Fondaco

Two rivers meet at the point of a brick tongue of land, and the whole city turns to face them. Stepped gables climb along the quays in red and dark-glazed brick, each house narrower and taller than its neighbour. On the Confluence Quay a great treadwheel crane rises from a square brick gate-tower, its timber housing tarred black and its jib swung out over the water. Masts stand thick at the berths, and flat barges lie three deep against the stone, so low in the water with salt, grain and timber that the river nearly laps their decks. Nothing moves yet. Early mist sits on the confluence, grey-green and still, and the quay lamps are still burning small and yellow. Behind the walls, granaries and guild houses step back in ranks of slate and pantile beneath a parish church tower. Shutters painted club blue are the only bright colour in a city of brick and tar. South of the walls the river meadows open flat. Out there, half lost in the mist, a stadium of brick and riveted iron lifts a row of eight flags.