously silent in silver light behind clouds. We’re in Sorrento for our granddaughter’s wedding, a momentous event for us. But every now and then, a space opens into the place itself, into its poppy-punctuated story of olive groves and the psychedelic zest of Sfusato d’Amalfi lemon orchards between sheer cliffs and the sea.
Watching a storm – during the wettest, weirdest May here for over 20 years – haul over the mountains as if in pursuit of some adversary, the focus switches to nearby lives and a random question: could some tiny ripple in the ecology of moments spark Vesuvius’ cataclysmic potential? For here are a few such unstill lives: a hornet, Vespa crabro, the predatory motor scooter of wasps, hunts through thistley plumes over a wall where gravity-defying Italian wall-lizards, Podarcis siculus, flick in and out of question marks.
