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uring a long weekend cruising up and down the Costiera Amalfitana (Amalfi Coast).

Lots and lots of small villages perched on the slopes of the Monti Lattari (Lattari Mountains), so many that at a certain point, the memory of one fades into those of the other, in one long continuum of small streets and endless flights of irregular stone stairs, their at times treacherous steps leading down to lilliputian beaches full of wooden fishing launches waiting for the next trip out.

All houses were whitewashed, with here and there patches where the lime had let loose, exposing the beautiful pale mustard tuff of the original walls, creating interesting textures in that otherwise immaculate world.

In one of those fjords, inaccessible by car and only to be reached by long flights of stairs hidden along the roadside, one of the doors immediately attracted my attention because of its battered, abused and repeatedly, lovingly patched appearance.

The patience in those repairs was tangible, but what they truly showed were love, care and infinite resignation.

There was something very sad and at the same time incredibly strong in those damages and repairs, the slight mismatching of the green colour of the new plate of wood or metal applied on the last damage, then again the cruel scar of yet another slash with an axe…

But the door as a whole still stood, firm and solid, though battered, and that made me think of human resilience in the face of adversity, or just life itself. We get a blow, we patch ourselves up, move on; get into gales, come back ashore and move on.

I saw that and more, in that proud, battered door…