AN ITALIAN IN
SOUTH WEST ENGLAND

MARCO’S PACKINGAPPROACHput me in mind of some odd hybrid between a Verdi opera and the preview for a Sotheby’s auction – brisk, faintly feverish, and not without a certain dramatic flair. He wasn’t simply standing in front of the hotel entrance; he was posed there, as if the whole event might be captured for posterity and, who knows, possibly even hung in a museum someday. On either side of him, arrayed with an engineer’s exactitude, stood a defensive wall of luggage. The arrangement bordered on choreography: suitcases by size, each topped off with its matching tote, their colours fading in a stately gradient from camel brown through midnight blue before the whole thing was interrupted by a single, almost indecently red duffel. He dressed like he expected a passing photographer at any moment, or perhaps a call from Milan about a yacht party hosted by a minor royalty: navy shirt tailored to within an inch of its life, white linen trousers with creases so sharp you could cut a peach on them, and brown loafers. Marco scanned the pavement, and for a moment I thought he was waiting for a red carpet to roll out before him, maybe by magic or by decree.

I edged my electric car to the kerb and gave the horn a brisk, decisive tap. Marco’s face, already lively, seemed to light up even further. It was as though the sound itself had thrown a switch.

“Ciao!” He waved, one hand holding up his phone for a quick selfie.

Behind me, Ryan had already unbuckled and was leaping out, displaying the boundless enthusiasm only found in Labrador puppies or people who’ve had three oat milk lattes before 10 am. Grinning at Marco and pointing at the luggage fortress, he said, “Blimey, mate, moving in or is this the entire Milan Fashion Week collection?”

Marco’s English was excellent, but he blinked for a moment, calculating whether Ryan was genuinely curious or just being British. He went for earnest. “You never know what the countryside will require! My Nonna always said, better to arrive over-dressed than under-fed. And I also read it will be cold?”

I glanced at the expanse of cream silk shirts draped over his arm. “Not really. We are travelling to the sunniest part of England, the South West.”

He shuddered for effect, then switched to Italian to check a weather app on his phone. “Mamma mia,” he declared, genuinely dismayed. “Gale-force winds? Fourteen degrees, in summer? At home, even in winter, it’s warmer!”

Ryan took this as his cue. “You’ll want wellies. None of that will last five minutes in Dorset mud.” He gestured at Marco’s shoes, retreated to the boot, rummaged, and returned with ancient, violently green rubber boots and an anorak that looked like it had seen service at Dunkirk.

Marco eyed the boots like boiled cabbage. “No, grazie.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Your choice: these, or cold and muddy. The Wellies are proper English kit.” It hardly seemed necessary to say more; this was England, after all, and in England, mud has a way of finding its way into everything.

The moment stretched. Marco’s eyes lingered on the anorak, then flickered back to his own chic blazer with something like longing. “Okay,” he said, “but if my Mamma asks, you tell her I looked fantastic.”

“She’ll hear you ranked best-dressed at the National Trust gift shop.”

“Perfetto!” He beamed, undeterred, and began rearranging his luggage. Half went into the b