Isabella’s time at art school had been a disappointment. Only one project, in her final year, had really fired her imagination and even then she had lacked the skills to really follow it through. The Marche region of Italy had once been one of the world centers of shoe making, full of tiny factories. Isabella had originally thought of creating some beautiful shoes using traditional methods, but the idea had not really been encouraged except by her mother, who was part Italian

On graduation day, at the Festival Hall, she felt deflated. Several of her friends wore their own creations. Some had jobs or internships that sounded either glamourous, lucrative or both.

The one thing she was looking forward to was a trip to Italy with her Mum, Gabriella.

They flew to Pisa and then spent a couple of nights in San Gimignano with its mixture of campaniles and towers designed to show off someone’s wealth.

That night, as the bells kept her from sleeping, Isabella browsed maps on her phone. The plan was to go next to Florence and then to Venice. Isabella noticed the name Marche over on the Adriatic coast.

At breakfast Isabella raised the idea with her mother. After Venice, what about the valley of the shoes? Gabriella got out her phone and after a few minutes explained she had been checking and her grandfather’s family had come from Fermo just down the coast.

After Venice and Florence, the small town that they had been directed to inevitably looked run-down. Most of the tiny businesses that had once supplied shoes to the major fashion brands had closed long ago.

Despite Gabriella’s Italian, the few places that were open seemed to treat them like blow-ins, poverty tourists even. On the point of leaving, they looked through an open door and saw a man painstakingly stitching a beautiful pair of brogues in shades of dark brown. The smell of new leather was too tempting, as was some respite from the sun, and they slipped inside.

The old man welcomed them and beckoned for them to sit as he poured coffee. Isabella was suddenly glad that Gabriella had insisted that she speak some Italian as she grew up.

The old man, whose name was Enzo, talked passionately about what he was doing but also of the sadness he felt that the place he lived in was dying. He barely made a living he said and recently his apprentice had left to make more money in a factory in Bari.

In a moment of clarity, it was obvious what Isabella had to do. It was completely mad, but something compelled her to ask if she could be his apprentice. She wouldn’t ask for a huge wage, she could work in a bar as well if need be.

For a moment the old man just looked wistful, completely lost in thought. When he spoke, it was to talk about his daughter, living in Melbourne. He had hoped she might take an interest. But that was so long ago. There were grandchildren that he hadn’t even seen. But then his eyes returned to them. A trial period, starting in a month perhaps? Time for Isabella to make arrangements. Gabriella’s smile spoke volumes.