In August you cannot see the pebbles on the beach for towels. In November you can hear them roll under every wave. The tall painted houses along the seafront, eight or nine storeys high, look down on a town that belongs to its inhabitants again.
We arrived on a grey Tuesday and stayed a week. The bakeries were open, the trattorias half of them, and the old men on the benches had time to explain which boat belonged to whom.
The best hour is just after lunch, when the light turns gold on the façades and nobody is in a hurry. Buy a slice of focaccia, walk to the end of the harbour wall, and watch the town turn pink.
