Disappointed, brooding, I followed the current seaward, and upon the shore, amid scents of mint and rosemary, sat down to rest.
There was a good view of Taranto across the water; the old town on its little island, compact of white houses, contrasting with the yellowish tints of the great new buildings which spread over the peninsula.

With half-closed eyes, one could imagine the true Tarentum.

Wavelets lapped upon the sand before me, their music the same as two thousand years ago.

A goatherd came along, his flock straggling behind him; man and goats were as much of the old world as of the new.

Far away, the boats of fishermen floated silently.