. . . there are a million tabs open in two browsers and too many unanswered email messages to count, and there is the sudden realisation that a favourite lace dress has been left in a wardrobe of a hotel room in paris last week; but outside, it is beginning to feel like the long, lost and languid days of summer, and who could resist the romantic terrace of an eighteenth-century mill-turned-charming-residence in Friuli in Italy? Boxwoods and walls of jasmine and roses, pale turquoise cushions on French wrought iron chairs, sun umbrellas and ivy and it’s summertime, summertime . . .
