Ravenna. Of mosaics and a man who found his purpose.

I'm off to Ravenna, in my mind a fabled place that in the thirty years of travelling to Italy, I never went to. It's famous for it's mosaics. I arrive on the outskirts of a town that is smaller than I thought it would be. It's grey and miserable and as usual, I panic slightly but the 1600's bed and breakfast is welcoming and shabby but chic.

My room is lovely but for some reason I feel claustrophic, maybe because the only window of the room is high up and I'd have to get on a chair to see out. I decide to brave the sombre grey afternoon and head for the churches. I buy a ticket for all five famous sites. The first is a small Mausoleum di Galla Placidia and it is truly exquisite and dates back to 500 AD. The mosaics are vibrant, glowing, the windows higher up are made of sheets of alabaster in shades of topaz and gold. After that I go to a church where the water is seeping beneath and into the lower rooms. It's eerily beautiful.

The Basilica di San Vitale was built in the 6th century and is mind blowing. It's the only known surviving Christian Byzantine mosaics outside of Constantinople. The mosaics are the colours of gemstones - malachite, lapis lazuli, rub, topaz, gold.

I have an amazing lunch in a cafe, pumpkin mousse served in a froth of pecorino sauce with a parmesan chip and a twist of crunchy prosciutto and after discovering more mosaic churches, I end up walking to try and find a restaurant as it's Friday and everything is booked out. I finally find a noisy place where a band is rehearsing Queen songs in the back room, probably getting ready for a celebration of some sort. I have rabbit with plump green olives and rosemary, crunchy yellow potatoes and a side dish of tiny sweet onions glazed with aged balsamic vinegar as the band launches into I Want to Break Free.

I want to break free of my room, maybe there's a ghost from the 1600's or that high up window is really freaking me out. I don't sleep well and wander down for breakfast. I'm not in the best mood and hoping the coffee will help and whilst I'm waiting an older man starts talking to me (it turns out he's the same age as me). I'm not the best morning person but we start to chat and I find out he's from California and he's on a spiritual journey and on his way to meditate in Assisi. I'm intrigued as a friend of mine meditated in a cave a la Saint Francis of Assisi style. He asks if I'd like to have dinner at a place he discovered. I say yes, which is not my usual style and then I panic, wondering if I can be bothered chatting with someone when I've discovered the easiness of solitude. But I tell myself it could be good for me.

I go off to visit the rest of the mosaic wonders. I find one exhibition of Roman mosaics in a repurposed church. There's an intricate mosaic of a fish head and the remains of a feast that is made out of the tiniest of tiles and then there's a mosaic of a man and an unicorn, the expression of surprise on the unicorn's face makes my day but this is from the medieval times and it is like a child's work compared to the Roman mosaic. What happened? The Dark Ages really were dark, in all aspects.

Dinner with the Californian is interesting. We share a pistachio crepe stuffed with local farm cheese, sticky with balsamic vinegar; a pumpkin risotto with scallops. He has a friend who runs a school in India. He supports a child there and travels there regularly. She was a successful architect in New York and had a seachange and set up the school in India. Both of them have found their purpose. I am on this voyage I realise to find mine.

He's retired and has the time to search for spiritual peace, the need of which arose when he was confronted with his mortality and realised that he was more than halfway through his life. I'm feeling the same, ever since I had my back surgery. A wake up call but have to make my way through the mud of depression first, sifting through anxiety , moulding it like clay into a new form. A cave in Assisi is looking good at this point.

Sanremo, Italia.

I'm forsaking France for Italy, #Sanremo is the next stop. On the way the train is stopped as a windsurfer has been blown onto the tracks by the Mistral. There are sirens and a restless carriage full of people. A Hungarian/Colombian from America and his friend are my companions. He's been working here in the building industry and he said he'd never return to America where he grew up, Italians are the best, he says. I agree. The ticket collector comes and he's fined. He said he's been travelling this route for years without a ticket so he says the 100 euro fine is nothing. A couple of hours later, we are on our way again.

My hotel is in the old part of town, it's a hotel without staff so they meet, greet and hand you the key. There are three separate keys to get in and the locks are tricky as Italian locks are often found to be. Four turns and a special tweak, my anxiety nudges me; what will happen if I can't manage it? But I do. I head out into the bright afternoon light and the town opens up to me, full of tiny streets climbing up little hills, brightly coloured houses. I buy a couple of dresses that are totally Italian, knowing I won't have the courage to wear them in Australia but determined to fit in here; they're seascape themed with brocade and beading, bejewelled and glamorous. I hope to pull it off with a tan in the summer. I find a small market with white baskets of long tapered curved zucchinis with blossom attached; another basket of variegated pale violet twisted eggplant, plump corrugated tomatoes.

I go for a drink and order a Spritz which I couldn't afford in France but here it arrives with a plate of various breads, some indented with plump green olives, another stuffed with ham and cheese, one twisted with spiced tomato and mozzarella. Then I wander and find a restaurant that I share with one old man, probably a widower who possibly eats here most nights and likes to get home early as I do. I have the best fried seafood - tiny baby coral coloured fish, squid and baby octopus, pale shell pink prawns served with a plate of buttery spinach and a large glass of house wine.

The next day I wander down to the harbour, through the tiny alleyways, up and down the steep streets and lunch on a fragrant stew of baby calamari, octopus, tiny peas, tomatoes and sweet yellow potatoes. The owner has shoulder length hair, an aristocratic bearing as he reads his newspaper, his Scottish terrier asleep at his feet. When I go to pay, he pours me a large Limoncello that he tells me his wife makes from the lemons he grows. I compliment him and he pours me another and doesn't charge me. It's good to be back in Italy.

Next day I take the train to see the daughter. On the way, the train stops and the African boy opposite me gets off and I notice he's left his bag. I rush over and yell out to him and throw it out of the window. An American lady near me says: Weren't you worried that could have been a bomb? I never even considered it, being an Australian, I guess we don't have that mentality. Next time, I'll think twice.

#Modena is embracing spring. The sunshine bleaches the cathedral, pearlising the dusty pinks of the marble. I stay at an Air bnb with so many rules and regulations, my anxiety taps me on the shoulder. I'm careful to remember everything. Plumbing, gas, water in Italy are all fragile systems in these old medieval apartment blocks.

The next day is Sunday, the antique markets are on, everyone is out, the square crowded, street musicians on every corner. No cars in the centre but I have to remember to be careful of the bike riding grannies and grandpas, often with their dogs in the front baskets. The peach, yellow, plum and apricot buildings glow in the sunshine, so bright that my photos look like I've edited them.

That night we eat a simple dish of ingredients from the market. I fry pale green zucchinis, saute them with stock and wine and at the end, I add their flowers and stir through the creamy ricotta that comes in little tubs with holes to drain the whey. It's delicious.

Tomorrow Ravenna.

#sanremo #modena #Italia #solofemaletraveller

Avignon and Van Gogh territory. Solo female travelling.

#Avignon is next and I am in the main street leading to a square full of restaurants with a Moroccan theme, every third restaurant serves tajines. I drop off my bags in a lovely hotel with curliqued iron around the balconies and head off to the famous market. It's amazing. My camera at the ready, I meet an American woman doing the same and we discuss the fact that we feel bad taking photos and not buying the produce so we usually snap when the owner is serving or has stepped away. We're amazed by the stunning bowls of flavoured salts - rose, lavender, all varieties of herbs mixed in and coloured mounds of perfumed spices. The seafood stalls are unbelievable, baskets of edible shellfish are displayed on dark olive green seaweed, sea urchins and multi coloured striped prawns cheek to cheek on ice. Four different types of asparagus are organised in wooden crates; long thin pale violet coloured aubergine like eels glow in a basket; creamy coloured turnips like breasts with pert nipples; lemon and orange candied peels are tied in bunches with twine. I haunt the retro shops, stopping to have the anise flavoured syrup served with a jug of iced water.

I lunch in the main square on chicken and preserved lemon tajine and then venture off to see the main attraction - the Palais de Papes, a UNESCO heritage site. It dominates the town. The popes of Rome moved here in the 14th century away from the chaos that was happening in Rome but had to return after a long siege. It gradually deteriorated until the French Revolution when it became a military barracks and the beautifully decorated rooms were used for stables. It's huge and takes me more than an hour to walk around it but it has an eerie feel and I learn that it housed torture chambers as was a popular pastime for those who wanted information from those who were reluctant to give it. There's a new-fangled guidance system via earphones that bring certain parts of the place alive and the young ones are on it straight away but there's a few of us middle aged who are trying to work it out; a guard finally comes forward and explains with signage what to do. But in the end, having walked up a very high winding staircase to a tower with a view of the river, I've seen enough and head down to walk along the River.

It's beautiful, wide and lustrous between the banks, tiny daisies nestle in the grass, daffodils to the left of me. The air is smooth and sweet with spring. I enjoy being in nature as for most of the time I've been in the heart of old cities which have very few trees. I wander along until I come to the #PontDAvignon, of the famous song that we learnt at school for some strange reason - Sur le pont D'Avignon, L'on y danse, l'on y danse. Only a section of the 1177 bridge remains but in it's heyday in the Middle Ages, it was on the pilgrimage route from Spain to Italy. I was warned by the hotelier that the Mistral wind would come up in the afternoon and it does. If I commit a crime during the blowing of this wind, I'm likely to be exonerated. It gusts along the river and I head back into the narrow streets of the city, exploring the tourist and lavender shops so I'm not tempted to do anything, propelled by the negative ions of the wind.

The next day I'm on a day trip to #Arles, Vincent Van Gogh's place of abode for a couple of years of his life. It's Sunday and I have the town almost to myself, wandering the streets Vincent would have trodden and suddenly I come upon another Roman arena, which I was unaware of. The town skirts the enormous complex which once housed a medieval village.

I find the restaurant that makes reference to Vincent's famous painting - La Cafe de la Nuit, it's also the cafe that #VanGogh immortalised in Terrasse du Cafe le Soir. A huge pot of paella welcomes me at the entrance and I'm shown in and have a glass of wine whilst I wait. Van Gogh spent two months here being inspired, and painting with Paul Gauguin. It was here that he was at his most prolific until he had a psychotic episode during which he cut off his ear and sent it to a prostitute. He was institutionalised for a time after that.

I remember that during my days as a jeweller, I was asked by the Art Gallery of Sydney to design jewellery around the Van Gogh exhibition. I created earrings of a Sunflower and a chair hanging off, in homage to his bedroom and sunflower paintings. I sit where he may have sat and think how sad his life was and how in the end, at such an early age, he couldn't take living in this world any longer and suicided. In his lifetime, his paintings didn't sell and yet it was here that his paintings took on the intricate, circular swirls and patterns that defined his colourful Provencal work.

The Paella smells amazing. The proprietor, Spanish looking, tattooed, aproned and laughing with his kids who are chasing each other about the place, jokes with his wife who is managing the metre wide pan of paella. They look so happy, even thought they are working on a Sunday. He brings me a plate and is very proud of his wife's cooking, it's bursting with flavours, big hunks of chicken, juicy prawns and mussels, deep yellow from the saffron. The sun is warming the square, I can imagine what it was like when Vincent sat here chatting with Paul Gauguin, dusty, hot, a pitcher of wine beside them. I have another chat with the handsome, swarthy owner about the sadness of Vincent's life and then I'm off to find a souvenir but strangely, there seems mostly to be a wealth of morbid ear memorabilia; ear erasers, imprints of ears on leather notebooks, on tops of pens. Vincent wouldn't be impressed that our century has made his ear, his immortality, rather than his swirling starry skies.