6:30 a.m. — Valentine Grove, Armadale

Dawn diffuses a pale glow upon the coarse coastline of the Cinque Terre. The postcard is thumb-tacked to my bedroom door. It shows a rocky outcrop that rises like a narrow peninsula out of the Tyrrhenian sea. The promontory emerges from the wind-swept bay of Porto Venere. Across these implacable waters, Lord Byron dared the waves and swam safely, to the other shore.

Across these implacable waters, Lord Byron dared the waves and swam safely, to the other shore.
A fortress rises at the heart of the cliff. It stands resolute and impassive to the fading centuries like a perfectly preserved panforte. Beside the fortress, a medieval church perches perilously on the edge of the overhang.

A time not long ago, I lit a candle at the altar and sat on a plain wooden bench, my back resting against the ancient marble; the scent of frankincense and mildew lingered in the dark and draughty church. I listened to the hissing winds; beyond the centenarian walls, the billowing sea crashed against the cliff face. The liquid mass swelled and rose, blowing sea spray across the church floor through the cracks in the walls. I listened to the lament of quivering church bells in the tower and prayed for truelove.