We drove to Lerici on the Italian coast where Shelley lived and died, drowned in the bay. Hundreds of Italians pace up and down in the evening and morning through the calm surf of the bay.

Bluely tranquil, safe, amid the gaily painted houses, the crowded market, the deep cool of narrowed streets, refuge in the empty church, cool side chapels, Madonnas, and out again, swimming far out, right across the bay, the waves building, several figures on the distant shore

Why did Shelley die in this tranquil bay and not one of those moderns on their sun loungers care?