WHEN I LIVED AT CALDICOT, I LOVED ROARING days. I used to climb Tumber Hill and lean right into the wind. I thought I might be able to fly like Merlin.
But sea winds are more chancy. After we left Trieste I asked Piero, our steersman, whether the bora was likely to open its mouth again before we reached Zara, and he said, “You never know what blows out of Ulysses’s bag!” He spread his arms. “Maybe solano. That makes you giddy, dust gets into your eyes and blocks your nostrils, and you can’t steer straight. Or the harmattan…”
“What’s that?”
“It flies out of Africa, carrying fog on its back, and it’s so dry, it withers grass, and your skin peels off. Or the sirocco, maybe. That wears you out, then turns you mad. Like a bad wife!”
“There must be friendly winds as well,” I said.
“The etesian,” replied Piero. “Volturnus. Simoom.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Si,” said Piero, “you need to know what wind if you want to sail before it.”
I’m going to ask him whether I can visit his little latticed chamber and hold the tiller that steers our galley.