We had a choice according to the brochure, of climbing the four hundred and five step staircase to the citadel, or we could take the cable car. It turned out that the former option was only open to one of us apparently, who could climb the stairs alone “if he liked”. On thinking about that for not very long at all he concluded that he too would like to try the cable car.
Once there we were treated once again to documented evidence of a thousand years of shocking atrocity, massacre and torture, tempered slightly by a delightful view.
Far below, our little boat sat on its lonesome. Our neighbour, realising that the street had been mysteriously cleared of vehicles and that tables and chairs and tents with large beer brands embossed on them were appearing their place, had departed early for a newly vacated spot on the village side, to a place which he was reasonably certain would prove to be marginally more tranquil as the evening wore on.
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