A few months ago, at our home, in sunny, glorious Venice Italy, my slightly balding, 46 year old husband, for the very first time, had to use MY reading spectacles, in order to read the paper. This seemingly inconsequential action, led him to spiral into his first MID LIFE CRISIS.
This is the reason why I find myself tapping on my keyboard on a chilly winters morning, in the extraordinary town of Fowey. Yes, Fowey in Cornwall, which my friend's, is in England. "What!" I hear you scream… "What could possibly take you from beautiful Italy, to dreary old Blighty?
Well, what indeed. The options for Dino were as follows:
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| glorious Fowey seen from Polruan |
Buy a fast, flashy, car, however, he does not drive.
Buy a pair a skinny low waisted jeans, however, he is a little short for that. Or the real classic move, trade me in for a young busty beauty, now that would be a great option, but, his lack of Facebook and twitter skills hinders his chances.
Instead, we have opened a small art gallery in an adorable Cornish village. "Art For Serious People" has arrived.
Fowey, which, by the way, is pronounced like Joy, is this amazing little fisherman's village on the Fowey River. I have been calling it a village ever since I got here, however, it has been pointed out to me, many, many, many, many times, that if a place in England has a Town Hall, then it is a town, however, to me, village sounds so delightfully quaint and charming and old fashioned. So sorry if I offend anyone, I will be referring to my temporary home town as a village.
Instead, we have opened a small art gallery in an adorable Cornish village. "Art For Serious People" has arrived.
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| Our fine gallery |
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| Beautiful Pink Fowey - courtesy Monica Trivellato |
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