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Ever since I’ve been alone again, I’ve lived in a spacious flat in the centre of Alkmaar. I once moved to the town because I found Amsterdam too big and the people too noisy and far too full of themselves, and now I don’t want to leave. The flat is sparsely furnished, but that doesn’t bother me. Everything I need is there, and I like space around me.

I know every metre of cyclable road between Den Helder and Purmerend. On the bike you think time is standing still, or at least that it is no threat at all. The bike protects you from despair.

Anna has bought a Bianchi—she was well brought up. Not a German racing bike via the Internet, not some new American racer, but an Italian classic make. She knows who Coppi and Bartali were, and likes the Giro better than the Tour.

‘Brilliant colour,’ I said, when she brought it to show me. ‘Nice sea-green.’

‘Celeste, it’s called.’

Never knew that; you have to be a cycling woman for that.

‘La Dama Bianca,’ I said.

‘Giulia Occhini.’

‘The doctor?’

‘Locatelli. Enrico.’