The journey takes less time than some commutes. A morning flight from London to Verona, half an hour by road, then Sirmione rises ahead, walled, water-bound, and almost indecently pretty.
The landscape changes with suspicious ease. Olive trees appear, the air turns citrus-edged, and Lake Garda arrives as a climate, a colour, an appetite. By evening, tourists drain from Sirmione’s narrow streets and the peninsula is handed back to stone, water, and those fortunate enough to be sleeping there.
