tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73357619512924620612012-05-04T18:33:51.595+01:00Essays and DiversionsRichard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-27845968284123020042012-04-29T17:43:00.000+01:002012-04-30T17:40:55.714+01:002012-04-30T17:40:55.714+01:00<div style="border-bottom: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-left: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-right: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-top: windowtext 1.5pt double; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 4pt; padding-right: 4pt; padding-top: 1pt;">
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant: small-caps;">“Comin Thro the <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rye</place></city>”</span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m woken by what sounds like four and twenty blackbirds calling out for help, and yet, on further investigation, it is perhaps only one, pouring out its soul from the yew tree on the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a perfect spring morning in East Sussex, and through my window I can see Spike Milligan sleeping in St Thomas the Martyr’s graveyard (“I told you I was ill”), then the church, then gleaming white weather boarded houses, and then, in the distance, the shadows of Dungeness nuclear power station.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uwcWqAv3FaM/T51fRZy4ytI/AAAAAAAAAPc/4VysP3fBHxI/s1600/Church+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="212" oda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uwcWqAv3FaM/T51fRZy4ytI/AAAAAAAAAPc/4VysP3fBHxI/s320/Church+1.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qxVYTvnVVd8/T51eKn56h1I/AAAAAAAAAPU/N8jKlLi_TOc/s1600/Winchelsea+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The church, built in the early fourteenth century when the whole town was reconstructed by order of Edward I, after devastating floods had destroyed the original settlement, is not quite what it once was, but is a fitting centrepiece to this peaceful and pretty town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John Everett Millais, who had been introduced to the area by Edward Lear, filled in the background to his “The Blind Girl” (who was actually painted in Scotland) with Strand Hill in 1854, and he also used one of the tombs in the church for “The Random Shot” (also know as “L’Enfant du Regiment”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His family later settled here, and he may have invited Thackeray (who set his novel “Denis Duval” in Winchelsea).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another Pre-Raphaelite, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, visited in 1866 to escape the torpor of Cheyne Walk, and he stayed at the New Inn, where Pat now stokes the log fire, while I breathe the air of yesteryear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ford Madox Ford, a very influential literary figure in the early 20<sup>th</sup> century, lived in Friars Road, and Joseph Conrad rented a cottage opposite his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At a certain point it must have been <b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i></b> place to be, with </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Henry James scooting over from <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rye</city></place> on his bike, Elgar dropping in, Beatrix Potter sojourning, and even H G Wells passing by.</span> The painter, Edward Burra, was a sometime resident, as was his friend Conrad Aitken, and they knew the place as "Tinkerbell Town."</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P4CDi39Ttj0/T51o6x9097I/AAAAAAAAAQ8/lUv3QG_X21E/s1600/River+Brede+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="212" oda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P4CDi39Ttj0/T51o6x9097I/AAAAAAAAAQ8/lUv3QG_X21E/s320/River+Brede+2.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<shape id="_x0000_s1028" o:allowoverlap="f" stroked="t" strokeweight="1.5pt" style="height: 223.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 18pt; margin-top: 396pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 405pt; z-index: 3;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="River Brede 2" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image005.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></shape><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Now it is quiet, apart from the strident blackbirds, and the visitors stroll about looking for the Milligan epitaph (it’s in Gaelic) or visiting the town museum, or touring the medieval vaulted wine cellars (an extraordinary feature of the town, dating back to its days as an </span><shape id="_x0000_s1029" o:allowoverlap="f" stroked="t" strokeweight="1.5pt" style="height: 262.9pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 18pt; margin-top: 81pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 395.65pt; z-index: 4;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="Rye from Winchelsea" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image007.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="page" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">important port with strong links with <place w:st="on"><state w:st="on">Gascony</state></place>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FpHScC2OTcs/T51n_vVNnZI/AAAAAAAAAQs/ZAGJBc1BVvA/s1600/Weatherboard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="228" oda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FpHScC2OTcs/T51n_vVNnZI/AAAAAAAAAQs/ZAGJBc1BVvA/s320/Weatherboard.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Iham Hill, on which the town sits, is at the eastern edge of the High Weald Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and the views all round are spectacular, with the <placename w:st="on">Brede</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Valley</placetype> to the west, the <placename w:st="on">Royal</placename> <placename w:st="on">Military</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Canal</placetype> passing below on the eastern side, and <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rye</place></city> perched above the Rother to the north.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Queen Elizabeth I sailed here and for this year’s jubilee no doubt a beacon will be lit for Elizabeth II.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Otherwise the A259, like time itself, streams past, avoiding the narrow gates of this ancient town.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ndP-Ci67KO0/T51mKXQwkcI/AAAAAAAAAQc/Eep5uRrxOsA/s1600/Rye+from+Winchelsea.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="212" oda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ndP-Ci67KO0/T51mKXQwkcI/AAAAAAAAAQc/Eep5uRrxOsA/s320/Rye+from+Winchelsea.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have an appointment with the birds on Dungeness, but first I climb the tower of the Parish Church of St Mary the Virgin in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rye</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way up, having squeezed through the narrowest passage, and struggled panting up steep ladders, I pass the oldest working turret clock in the country (dating from 1561) and a set of scarily loud bells, before emerging onto the leads with a stunning panorama of the town and scenery around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Q9-cbsI2ew/T51lLFlLb7I/AAAAAAAAAQU/7N8KPyYs9jc/s1600/Winchelsea+from+Rye.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="228" oda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Q9-cbsI2ew/T51lLFlLb7I/AAAAAAAAAQU/7N8KPyYs9jc/s320/Winchelsea+from+Rye.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I can see Henry James’s front door, the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Rye</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Castle</placetype></place> museum, the silty, meandering Rother and the harbour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the east the wind farm by Little Cheyne Court flashes in the sun, and beyond Denge Marsh loom the Dungeness reactors, glowing in the distant haze.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EqA_hdPXRiU/T51nNb8q8sI/AAAAAAAAAQk/toBHnY1z7mk/s1600/Rother+from+Rye+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="212" oda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EqA_hdPXRiU/T51nNb8q8sI/AAAAAAAAAQk/toBHnY1z7mk/s320/Rother+from+Rye+1.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<city w:st="on"><place w:st="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Rye</span></place></city><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> is a bustling, busy place, awash with tourists, but justifiably so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The medieval streets around the centre and the genuine antique Town Crier make for an imaginative day out (or a good two hours if you park in Budgen’s!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I seek peace, and speed over East Guldeford levels (where salt was once produced), across the Kent Ditch, onto Walland Marsh (where the sheep are ready salted) and into the fourteenth century Woolpack Inn for some scallops and a pint of Shepherd Neame’s Early Bird, an ideal thirst quencher for an amateur twitcher like me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love this pub, with its vast inglenook, painfully low beams and funny little rooms. And I love the expanse of Romney Marsh, where the skies, even when wet, stretch out forever.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BiVE4d245co/T51kZi6i3wI/AAAAAAAAAQM/bTyGdA-rsgE/s1600/Woolpack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="228" oda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BiVE4d245co/T51kZi6i3wI/AAAAAAAAAQM/bTyGdA-rsgE/s320/Woolpack.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It’s not far from here, down through Lydd, which now has a pretentious airport, perhaps because of one Samuel F Cody who pioneered man-lifting kites here in the early 20<sup>th</sup> century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was also the man who, in October 1908, made the very first aeroplane flight (for 27 seconds, at Farnborough) in <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Britain</country-region></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We now see the airport advertising itself as “London </span><shape id="_x0000_s1031" o:allowoverlap="f" stroked="t" strokeweight="1.5pt" style="height: 315pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-horizontal: left; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical: top; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 225.75pt; z-index: 6;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="Warbler 3" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image013.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Ashford Airport – the future of aviation in the south-east of England” and as it proclaims on its website, “the Airport is awaiting the Public Inquiry decision on its application to extend the runway by 294m with a 150m starter extension as well as a new terminal building capable of processing a maximum of 500,000 passengers per year.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What my feathered friends on Denge Marsh, let alone the inhabitants of Greatstone-on-Sea etc, are going to make of this, can only be imagined, though of course it will, no doubt, bring immeasurable prosperity and opportunity to the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather like smuggling did in days of yore…..</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_VSmCBRav3Y/T51hqq6iEoI/AAAAAAAAAP0/34gJMNqsqPo/s1600/Brambling+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="212" oda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_VSmCBRav3Y/T51hqq6iEoI/AAAAAAAAAP0/34gJMNqsqPo/s320/Brambling+2.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<shape id="_x0000_s1033" o:allowoverlap="f" stroked="t" strokeweight="1.5pt" style="height: 237.8pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 99pt; margin-top: 450pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 332.9pt; z-index: 8;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="Cormorant 1" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image015.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="page" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Anyway, I pitch up at the RSPB nature reserve, which tells me, “There’s nowhere quite like it!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they say on the website, “if you haven’t been to Dungeness, nothing can quite prepare you for the landscape – mile after mile of shingle….”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is far more than this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the RSPB’s oldest nature reserve; it covers nearly 1,000 hectares and is a Site of Special Scientific Interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apart from pools, shingle and reed beds for the waterfowl and seabirds, there are fields and ditches for geese and duck, and gorse and willow scrub for all kinds of warblers, tits and insects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this visit I was treated to a fine display by a Wheatear, who fluttered and posed for me, and a Willow Warbler, who sang his heart out on a bramble obligingly close to my camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In flight I caught the sleek black bomber shape of a Cormorant, but also the aerial virtuosity of Marsh Harriers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">There are well marked trails, and a number of hides, but for a moment I am thrown by the sign that prohibits dogs, “Except Guide Dogs.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With naïve prejudice I wonder why anyone with a guide dog would be bird watching, but I immediately realise my mistake and foolishly close my eyes to listen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is indeed easier to hear some birds than see them, and of course in many cases, as with the blackbird that woke me in the early hours, hearing their song is the best part of getting close to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, one of the most exciting birds on the reserve at this time is a Bittern, and he is hardly seen at all, though his booming call is eerily unmistakable.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">After a cup of tea in the visitor centre, admiring the equanimity of the ducks and divers who completely ignore the brooding powerhouse that hums behind them, I move on to the extremity of the peninsular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, under the black tower of the old lighthouse, the white stripe of the new one, and the grey blocks of the generating station, lie shacks and cottages and railway carriages in what must be the most unusual village in <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">England</country-region></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boats are drawn up on the shingle ridges near the sea, and skeletons of old vessels and old huts litter the landscape,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there are the cottages, mostly black with pitch, and chained up tight, but some bear signs of life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Film Maker Derek Jarman’s cottage and garden is one of these.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He first came here in 1986 and continued to visit, and to develop his extraordinary garden, until his death in 1994.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He made the most of the horned poppies and sea kale that like it here, but he also introduced other species that took root in the shingle and survived the gales and salty spray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what Prospect Cottage cost when it was constructed eighty years before, or when he bought it, but it would seem to be worth in the region of £200,000 now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">On January 1<sup>st</sup> 1989 Jarman wrote, in “Modern Nature”:</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The view from my kitchen at the back of the house is bounded to the left by the old Dungeness lighthouse, and the iron grey bulk of the nuclear reactor – in front of which dark green broom and gorse, bright with yellow flowers, have formed little islands in the shingle, ending in a scrubby copse of sallow and ash dwarfed and blasted by the gales.</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And on February 13<sup>th</sup> the same year he wrote:</span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">to whom it may concern</span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>in the dead stones of a planet</i><br /><i> no longer remembered as earth</i><br /><i> may he decipher this opaque hieroglyph</i><br /><i> perform an archaeology of soul</i><br /><i> on these precious fragments</i><br /><i> all that remains of our vanished days</i><br /><i> here – at the sea’s edge</i><br /><i> I have planted a stony garden</i><br /><i> dragon tooth dolmen spring up</i><br /><i> to defend the porch</i><br /><i> steadfast warriors</i></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I drive back down the Coast Road to New Romney, a violent storm towering over the hills inland, and then turn west, back through Rye and Winchelsea, and on into leafy Sussex, so different from the desolate stony shore behind me.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">For a rest I take a walk into Fore Wood nature reserve at Crowhurst, a linear village not far from <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Battle</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is another RSPB site, but of a very different nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sandstone is pierced by steep ghylls, but otherwise it is gently sloping woodland, coppiced in places, carpeted by bluebells and wood anemones, and delicately green with the new leaves of Hornbeam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I step quietly along the trail, a chattering of tits spiking the air around me, and suddenly I confront a fox.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stands before me, magnificently sharp nosed and rufus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes pierce mine, and I am stone, memories of lawrentian snake and mountain lion invading me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks at me as if he is a god, and slowly, with unconcern, he steps into the undergrowth, without a word.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I move forward, startling a blackbird, who wryly cackles off through the trees.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Richard Gibbs</span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">April 2012</span></b></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-2784596828412302004?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Rye, East Sussex TN31, UK50.949708 0.7372650.929701 0.697778 50.969715 0.776742tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-30626610079683761402012-04-12T18:19:00.000+01:002012-04-12T18:19:27.738+01:002012-04-12T18:19:27.738+01:00Me and My Delta....<div style="border-bottom: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-left: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-right: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-top: windowtext 1.5pt double; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 4pt; padding-right: 4pt; padding-top: 1pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-alt: double windowtext 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br />
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Nicola is expecting us; the paperwork is soon complete, and three hours after checking in at Gatwick on a grey Monday morning in April we are on our way out of Verona’s Valerio Catullo airport.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">I am no motoring geek, and claim no Clarkson gene, but something about the new Lancia Delta 1.6 litre diesel multijet affects me like the full moon, transforming a rather pedestrian sixty-year-old Englishman, into something else – not the Italian Stallion that symbolises the Ferrari perhaps, but at least a pit pony on holiday in fresh green pasture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to kick my heels, tap my toes on the pedals, and frisk through the (six) gears as I lean into the corners and fly down the straights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I feel kin to every one of the 120 brake horses under the bonnet, and just to celebrate our arrival I jump out of the stalls from 0 – 100 kph in 10.7 seconds……<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1036" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0.3pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 11;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata o:title="IMGP2242" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image003.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The Lancia brand was famous for its </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Rally_Championship" title="World Rally Championship"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">World Rally Championship</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> career in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when it dominated rallying. Because of regulations the car had also to be produced commercially, and so the Lancia Delta HF4WD and Integrale - 5000 were produced. Now we are into the third generation and this model, designed by the Lancia Style Centre, was unveiled at the 2008 </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geneva_motor_show" title="Geneva motor show"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Geneva motor show</span></span></a></span><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">and is aimed at the luxury end of the small family car market.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess my wife and I constitute a small family (the rest of the tribe missed out on this trip!) and for us this is certainly luxury (at a price of about £20,000 possession would be way beyond our means).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">I settle back in the moulded seat, appreciating the clarity of the Bose cd player, barely disturbed by engine or tyre noise, and enjoying the scenery unfolding around us as we glide down towards Bardolino and the blue expanse of <place w:st="on">Lake Garda</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The narrow road twists along the lake shore, slowing through villages which squeeze between the water and the steeply rising hills, and the car seems to enjoy itself, relishing the bright world around it and positively welcoming the vistas exposed at every turn.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">First stop is Malcesine, infamous for having imprisoned Goethe in 1786, in the Scaligero castle, on suspicion of being a spy (something that also happened to me in the town of <city w:st="on">Norma</city>, south of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city>, some years ago – a self-important and officious Comandante of the Carabinieri failing to understand why a foreigner with a camera should be interested in the 2,500 year old cyclopean walls of nearby Norba).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Subsequently Gustav Klimt stayed and painted (but avoided imprisonment!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town, which clings to its castle, still bears the imprint of its medieval past. The historic centre is a labyrinth of cobbled alleys and little <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">piazze</i>, spilling down to the harbour from where various boat trips are possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nowadays Germans inundate the town on sunny days (with internet weather forecasts they don’t bother to leave their homeland unless the prospects are clement) as the <place w:st="on">Brenner pass</place> is only a short distance away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tJLT1Z3pQcM/T4bAFhvK2AI/AAAAAAAAALE/SCL7tJG_AMY/s1600/Funivia+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tJLT1Z3pQcM/T4bAFhvK2AI/AAAAAAAAALE/SCL7tJG_AMY/s320/Funivia+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">I last stayed here (in Tonino’s campsite, which still flourishes) at the time Elvis died, and remember vividly how the gods lamented, waves of tears drenching the landscape from sad grey thunderclouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are fortunate this time, however, and though visibility is not crystal clear, the top of Monte Baldo (1783 metres nearer the sky than the lake) is unshrouded and the cable car ride enables us to enjoy the views without the strain of obsessive hiking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vestiges of the winter snows decorate the northern and Eastern slopes, but tiny white and purple crocuses poke through the dry grasses and herald the spring.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zxlQsPu-Rpc/T4a_DYOH45I/AAAAAAAAAK8/Pxlo5rMoCPk/s1600/Blossom+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zxlQsPu-Rpc/T4a_DYOH45I/AAAAAAAAAK8/Pxlo5rMoCPk/s320/Blossom+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span><shape id="_x0000_s1026" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 1;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata o:title="Funivia 1" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image007.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">At lake level, gardens are elaborate with non-native trees and shrubs as well as oleanders and vines, but up the slopes cherries and olives abound, and then oaks and chestnuts, then ashes and pines, then beech and finally birch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amongst these there are orchids and above all you will hear skylarks and, possibly, see golden eagles.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cy3G0r1-naA/T4bB1ZsE-QI/AAAAAAAAALU/pUQ1ImQ5zSg/s1600/Monte+Baldo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cy3G0r1-naA/T4bB1ZsE-QI/AAAAAAAAALU/pUQ1ImQ5zSg/s320/Monte+Baldo+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In the evening I quietly sit in a bar and watch the lights of the town of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Limone</place></city>, on the western shore, sparkle through my glass, the lights emphasising the black depths of the fiord-like lake.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SbFo8_7zguw/T4bFxD_IbiI/AAAAAAAAAL0/o44u6YJWSZA/s1600/Lake+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SbFo8_7zguw/T4bFxD_IbiI/AAAAAAAAAL0/o44u6YJWSZA/s320/Lake+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The next morning we head north, the car eager to move, champing at the bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From Garda we nose through Arco and Dro, then under the teeth and eyebrow Castello at Sarche, shielding us from the Brenta massif, then we pause by the pre-Raphaelite beauty of the medieval towers and crenellated walls of Castel Toblino, mirrored in the waters of its homonymous lake, which itself is adorned by an islet of cormorants, splashing themselves in their reflections.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div align="center"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tM7Wv5_kV6o/T4bUNP8F5RI/AAAAAAAAANI/bdEIGoA11G8/s1600/Lago+Toblino+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tM7Wv5_kV6o/T4bUNP8F5RI/AAAAAAAAANI/bdEIGoA11G8/s320/Lago+Toblino+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Thence to Trento, modest regional capital, host to the Council of Trent (incidentally this raises approximately 2.5 million results on Google) which was first convoked by Pope Paul III in 1545 (it actually went on for 18 years in three locations, under three different popes) to clarify the doctrines of the Catholic Church in the face of the very awkward and irritating interventions of Martin Luther and his followers, who were involved in a movement known as “Protestantism.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This Counter-Reformation was the last great council before Pope John XXIII confirmed the precepts of <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Trent</city></place> at Vatican II, a position subsequently endorsed by Pope Paul VI.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YR75X6vteMo/T4bE1Q-DLBI/AAAAAAAAALs/vuoHSZjteBU/s1600/Fresco+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YR75X6vteMo/T4bE1Q-DLBI/AAAAAAAAALs/vuoHSZjteBU/s320/Fresco+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Trento today rises above the river Adige at a key point on the Autostrada A22 (a little south of <city w:st="on">Bolzano</city> and the Brenner pass) and the main rail link between north eastern <country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region> and <country-region w:st="on">Austria</country-region> and <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Germany</place></country-region>. It’s an attractive town, though did not get a mention in the recent “Times” top ten cool Italian locations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We leave the Delta safely in an underground car park to explore, but find the Duomo occupied by a forty hour non-stop prayer session (with fierce notices denying access to tour groups - which seem to have little effect on those who have itineraries to follow); we cheat by joining the similarly grey-haired faithful praying along with the elderly priesthood…..</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The main attraction of the town, however, is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Castello del Buonconsiglio</i>, which saw service as the residence of the Prince Bishops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a curious mixture of flamboyance, architectural poise and historical emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a touch of <placename w:st="on">Windsor</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Castle</placetype> about the walled and bastioned exterior, but then inside it’s more Hatfield House with <place w:st="on"><placetype w:st="on">Tower</placetype> of <placename w:st="on">London</placename></place> additions, though with a strong Italo-German accent. Part of it is medieval castle, and part renaissance palace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are frescoed walls – most notably in the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Eagle</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Tower</placetype></place>, where an unknown fifteenth century painter depicted the months of the year in delightful detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are gloomy rooms, and splendid gardens, and a wonderful loggia with views over the town roofs to the mountains beyond, but most affectingly there are some small impregnable cells, constructed by walling in a series of arches, where the patriots Damiano Chiesa, Cesare Battisti and Fabio Filzi and others were held by the Austrians in 1916, tied to iron loops set in the walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their trials were held in the old refectory, and their executions carried out in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fossa degli Martiri</i> below the castle walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RWHLE_4ucpw/T4bTJTvzzmI/AAAAAAAAANA/n_HAKn6QaRQ/s1600/Fossa+degli+Martiri.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RWHLE_4ucpw/T4bTJTvzzmI/AAAAAAAAANA/n_HAKn6QaRQ/s320/Fossa+degli+Martiri.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">A journalist and politician with irredentist opinions, Cesare Battisti became a soldier in the Alpini Corps, fighting for Italian repatriation of his home town against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was captured at the battle of Asiago, on July 10<sup>th</sup>, 1916, and his last words, recorded by the chaplain, were:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“In my forty-two years I have achieved what many men fail to achieve in a long life.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, having been dressed in shabby civilian clothes rather than the military uniform he was entitled to, he was garrotted and hanged. The thought of his untimely death in the grim ditch outside the castle, with the subsequent photos of smiling Austrian soldiers proudly displaying their victim, chills me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nearly one hundred years have passed, but the pain and injustice can still be felt.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0UnpD_76_dw/T4bDihRG7rI/AAAAAAAAALk/Pk2hqwUsYKo/s1600/Ceiling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0UnpD_76_dw/T4bDihRG7rI/AAAAAAAAALk/Pk2hqwUsYKo/s320/Ceiling.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">We return to the Lancia, which is keen to escape from its dungeon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine that Cesare Battisti would have appreciated this car, and see him slipping into the back seat as we negotiate the busy streets of the town and surge away from the heavy walls of the fortress, a rope trailing from the battlements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ultimately his aim of unification of his native town with <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region> was achieved and his spirit lives on.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f_z7Jhky7UQ/T4bYNziz0fI/AAAAAAAAANk/jRBVvcCedmQ/s1600/Serraio+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" qda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f_z7Jhky7UQ/T4bYNziz0fI/AAAAAAAAANk/jRBVvcCedmQ/s320/Serraio+2.JPG" width="212" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1029" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 4;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata o:title="IMGP2237" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image016.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The road rises rapidly up away from the <place w:st="on">Adige</place>, and then we loop up into the Valley of the Pinè, the car purring as it climbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <place w:st="on"><placetype w:st="on">village</placetype> of <placename w:st="on"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baselga di Pinè</i></placename></place> is a resort of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">villeggiatura</i>, or non-specific vacation – i.e. no ski slopes nor rock climbs, just peaceful walks and fresh air away from the heat of summer cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is just below 1000 metres and has an attractive lake (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lago di Serraia</i>) complete with a fully working model beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Franca Merz is expecting us at the Due Camini, though she is also very busy celebrating her mother, Lucia Balbo’s, 90<sup>th</sup> birthday with a large group of similarly aged guests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hotel and restaurant was built for her mother in 1974 in an alpine chalet style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is comfortable and peaceful and the food, based on local resourced products, is renowned, with dishes such as home made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ravioloni</i> stuffed with pumpkin, venison with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">polenta</i>, and a chocolate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bonet</i> for dessert. But <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Franca</place></city>, who speaks English, French, and German as well as her native Italian (and who is a speed-skating referee in her spare time) wants to sell, and the business has been on the market for some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trade is too intermittent (again people choose or cancel according to the weather reports) and it is hard to get staff when and if guests decide to turn up.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_640229060"></span><span id="goog_640229061"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i9HNrGqZsOk/T4bGuWccHZI/AAAAAAAAAL8/sGZe-3Yjdr8/s1600/Late+Landscape.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i9HNrGqZsOk/T4bGuWccHZI/AAAAAAAAAL8/sGZe-3Yjdr8/s320/Late+Landscape.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Before we dine, we go to pay our respects to the sanctuary of the Madonna at Montagnana, where in 1729 Mary appeared five times to the shepherdess Domenica Talga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first shrine was erected here in 1740, but since then a complex of hotels has gathered around the site, and now a neo-baroque Sanctuary, incorporating a Scala Santa, which was dedicated in 1906, stands with magnificent views of the mountains amongst an eerily quiet pine wood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we return to the car park, I glimpse a woman’s form peering through the windscreen of the Lancia, seemingly dusting the glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has gone, however, before we arrive.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1030" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 5;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata blacklevel="7864f" gain="86232f" o:title="Late Landscape" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image018.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1027" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 7.2pt; width: 6in;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD10256_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image009.gif"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">After breakfast, the high-spot of which is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mostarda di</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cotògna</i> (quince preserve), we hit the road again, heading north into the Dolomites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Initially we spiral down the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Valfloriana</i>, through dense forest, with the steep valley on our left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we pick up the N50 at Cavalese and then the N48 up the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Val di Fiemme</i> to Moena.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The road is well made and I can open up the Lancia’s 16 valves and leave the local traffic standing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">We then start to climb properly up to the San Pellegrino pass, where skiers are making the most of the last snows of winter above 2000 metres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am followed up the hairpins by a powerful Mercedes, which gains on me on every straight, but which cannot handle the curves like the Lancia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment I become 007, or the Transporter, with the baddies on my tail, and the gear stick warms to the multiple changes as the road twists and turns through the double chevrons on the map.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reaching the pass I spin the car to a halt with a handbrake turn and dive for my beretta, but I have beaten the Merc and it explodes in a ball of flame as it plummets into a ravine, destroying a ski lift and hotel complex with it……<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I step away from the Delta, light a Balkan Sobrani and admire the silence of the snowy peaks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BaJQyfYCWK8/T4a7Sd8bL0I/AAAAAAAAAKc/WQ8_TX40OOQ/s1600/Lancia+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BaJQyfYCWK8/T4a7Sd8bL0I/AAAAAAAAAKc/WQ8_TX40OOQ/s320/Lancia+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">It’s then all downhill, literally, with the gears holding me back and the electronic damping control on the SDC suspension keeping us comfortable as we slice down 700 metres in seven kilometres, then another 500 metres in 10 kilometres to reach the gorge of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cordevole</i> torrent that takes us to Agordo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This road, Number 203, is exciting and the car responds superbly, its electronic stability control being used to the full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are bounded by precipices and a scurrying river, and the tarmac slips through tunnels and round blind bends with unflappable aplomb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And everyone goes at their own pace – trucks rumbling on their business at 50kph, grizzled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">contadini</i> in their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Api</i> struggling to hit 40 kph, and flash saloons with some kind of urgency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to get past them all, as my business is of the utmost importance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Delta stalks the opposition until it sees its chance and it pounces forward, devouring the prey and careering away before it can be caught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even in fifth gear there is plenty of power to surge past some dawdler at 110kph and then I ease into sixth and carry on as if nothing had happened, touching 130 on the straights (top speed is in the region of 190kph, but I am keeping that for another day!)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">We stop in Belluno for lunch, appropriating the only remaining parking space, and profiting from the local custom of not charging between 12.00 and 2.30pm (while the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vigili</i> have a break!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town is quiet as the market is just packing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Venetian style predominates in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">centro storico</i>, with a graceful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palazzo dei Rettori</i> in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza del Duomo</i>, looking almost as if it has washed up here after some Adriatic tsunami.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town sits atop a rocky terrace at the confluence of the Piave and the Ardo rivers, and is surrounded by mountains, with the Dolomites to the north and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prealpi bellunesi</i> to the south. A busy little <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trattoria</i> provides me with a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">piadina</i> and a small plate of local cheeses, seasoned with a delicious sweet pear jam, and accompanied by a glass of dry white wine from the region.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">We then head west on minor roads to view the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Certosa di Vedana</i>, splendidly isolated beneath the peak of Monte Alto (2069m) whose slopes are a designated nature reserve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This Charterhouse, or Carthusian Monastery, was founded, by Act of Pope Hadrian IV, as a Lay Confraternity in 1155, becoming a centre for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Certosini</i> in the mid fifteenth century, with the church being finished in 1471.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9P5cJrjAF7Y/T4a6Tuprq1I/AAAAAAAAAKU/yal6t2lidRw/s1600/Certosa+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9P5cJrjAF7Y/T4a6Tuprq1I/AAAAAAAAAKU/yal6t2lidRw/s320/Certosa+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In 1769, following a decree of suppression, the Carthusians were expelled and the buildings became a privately owned farm. It was not until 1882 that the monastery, without lands or benefits, was returned to the Order, under the patronage of the Charterhouse of Pavia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the First World War it narrowly escaped destruction in conflict, and indeed, a fortnight before the end of the war it was occupied by the Austrians, who installed electricity and mounted cannons on the walls, but fortunately no harm came of this.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The Second World War also passed very close by, with suspicions and inspections by the occupying German forces, but again without conspicuous damage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throughout most of the twentieth century in fact the monastery played an important part in local life, providing food for the hungry, and as a centre of religious sanctity for those in need.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Then, in 1977 the Order decided to consolidate its monasteries, and the sixteen religious brothers and fathers were transferred to other sites, although the traditions were then taken over by a community of Carthusian nuns, and while there was a complete change of guard in 1998, it is still essentially a community of nuns (twelve of them, with a Carthusian father and three brothers) who live there, dedicated to prayer, work and silence.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qz_Y4hYxRaY/T4bp2ExHgII/AAAAAAAAAN4/i65YNMc0mAk/s1600/Dolomiti+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qz_Y4hYxRaY/T4bp2ExHgII/AAAAAAAAAN4/i65YNMc0mAk/s320/Dolomiti+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">It is indeed a silent place, though the sounds of the river, the wind in the trees and the songs of birds can be heard over the ticking of the Delta’s engine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shush the car, out of respect, and for a moment the ticking dies, the bird song deafens…….</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1033" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 8;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata o:title="Dolomiti 1" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image027.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1029" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 7.2pt; width: 6in;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD10256_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image009.gif"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In the evening we eat at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Osteria tradizionale “Alla Certosa”</i> where Casimiro welcomes us as old friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place is a gem; tastefully simple and warmly comfortable on this wet, dark night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are not the first there and soon it is almost full, despite its fairly remote location.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our dinner is a dream; light, fresh, and original, using locally sourced ingredients (such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">speck</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asparagi</i>) and accompanied by a superb white wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it wasn’t for the car outside in the rain we would take another bottle…..</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1030" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 7.2pt; width: 6in;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD14710_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image029.gif"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In the night it rains and rains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Delta finds its way without fault to our hotel, no slips or skids, and then waits calmly ‘til the morning, when it is up betimes, with no complaints, dry and warm inside and with no worries about the change of weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We motor on to the little town of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Feltre</place></city>, the only blemish being the squawk of the wipers – must get that fixed!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FjuODVN6G8s/T4bqn_5zXvI/AAAAAAAAAOA/lvjp5JsbDHc/s1600/Feltre+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FjuODVN6G8s/T4bqn_5zXvI/AAAAAAAAAOA/lvjp5JsbDHc/s320/Feltre+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Feltre is another Venetian outpost, with the old town an extended citadel upon a hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Delta has to wait while we explore on foot, almost alone, through the stepped streets and arcades up to the castle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Maggiore</i>, deserted due to the rain, is an extraordinary space, flanked by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">palazzi</i> and the <place w:st="on"><placetype w:st="on">church</placetype> of <placename w:st="on">San Rocco</placename></place> and dominated by the castle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a Venetian gothic flavour, but the drifting clouds and surrounding hills add a less maritime feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We climb to the castle, adorned by curious ironwork designs, but no one is home.</span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dr7XHP5ox_Q/T4a8PmagUlI/AAAAAAAAAKk/H_tgA9r18g0/s1600/Flowers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dr7XHP5ox_Q/T4a8PmagUlI/AAAAAAAAAKk/H_tgA9r18g0/s320/Flowers.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1038" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 13;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata blacklevel="3932f" gain="74473f" o:title="IMGP2345" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image032.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1031" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 7.2pt; width: 6in;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD14710_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image029.gif"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">On toward <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Vicenza</city></place>, for our last night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel at one with the Lancia, and almost prefer driving it to wandering empty streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have learnt its individual traits, and it just needs to be stroked like a cat to purr and play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not going to want to give it back, and would like to carry on driving, to <city w:st="on">Florence</city> or <city w:st="on">Rome</city>, or even over the <place w:st="on">Alps</place> and home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could I get away with it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would they follow me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damn credit cards!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How much would it cost me? </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BPiDfk6d-Xw/T4a97T_zj8I/AAAAAAAAAK0/E-AU4fflOvg/s1600/Ponte+degli+Alpini+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BPiDfk6d-Xw/T4a97T_zj8I/AAAAAAAAAK0/E-AU4fflOvg/s320/Ponte+degli+Alpini+4.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">But one more stop on the way, to see the Palladian <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ponte Vecchio</i> and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Museo degli Alpini</i> at Bassano del Grappa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wooden bridge over the river Brenta, originally designed by Andrea Palladio in 1569, has been destroyed, by war or flood, and rebuilt at least eight times, the last being in 1948.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town is busy, as a great market has filled the central piazza, and we are back on the tourist trail, with Germans and Brits making us feel like foreigners again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We park on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viale degli Martiri</i>, where 31 neatly trimmed trees each bear a memorial to the partisans hanged there by the Germans in the Second World War.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We then walk down to the bridge, and to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Taverna del Ponte</i>, for refreshment overlooking the river, and to view the two storeys below the bar that house the museum of the Alpini.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The various rooms are crammed with memorabilia: photos, helmets, uniforms, guns, bayonets, shells, a mock-up of a gun emplacement complete with a porcupine made of barbed wire, a bicycle with rifle attached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The emphasis is on the First World War, but the regiment is the oldest active Mountain Infantry in the world, having been founded in 1872, and having seen distinguished service in the <place w:st="on">Alps</place> for three years in WWI.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1035" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 4.5pt; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 10;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata o:title="IMGP2418" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image035.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The Alpini are also famous, and much loved, in <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region></place> for their singing, and various Choirs specialise in their extensive repertoire of unaccompanied part songs – many of them popular traditional folk songs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One is, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Addio, mia bella, addio</i>,” which starts as a farewell to a soldier’s love when he has to depart because the army is on the march and it would be cowardice not to go along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Verse two goes: “The back pack is ready/ I have my rifle with me/ and at sunrise/ I will take my leave from you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the third and final verse goes: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ma non ti lascio sola/ io ti lascio un figlio ancor,/ sarà quel che ti consola:/ il figlio dell’amor</i>.” Which roughly translated means, “But I won’t leave you alone; I leave you a son who will console you: the child of love.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The Lancia has a feather in its cap as we speed down to <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Vicenza</city></place>, and I hear the engine sighing, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Addio, mia bella, addio</i>.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1032" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 7.2pt; width: 6in;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD14711_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image037.gif"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">And so to <city w:st="on">Vicenza</city>, city of <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Palladio</city></place>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">città d’arte</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Osteria Vicolo Santa Barbara</i>, sustained by an €0.80 glass of wine from a tap, I read, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Il Giornale di Vicenza,</i> that according to the <city w:st="on">London</city> “Times” <city w:st="on">Vicenza</city> is one of the ten “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">piú cool</i>” places in <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And certainly there are plenty of visitors here to back that up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is all down to Andrea Palladio, though he has had some help from various marketing devices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I first visited the extraordinary <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Teatro </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Olimpico</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> here I had a personal guide who told me the history, and allowed me to explore the rake of the stage and behind the scenes so I could appreciate the way the illusion of perspective was created.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JgvDjFB2SLU/T4a9Dvz6YJI/AAAAAAAAAKs/zTOMr2nQwLY/s1600/Teatro+Olimpico.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" qda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JgvDjFB2SLU/T4a9Dvz6YJI/AAAAAAAAAKs/zTOMr2nQwLY/s320/Teatro+Olimpico.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span lang="EN-GB">This time, in the company of a polyglot assembly of tourists, we are made to sit on the wooden tiers and are treated to a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">son et lumière </i>with coloured lighting set to the music of Pink Floyd!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is very impressive, but why Pink Floyd?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why not Monteverdi, or Corelli?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does this tell us about renaissance art and architecture?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Might just as well put a Lancia Delta on the stage!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GoTyhnMVpVM/T4cIvZiukVI/AAAAAAAAAOw/51yhqOl2RfA/s1600/Teatro+son+et+lumiere.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GoTyhnMVpVM/T4cIvZiukVI/AAAAAAAAAOw/51yhqOl2RfA/s320/Teatro+son+et+lumiere.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Anyway, after yet another fine evening meal (care of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Antica Osteria al Bersagliere</i>), we redress the balance on our final morning by visiting the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Villa Valmarana</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Rotonda</i> just outside the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These two villas, set beside the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vallata del Silenzio</i>, have no echoes of Pink Floyd, nor unnatural lighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The former, with its separate guest rooms, was decorated in the mid eighteenth century by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo and his son, and they covered the walls with flowing brushstrokes of light and air, perfectly picking up the blue sky and cherry blossom of the gardens outside. The subjects range from peasant picnics, to classical mythology, but all seem just right for their spaces and elevations.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BvTGhacI5WY/T4bMW69ZlOI/AAAAAAAAAMs/KDwWVrMI5sg/s1600/Rotonda+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BvTGhacI5WY/T4bMW69ZlOI/AAAAAAAAAMs/KDwWVrMI5sg/s320/Rotonda+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">A short walk down a rustic lane takes us to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Rotonda</i>, masterpiece of Palladio, who managed in this building to demonstrate how cubes and circles can intersect in perfect harmony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joseph Losey recognised this when he filmed “Don Giovanni” here in 1979, but visitors for nearly five hundred years have taken ideas away and half the country houses in <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Great Britain</country-region></place> owe something to this particular house on a hill.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rop59UsTv1A/T4bIrtELM2I/AAAAAAAAAMM/-8_n_v1MVyA/s1600/Piazza+Erbe+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rop59UsTv1A/T4bIrtELM2I/AAAAAAAAAMM/-8_n_v1MVyA/s320/Piazza+Erbe+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">We turn the Lancia toward <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Verona</city></place> on the last stage of the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The centuries of design and decoration, of pleasure and practicality, whirl in my mind as I pilot the machine through the traffic, round roundabouts, past lorries and over bridges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A brief stop in <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Verona</city></place> for a climb </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">to the top of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Torre dei Lamberti</i> (368 steps if you are strong enough!) and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gnocchi</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asparagi</i> for lunch in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trattoria Portichetti</i>, near <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">San Zeno</i>, and I put my foot down to catch the flight from Valerio Catullo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Delta knows its way, and doesn’t resist the temptation to break a few speed limits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t seem fair not to; it’s so easy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With no time for niceties, and less still for customs, we hit the runway at 170kph and go for max power; I instruct my wife to put the doors to manual and cross check, and before I know it the nose is up and we are airborne, retracting the undercarriage and turning steeply towards Lake Garda and the Alps, and Heaven…..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aKctxfcegDU/T4cGAM6WNDI/AAAAAAAAAOo/RPoUfCOJXrQ/s1600/Alps+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aKctxfcegDU/T4cGAM6WNDI/AAAAAAAAAOo/RPoUfCOJXrQ/s320/Alps+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1041" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 286.5pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 6in; z-index: 16;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata blacklevel="1966f" gain="86232f" o:title="IMGP0691" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image045.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">I radio the control tower to say, “Thank you Italy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you Lancia!” thinking to myself that we will be back soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The car hums,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Addio, mia bella, addio</i>” and I look back at the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can just see Nicola waving; waving a piece of paper…..</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Richard Gibbs</span></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rdku5GFQG7o/T4bCbx1iRII/AAAAAAAAALc/74G3QtKLJ98/s1600/Us+on+Monte+Baldo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rdku5GFQG7o/T4bCbx1iRII/AAAAAAAAALc/74G3QtKLJ98/s320/Us+on+Monte+Baldo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">April 10<sup>th</sup> 2012.</span></span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-3062661007968376140?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Verona Province of Verona, Italy45.440862844999586 10.99731407812498745.344983344999584 10.873751578124986 45.53674234499959 11.120876578124987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-27274227049106272622011-12-21T15:37:00.003Z2012-02-26T10:15:28.122Z2012-02-26T10:15:28.122ZA Dance to the Music of Time<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 4.5pt double; border-left: windowtext 4.5pt double; border-right: windowtext 4.5pt double; border-top: windowtext 4.5pt double; mso-border-bottom-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-color-alt: windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-right-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-top-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-width-alt: 4.5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 4pt; padding-right: 4pt; padding-top: 1pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-color-alt: windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-right-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-top-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-width-alt: 4.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-color-alt: windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-right-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-top-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-width-alt: 4.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Roma Trastevere</span></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-color-alt: windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-right-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-top-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-width-alt: 4.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-color-alt: windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-right-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-top-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-width-alt: 4.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">A Dance to the Music of Time</span></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-color-alt: windowtext; mso-border-left-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-right-alt: thick-thin-small-gap; mso-border-top-alt: thin-thick-small-gap; mso-border-width-alt: 4.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><stroke joinstyle="miter"></stroke><formulas><f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></f><f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></f><f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></f><f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></f><f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></f></formulas><path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"></path><lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></lock><shape alt="File:The dance to the music of time c. 1640.jpg" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f1/The_dance_to_the_music_of_time_c._1640.jpg" id="_x0000_s1026" o:allowoverlap="f" o:button="t" style="height: 191.85pt; margin-left: 163.35pt; margin-top: 258.75pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-vertical-relative: page; position: absolute; width: 243pt; z-index: -1;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f1/The_dance_to_the_music_of_time_c._1640.jpg/758px-The_dance_to_the_music_of_time_c._1640.jpg" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" anchory="page" type="square"></wrap></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b4CQeHM3-ig/T0oCIE8ZeoI/AAAAAAAAAHw/7d6rppJyjpg/s1600/RPG+169+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" lda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b4CQeHM3-ig/T0oCIE8ZeoI/AAAAAAAAAHw/7d6rppJyjpg/s320/RPG+169+Blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> </span></span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><shape id="_x0000_i1025" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 6.9pt; width: 415.35pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD14516_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image005.png"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1028" o:allowoverlap="f" style="height: 171pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 297pt; margin-top: 34pt; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 114.65pt; z-index: 3;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata cropleft="10798f" cropright="10894f" o:title="gruppo_di_vecchie_case_mediovali_alla_longaretta_angolo_via_della_luce_sqlarge" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image007.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">It is late October; late evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harsh pop music clammers from a tinny cassette player in the corner of the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere by the end of Via della Lungaretta.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A woman, no longer young, no longer agile, dances to the rhythm, changing feet on a piece of cardboard dance floor, her arms rectangularly poised moving forward and back as her knees rise and fall as if jogging on the spot, warming up for a marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A faded headscarf covers her hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faded clothes and a faded apron cover her limbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eagle nose and dark eyes face front, to boldly ignore ignobility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her stature is short, strong, durable, but slight compared to the passing foreigners. She could be a marionette, such as Geppetto might have carved before Pinocchio, stepping to the rhythm of the changing world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She dances with a determination born of deprivation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her roots in the basalt stones beneath her, her culture in the peeling ochre walls above her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her religion housed in the dark chapels of the nearby church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sign close by her, written boldly on white paper, taped to a box, states, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ho bisogno</i></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn1" name="_ednref1" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[i]</span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;">….”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Nearby, blazing bright blue in contrast to the subdued ochres of the walls and dark igneous tones of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sampietrini</i></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn2" name="_ednref2" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[ii]</span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> cobbled piazza, an illuminated plastic sign says, “Blue Ice,” and the young crowd round to indulge in gelatinous fantasy.</span></span><br />
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<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1046" style="height: 278.35pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal: center; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical: top; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 415.5pt; z-index: -4;" type="#_x0000_t75" wrapcoords="-39 0 -39 21542 21600 21542 21600 0 -39 0"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Santa Maria in Trastevere" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image009.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1042" style="height: 107.3pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 252pt; margin-top: 207.65pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 161.45pt; z-index: 17;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Sabatini" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image011.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><shape id="_x0000_s1029" style="height: 180pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 135.65pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 116.25pt; z-index: 4;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata cropleft="12136f" cropright="10894f" croptop="-191f" o:title="abitazioni_medievali_e_palazzo_mattei_nella_via_transtiberina_ora_longaretta_presso_il_ponte_cestio_sqlarge" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image013.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Time dances on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have returned to Trastevere in a fit of nostalgia, for it was my home for seven years from 1976.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is strange to think that that was then only a little more than a hundred years after the Risorgimento and the unification of <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region> and just 31 years since the end of World War II, when deprivation and destruction were the orders of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Already there is an adult generation who have grown up since I lived there, connected to a more affluent and technological world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we had neither mobile phones nor computers, and my contact with any other world was via a payphone in full public earshot in a bar, fed by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gettoni</i> and hassled by others needing to make even more important calls than mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a world of noise and contrast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The delicacy of the virgins with their oil lamps on the façade of Santa Maria in Trastevere were mocked by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">scippatori</i> on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">motorini</i> who snatched bags from the unwary in the piazza, the snarling engines gunning off into the maze of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">viuzze</i> beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hand-made clothes of stars such as Lucio Dalla dining in style at Sabatini were ignored by the women who lowered baskets of contraband cigarettes from the upper floors of Via della Lungharetta only steps away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the same street, groups of people used to gather round fires lit in old steel cans or drums to keep warm in winter, as there was no heating in their flats. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cars, motorbikes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ape</i>, lorries, all contributed to the confusion and stress of perambulation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a warm night, with the windows open, the occasional vehicle would shatter your dreams and taint the air with its acrid fumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The local cinema, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cinema d’Essai</i> which showed a different (old) film every day, was a place to rest after shopping, or to sleep off lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Footballs occasionally bounced in through the curtain from the kids’ games outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a carefree, careless world, which came to a roaring conclusion each year on New Year’s Eve when at midnight the streets became insanely dangerous as the detritus of the old year - furniture, empty bottles, boxes of rubbish, even whole carpets (don’t ask) - were ejected from upper storey windows without a thought for where they might land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thunder flashes caused blast waves you could feel fifty metres away, and I can still clearly see (and hear) a neighbour on his balcony wildly firing a handgun at the heavens.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span lang="EN-GB">Not quite the world captured by Ettore Roesler Franz </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">(Rome 1845 - 1907), </span><span lang="EN-GB">in which we see the daily lives of ordinary people in what was more like a village than a city, and where cartwheels and barrows rolled through gates, and artisans worked outside their tiny shops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The series of watercolours known as “Vanished Rome” were produced in the years after 1875 when the reconstruction of <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rome</city></place> had begun following the turbulence of the Risorgimento.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape alt="" id="_x0000_s1030" style="height: 122.9pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 85.5pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 172.15pt; z-index: 5;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:href="http://www.ettoreroeslerfranz.com/ProssimeAste/fotografie/ERF-ASTABONHAMS.jpg%20" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image015.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Some of Roesler Franz’s paintings would be currently visible in the Museo di Roma in Trastevere (if it were open</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn3" name="_ednref3" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[iii]</span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;">) but they are part of the wider collection dedicated to "Roma sparita” which is kept in the Museo di Roma in Palazzo Braschi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roesler Franz (who was born and lived and worked in <city w:st="on">Rome</city>) was moved to photograph and paint areas affected by the rapid urban reconstruction desired by the new government after the unification of <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He concentrated on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rioni</i> most dramatically involved in this tide of change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His watercolours show the <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city> of the medieval papacy, without reference to the new middle classes which were to come to dominate much of the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that Roesler Franz, like me, sought to live, at least in part, in a world of nostalgia.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span lang="EN-GB">His pictures, most of which are delicate and small, are now much sought after, and this one, </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“The courtyard of the Anguillara Palace in Trastevere, Rome” (a building which is now known as the “Casa di Dante” as it houses the Dante Institute) was recently on sale by auction in New Bond Street, London, at a price estimated between £4,000 and £6,000.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1034" style="height: 140.35pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 9pt; margin-top: 27pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 103.2pt; z-index: 9;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Vespasiano" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image017.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><shape alt="" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_MLTPJ6Tw4u8/RwK6J7dBKQI/AAAAAAAAAUo/Mk2KOJJXd-o/s1600-h/Arco%20Tolomei.jpg" id="_x0000_s1033" o:allowoverlap="f" o:button="t" style="height: 116.05pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 260.7pt; margin-top: 31.5pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-horizontal: right; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 174.7pt; z-index: 8;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><fill o:detectmouseclick="t"></fill><imagedata o:href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_MLTPJ6Tw4u8/RwK6J7dBKQI/AAAAAAAAAUo/Mk2KOJJXd-o/s400/Arco%2520Tolomei.jpg" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image019.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In fact, I have a bone to pick with </span><span lang="EN-GB">Ettore Roesler Franz; in his picture “Arco Tolomei” there is something missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This particularly picturesque corner of Trastevere housed one of the last surviving open “Vespasiani” in <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rome</city></place>, a (or should that be an?) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">urinoir</i> initially provided for the public by the Emperor Vespasian (and not just for modesty or hygiene – he made a fortune by selling the urine on to the Fullers in the wool trade!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now whether Ettore used artistic licence to erase the aforesaid convenience or what, I shall probably never know, but I have photographic proof of its existence in the 1970s, and I doubt that it was a recent addition at that time!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">However, there is a further chapter to this tale, which might actually please the soul of the prurient painter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On my latest visit, I regret to say I found the marble slabs have been broken out and traces </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">of this aspect of Roman civilisation are almost lost!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V9Eltkbocws/T0oCTCiLqfI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/AzBbbGUBJ1E/s1600/View+1+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" lda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V9Eltkbocws/T0oCTCiLqfI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/AzBbbGUBJ1E/s320/View+1+Blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; tab-stops: 396.0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><shape alt="Monument To G.G.Belli In Piazza Giuseppe Gioachino Belli And Fountains" id="_x0000_s1031" style="height: 157.3pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 54pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 117.4pt; z-index: 6;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:href="http://rometour.org/data/imagecache/main/index-places/monument-ggbelli-piazza-giuseppe-gioachino-belli-and-fountains.jpg" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image023.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Some might say that Trastevere is not the “real” <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rome</city></place>, as it only officially became a part of the city in comparatively recent times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two thousand years ago it was occupied by, or regularly raided by, Etruscans, then Aurelian enclosed a part of it with his walls in the third century AD, but it was for a long time sailors and fishermen and foreigners who made their homes here, and pilgrims who passed through on their way to the Basilica di San Pietro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The streets had no paving until the end of the 15<sup>th</sup> century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of the area was literally closed – with barricaded gates and boarded windows – to prevent an outbreak of plague spreading in 1656.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, in my “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guida D’Italia <state w:st="on">del</state> Touring Club Italiano: Roma e Dintorni, Settima Edizione, 1977</i>” I read that, “Trastevere…. is notoriously the most populous and the most Roman quarter of <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rome</city></place>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, this intensive guide also says a couple of pages later that the “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rione di Trastevere</i>” is, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">il piu popolarmente romano [Rione di Roma] per origine e per carattere dei suoi abitanti<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn4" name="_ednref4" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[iv]</span></b></span></span></span></a></i>.” This may be partly because of the uneven and narrow streets of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sampietrini</i>, walled in by cliffs of yellow and pink ochres, but it may also be due to the enduring presence of one G G Belli, whose marble statue stands beneath the monumental Roman Pines at the head of the Viale di Trastevere, where it meets the Lungotevere at Ponte Garibaldi.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1037" style="height: 276pt; width: 414.75pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="Tevere 1" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image025.jpg"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Giuseppe Gioachino Belli, who grew up as part of the minority middle classes in the Papal States, before the Risorgimento, took it upon himself to write poetry in the dialect known as “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romanesco</i></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn5" name="_ednref5" style="mso-endnote-id: edn5;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[v]</span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;">,” the traditional speech of lower class Romans of the time (the early 19<sup>th</sup> Century).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This dialect, still heard in Trastevere (and some other parts of the city) and occasionally written in menus, records a vitality and idiosyncrasy that reflects all of <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region> of the days before Berlusconi and the media homogenised the way people speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a rough, abbreviated way of speaking Italian that puts on few airs, but rolls the consonants and probably echoes the guttural sounds of the crowds who once thronged the Coliseum.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">His skill was to give voice to the illiterate populace of his world, and to add a waspish humour to that as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wrote over two thousand sonnets, all in the Romanesque dialect, but none were published in his lifetime and he left instructions, thankfully disobeyed, that they should be destroyed on his death. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, with a nod to Shakespeare and Jacques’s seven ages of man: </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">La vita dell'Omo</span></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Nove mesi a la puzza: poi in fassciola<br />
tra sbasciucchi, lattime e llagrimoni:<br />
poi p'er laccio, in ner crino, e in vesticciola,<br />
cor torcolo e l'imbraghe pe ccarzoni.<br />
Poi comincia er tormento de la scola,<br />
l'abbeccé, le frustate, li ggeloni,<br />
la rosalia, la cacca a la ssediola,<br />
e un po' de scarlattina e vvormijjoni.<br />
Poi viè ll'arte, er diggiuno, la fatica,<br />
la piggione, le carcere, er governo,<br />
lo spedale, li debbiti, la fica,<br />
er zol d'istate, la neve d'inverno...<br />
E pper urtimo, Iddio sce bbenedica,<br />
viè la Morte, e ffinisce co l'inferno.</span></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">For those who cannot read Italian or more accurately who are perplexed by the Romanesco dialect, this poem charts the “Life of Man” from nine months in the stink of the uterus, through the torment of school, being whipped and frozen, through diseases such as german measles, scarlet fever and smallpox, to the world of work, with hunger and rent to pay, suffering imprisonment, hospitalisation, problems of debt and of sex, until at the end, God bless us! it all finishes with death, and ultimately, Hell!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as an example of the dialect in writing, note the double consonants at the beginning of words and the characteristic “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">er</i>” for “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">il</i>” as in “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">er tormento</i>” – this is still very much a part of the local speech.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1028" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 6.9pt; width: 415.35pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD10358_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image027.png"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6uwVHcuh7tI/T0oB76m4kqI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/ka1TRwyWxBA/s1600/Ponte+Sisto+2+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" lda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6uwVHcuh7tI/T0oB76m4kqI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/ka1TRwyWxBA/s320/Ponte+Sisto+2+Blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape alt="" id="_x0000_s1035" style="height: 101.75pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 180pt; z-index: 10;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata cropleft="2731f" cropright="2731f" o:href="http://en.museodiromaintrastevere.it/var/museicivici/storage/images/musei/museo_di_roma_in_trastevere/museo/la_collezione/la_stanza_di_trilussa/cenni_biografici_su_trilussa/59915-3-ita-IT/cenni_biografici_su_trilussa_large.jpg" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image029.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Another poet who favoured both Romanesco and the sonnet form was Carlo Alberto Camillo Salustri who was born in 1871 and who was known as Trilussa (a pseudonym he adopted in 1888; an anagram of his family name).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although he died in 1950 (before I was born) I once had the pleasure of lunching in a local trattoria with three of his old buddies (and though they were pretty old, they were still full of life).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was with an American friend, a journalist, one Dale McAdoo, who had spent much of his life in Italy since arriving here in the war as a young soldier, and it was a strangely “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">impressionante</i>” occasion for me as a naïve youth, reaching back into a past that I was only just becoming aware of, but which seemed very tangible to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This picture, painted in 1915, portrays a rakish, confident man, and he clearly drew affection and perhaps awe from those who knew him, though at the end of his life, sadly impoverished and suffering badly from asthma, he had given up his beloved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">frascati</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trilussa had admired Belli as a young man and he achieved wide fame for his writings (and was also recognised for his opposition to fascism).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This poem, written in 1940, recounts drinking a half litre of good wine from Frascati, while contemplating the stains on the wall of the dining room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He finds it amusing that he can see shapes in the combination of saltpetre and mould in the plaster, and allows his imagination to interpret the shapes as an eagle, then abear, a cockerel, wolves, sheep, rams and then even a horse leaping over cannon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then in the background he spies a woman, who in some ways represents both love and faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drinks wine and looks at the wall, feeling a little drunk but at ease, and sure of himself.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Vino Bono</span></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Mentre bevo mezzo litro,<br />
de Frascati abboccatello,<br />
guardo er muro der tinello<br />
co’ le macchie de salnitro.<br />
Guardo e penso quant’è buffa<br />
certe vorte la natura<br />
che combina una figura<br />
cor salnitro e co’ la muffa.<br />
Scopro infatti in una macchia<br />
una specie d’animale:<br />
pare un’aquila reale<br />
co’ la coda de cornacchia.<br />
Là c’è un orso, qui c’è un gallo,<br />
lupi, pecore, montoni,<br />
e su un mucchio de cannoni<br />
passa un diavolo a cavallo!<br />
Ma ner fonno s’intravede<br />
una donna ne la posa<br />
de chi aspetta quarche cosa<br />
da l’Amore e da la Fede…<br />
Bevo er vino e guardo er muro<br />
con un bon presentimento:<br />
sarò sbronzo, ma me sento<br />
più tranquillo e più sicuro.</span></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">To me this touches on a familiar world, though one that is now part of the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, opposite my flat in Via di S Francesco a Ripa there was, in the 70s, an old <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ostaria</i>, where only white wine from the Colli Albani was served, and the walls were distinctly cracked and stained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This has long gone, and now, in its place, I see a smart new restaurant, with shiny glasses and white cloths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And empty…..</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">As a footnote on the dialect, it is not only Trastevere that maintains its own style of speaking, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trilussa in fact participated in competitions among dialect poets, and to this day the speech of various parts of <country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region> is far more diverse than the equivalent in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">England</place></country-region> (excepting the Welsh, as always!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an example, I remember watching Ermanno Olmi’s film “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">L’Albero degli Zoccoli</i>” (which won the Palme d’Or for the best film at the Cannes Festival in 1978) in the Novocine down my street and at a certain point a rough local voice called out, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ma che parlanno?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Italiano</i>?</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn6" name="_ednref6" style="mso-endnote-id: edn6;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[vi]</span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;">”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Subsequently they showed it with subtitles in “Italian” as most of the dialogue was improvised with amateur actors from the area around <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bergamo</place></city> in the north and was completely unintelligible to most other Italians (let alone foreigners like me!)</span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1038" style="height: 211.85pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 224.85pt; margin-top: 36pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 140.8pt; z-index: 13;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Mercato" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image031.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Time dances on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the Piazza di <place w:st="on">S Cosimato</place>, while there is still a small set of stalls, there was once a vibrant market which rivalled that of Campo dei Fiori across the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here the daily riot of colour in flowers and vegetables was enhanced by the olfactory glories of cheeses, salted meats, fresh cuts of bloody animals and glistening, slimy fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here you could buy anything and everything that was good to eat, and in any amount you cared to ask for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One image from these days that lives in a remote corner of my mind is that of a woman buying a chicken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chickens were displayed half plucked but otherwise entire, and when you had chosen yours, the butcher would cut off the heads and feet, draw the innards, and then wrap everything up in paper and hand it over (we had some delicious gravies in those days!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this particular occasion the woman asked for it to be split open (so it could be cooked on the grill).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the butcher pressed down on the legs to flatten the carcass, the woman’s hand darted forward and grasped two yellow globules – unformed eggs – from the poor bird’s womb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without hesitation she sucked them from her hand and licked her lips, a faint smile vanishing as soon as it appeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she paid and walked off with her parcel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That lady could be dancing in the Piazza di S Maria today, but she won’t be plucking neck feathers from a market chicken any more.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c6qJuvzAyQw/T0oB-T2l5tI/AAAAAAAAAHY/0WnJ8aXrgS8/s1600/Bar+S+Calisto+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" lda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c6qJuvzAyQw/T0oB-T2l5tI/AAAAAAAAAHY/0WnJ8aXrgS8/s320/Bar+S+Calisto+Blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Another venerable place of my youth still exists but is somewhat changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I first arrived, there were three of us sharing the flat (as the monthly rent equalled my income at the time).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With reference to eating out, I was told by one friend, who had lived in the area for a few years before me, that we had already missed the best and that now it was becoming expensive!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well we reckoned that it was still cheaper to eat out than to cook at home (not a very tested argument I have to concede!) and so we trawled the area for cheap eats, and probably dined at least once in almost every <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trattoria</i> in the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our rule of thumb was that if a quarter roast chicken cost more than 1,000 lire (about 60 pence) then it was expensive; we reckoned that we should be able to get a three course meal with wine, coffee and a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">digestivo</i> for about £1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place we kept going back to was called “da Mario” in Via del Moro (not far from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Antica Caffe del Moro</i> which has preserved its curious sign, though nothing else of its character), and this was an experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You had to take a book, and a long one at that, as waiting to be served was part of the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was frequented by young men in uniform, those unfortunates who had to spend a year doing military service after school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They always found the cheapest places (they were hardly paid at all) and had time on their hands.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">It was not a bad place to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mario served, his wife cooked, and on one occasion his little daughter peed on the floor (Mario scolded her and threw a handful of sawdust over it, and carried on).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow I had the impression this was the real world; the old world; Trastevere as she had been before me….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then one day I was behind Mario in a queue in a photographic shop I used; he bought a brand new Zenza Bronica 6 x 6 camera with cash…. I couldn’t quite understand it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could he afford <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i></b>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was never the same eating there, and, though it is still there, it will never be the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The flat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As mentioned, when I arrived the rent equalled my income.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the years passed, and my income improved, the landlord decided he should have more rent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a hard man who ran a successful sausage and preserved meats company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The flat was his mother’s property and he had no need of it, but he felt I should pay more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to go to his office once a year to renew the contract and my heart sank when I learned what he wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I consulted a lawyer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A new, “fair rent” (“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">equo canone</i>”), law had been passed and legal advice was available to support tenants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think this was my first real experience of Left and Right in Italian politics and it was with great fear and trembling that I went for my annual meeting with my good friend the landlord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I refused his request to pay more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His reaction was astonishing and for a while I thought I was sausage meat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I got away with it and he never spoke to me again, except to abuse me when I left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He never even visited when the ceiling nearly came down when a tenant above had gone away leaving a badly fitted water heater to boil over and flood three flats below (that was fun!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had the whole street in, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">and</b> the fire brigade, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">and</b> I climbed up the pipes and railings on the inside of the block to investigate the two flats above me – lovely exposed beams!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lovely terracotta floors!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pity about the inundation!)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pqKQ_pEqnEo/T0oCBJJo8NI/AAAAAAAAAHg/UAetVTbJF2A/s1600/169+riflessi+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" lda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pqKQ_pEqnEo/T0oCBJJo8NI/AAAAAAAAAHg/UAetVTbJF2A/s320/169+riflessi+Blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1041" style="height: 125.2pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 206.85pt; margin-top: 17.25pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 188.5pt; z-index: 16;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Bar S Calisto" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image037.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">I loved that flat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My room was at the back, with an internal terrace overlooking a courtyard below and the back windows of other flats on the next street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman opposite had an exquisite voice, and she would sing snatches of Roman songs while cooking or hanging out her washing on a squeaky line strung between the blocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know whether they loved me – I had a piano, and I am no pianist!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(And the men to whom this was strapped to carry it up, and then eventually down, two floors of tight curling stairs didn’t love me, neither.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially those who took it away!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was June, and 35º in the shade!)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">We had some parties there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was hardly any furniture (what we did have was either purchased for next to nothing from a junk shop or given by people who would otherwise have thrown it away) so there was plenty of room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must have been a pretty mixed crowd – assorted journalists from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">International Daily News</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daily American</i>; staff and parents from various international schools; members of the Irish community (through connections at the Fiddler’s Elbow); musicians, artists, priests, au pairs, and at least one German who lived in a beaten up old VW on the other side of town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were a couple of doors from one of the best <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pizzerie</i> in <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rome</city></place> (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Da Ivo</i>), so it wasn’t difficult to get something to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And just a few steps away, under the Arco di S Callisto, was an old-fashioned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vini et Oli</i> where a few litres of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">castelli</i> wine could be decanted for the price of a packet of cigarettes.</span></span><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1031" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 6.9pt; width: 415.35pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD14710_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image039.png"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In some ways the tripping of time has not changed the appearance of the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was my entrance is sprayed with graffiti, and the leather man has gone from next door (though the shop hasn’t changed much) but the aspect of the buildings and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sampietrini</i> of the street are still the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nearest bar has become a motor bike shop, but the next bar is still the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The newsstand is the same, though the restaurant next to it has become a fast food outlet.</span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1039" style="height: 198pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 371.15pt; margin-top: 4.5pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-horizontal: right; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 132.15pt; z-index: 14;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="169#4" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image041.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">My barber is still there, although his associate died last year (“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quel dannato male incurabil<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn7" name="_ednref7" style="mso-endnote-id: edn7;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[vii]</span></b></span></span></span></a>e</i>”) and he had great pleasure in trimming my thinning locks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giorgio Rinaldi, now 72 years of age, born and bred in Trastevere, living in Piazza di S Cosimato, cutting hair since he was 14 and at the same shop (Via di S Francesco a Ripa 17/A) since 1978.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A haircut is €15, and, according to his receipts (though I’m not sure it’s all still on offer) you could also have a shave, a shampoo, a perm, a dye, a manicure and a pedicure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We talked of the passage of time and the changes in the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t lament the increase in the number of tourists, though he did sing the praises of real local food (“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Coda alla vaccinara!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aaah<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn8" name="_ednref8" style="mso-endnote-id: edn8;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[viii]</span></b></span></span></span></a>!</i>”)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope I will find him there when I next return, but who knows if we’ll dance together again?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-obSJtS1KJtU/T0oCLUz8-FI/AAAAAAAAAH4/ndbDA999Aj8/s1600/Sabatini+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" lda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-obSJtS1KJtU/T0oCLUz8-FI/AAAAAAAAAH4/ndbDA999Aj8/s320/Sabatini+Blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Nowadays Trastevere comes to life mostly at night, when droves of tourists cross the Ponte Sisto and head into the maze of characteristic lanes to find “characteristic” places to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the day, more serious tourists seek out the art and architecture of the past, whether in galleries and palazzo or in the churches, of which there are a good number (between the stunning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cosmatesque</i> paving of S Crisogono - originally from the 13<sup>th</sup> century and built over an older church and some buildings from the imperial age – to the glittering mosaics of S Maria in Trastevere, there are three other churches in about four hundred metres).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I lived there seven years, I only scratched the surface and some parts of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rione</i> still feel strange to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1044" style="height: 116.1pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 18pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 174.75pt; z-index: 19;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="View 1" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image047.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><shape id="_x0000_s1043" style="height: 119.25pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 234pt; margin-top: 135pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 179.3pt; z-index: 18;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Canone 4" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image049.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">One part I always liked, however, was the walk up to the Janiculum (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Gianicolo</i>). Here, in 1849, Garibaldi defended the Roman Republic against the French (it’s a strange thing that one of my younger daughter’s friends in England is a direct descendant of the great hero) and from the piazza in his honour (presided over by a grand equestrian statue) there is a fine panorama of the city and the surrounding hills – even snowy mountains on a fine day in winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From just below this piazza a cannon is fired every day at exactly noon (the tradition was started in 1847 to synchronise the church bells and has continued every day since, with the exception of 20 years from 1939).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a classic bit of Roman contradiction – where time is sometimes slow and sometimes quick, where you can expect trains to only nod to a timetable, this cannon shot is exactly timed and perfectly executed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could set your blackberry to it!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1033" o:hr="t" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 6.9pt; width: 415.35pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD14538_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image051.png"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ma_-YrzpoS0/T0oCE_YVkvI/AAAAAAAAAHo/TXI9TIsIiCg/s1600/Canone+6+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" lda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ma_-YrzpoS0/T0oCE_YVkvI/AAAAAAAAAHo/TXI9TIsIiCg/s320/Canone+6+Blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span lang="EN-GB">G G Belli and Ettore Roesler Franz crossed paths and in their own ways are custodians of a <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rome</city></place> that has really disappeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, with buildings from the time of Christ rubbing shoulders with buildings from the Renaissance, even they were perhaps preserving a kind of nostalgia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Belli referred to Roesler Franz’s family, with their aristocratic connections, in his sonnets but they shared a reverence for the world that was changing and we owe them both much for giving life to our imagination; when we see the traffic on the Lungotevere, we can, partly thanks to them, filter out the modernity and perhaps see a picture more like these, one a photograph upstream from Castel Sant’Angelo or the other, painted by</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> Roesler Franz in 1888, and entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Porto di Ripetta verso Levante</i>, which hints at how the commercial life of the river was highly important, though by the time these pictures were made the busiest days were already well in the past.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w3St3Tvyae8/T0oCQW9TAEI/AAAAAAAAAII/0vI1oRnEIKw/s1600/Via+di+S+F+a+Ripa%25233+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" lda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w3St3Tvyae8/T0oCQW9TAEI/AAAAAAAAAII/0vI1oRnEIKw/s320/Via+di+S+F+a+Ripa%25233+Blog.JPG" width="212" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape alt="" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5IMj51_7CGo/S7JN3j1zTGI/AAAAAAAABJQ/3B7mrXjF1rY/s1600/Belli+6+(guys+in+boat,+Rome+looking+south...jpg" id="_x0000_s1040" o:allowoverlap="f" o:button="t" style="height: 140.4pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 495pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 189pt; z-index: 15;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><fill o:detectmouseclick="t"></fill><imagedata cropbottom="1943f" o:href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5IMj51_7CGo/S7JN3j1zTGI/AAAAAAAABJQ/3B7mrXjF1rY/s400/Belli+6+(guys+in+boat,+Rome+looking+south...jpg" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image053.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><shape id="_x0000_s1032" o:allowoverlap="f" style="height: 140pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 207pt; margin-top: 36pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 208.65pt; z-index: 7;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata cropbottom="10990f" croptop="10512f" o:title="porto_di_ripetta_verso_levante_sqlarge" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image055.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">This is also borne out by the name of the church dedicated to S Francesco a Ripa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For some time, in my innocence (ignorance?) I believed this to be some lesser known Saint Francis, from somewhere called Ripa rather than Assisi, though living in a 17<sup>th</sup> century palazzo on the street of the same name, I suppose I should have cottoned on quicker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name in fact commemorates the convent in which San Francesco (the one and only) lodged when he came to Rome, though it was at the time (late 13<sup>th</sup> century) a Benedictine convent, and the existing church is baroque (and currently most famous for a late Bernini sculpture of a lady in rapture).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, the addition of “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ripa</i>” signifies that this place was on the bank of the Tiber, and in fact this was where the main port of Rome used to be (as opposed to the smaller “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ripetta</i>” mentioned above which was upstream on the other bank.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In connection with this theme of ports, and sailors, not far from this church, around the corner from that dedicated to Santa Cecilia, is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ospizio dei Genovesi</i> and the church of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">S Giovanni dei Genovesi</i> (on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Via dei Genovesi</i>) all of which commemorate the significant presence of sailors and merchants from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Genova</i></b> (Genoa) in this area in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Incidentally, this little complex has the most elegant and well kept fifteenth century cloister, in which from time to time I sought, and found, great peace at times of stress.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">The Church of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">S Cecilia in Trastevere</i>, by the way, also has a beautiful garden courtyard, in front of the church, and is of considerable interest, partly for the beautiful sculpture of the martyred saint, which lies below the main altar, but also for the crypt and remains of the Roman house and baths where Cecilia lived (with her husband Valerian), and, perhaps most strikingly, for the fresco of the Last Judgement painted by Cavallini in 1293, which can be found inside the adjoining convent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is actually painted on the inside of the façade of the church, but this was sealed away when a gallery was built for the closed order of nuns (who still live there).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a beautiful work, and the colours of the angels’ wings convey a depth of care that puts Cavallini (who also embellished the <place w:st="on"><placetype w:st="on">church</placetype> of <placename w:st="on"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Santa Maria</i></placename></place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> in Trastevere</i>) in the highest league of medieval artists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is now slightly awkward to see the picture and it is not possible to appreciate how it dominated the church over the main entrance, but, when I commented on this to the aged nun who was guarding it, she laconically observed that at least it had survived. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N34HbdqX9hw/T0oCMS4InVI/AAAAAAAAAIA/pUSF7MW7Li0/s1600/Sta+Maria+1+Blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" lda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N34HbdqX9hw/T0oCMS4InVI/AAAAAAAAAIA/pUSF7MW7Li0/s320/Sta+Maria+1+Blog.JPG" width="212" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><shape id="_x0000_i1034" o:hr="t" o:hralign="center" o:hrpct="0" style="height: 6.9pt; width: 415.35pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="BD10307_" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image057.png"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></imagedata></shape></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1047" style="height: 157.75pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-horizontal: left; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 2in; z-index: 22;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata cropbottom="28769f" cropleft="3468f" cropright="34072f" croptop="968f" o:title="10090194" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image059.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In July the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rione</i> celebrates the “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Festa di Noantri</i>” (or the Festival of Us Others – “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Noi Altri</i>”) – a snook at the rest of <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Rome</city></place>, when the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trasteverini</i> dance together as a special kind of Roman (though of course they love to have everyone else dancing with them.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fellini caught the atmosphere in the penultimate scenes of his “Roma” (1972).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wealthy and comfortable dine <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">da Sabatini</i> while police bludgeon and chase peace-loving youths from the fountain in Piazza di <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Santa Maria</city></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gore Vidal and John Francis Lane (a journalist, but also walk-on player in some 26 Italian films, including Pasolini’s “Canterbury Tales,” Fellini’s “8½” and “La Dolce Vita,” but, more importantly to me, the landlord of the first flat I stayed in in Trastevere, which was directly below his own, round the corner from Piazza Sidney Sonnino – sorry, I digress) talk of the attractions of Trastevere over a table of food and wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact the scene is surprisingly modern despite the forty years that have passed since it was filmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city> is hugely attractive to Americans, and English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has a romance; it has warmth and colour; it doesn’t care (Gore Vidal mentions the quality of “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">menefreghismo<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_edn9" name="_ednref9" style="mso-endnote-id: edn9;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[ix]</span></b></span></span></span></a></i>”) and yet it has a throbbing heart where people do look out for each other (the man who ran the garage where I kept my 750cc Triumph Trident kindly said he would keep an eye out for some friends’ car when they came to stay – “Just tell me where it’s parked and I’ll see no one touches it,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was fine.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">At the end of the scene Anna Magnani, the most magnetic of all Roman actresses, is stalked by the film crew on her way home (believe what you see!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fellini asks her to talk as she enters her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">portone</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No,” she says, “I don’t trust you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good night.” The smiling ambivalence works perfectly with the huge and impenetrable doors behind which the actress lives her private life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The camera lights in the darkened street represent the intrusive nature of the Roman character, the desire to carry on partying, the reluctance to go home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at the end, the door is shut, and the party is over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No more dancing; just a polite farewell.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">It is late October; late night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gentle music plays at the corner of the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere where Via della Lungaretta issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A young woman, agile and delicate, dances lightly to the rhythm, her tripping feet hardly touching the dance floor beneath her; her gossamer shawl bright against the fresh ochre walls above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes glitter in reflection of the guttering torches which light the night, while her clothes shimmer like the mosaics on the façade of the church dedicated to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Santa Maria</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Passers-by do just that, pass by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Streams of them, in military uniforms of various ages, in rags and finery, unwashed as well as pomaded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A horse clatters on the cobble stones, and I shrink back in fear of the sparks from the hooves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a taint of sulphur in the air, as I approach the dancing girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hair slips from her head-scarf, dropping dishevelled over her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She falls; she curls, she becomes a child, a rag-doll, a marionette who rests from the dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind me I hear a shriek outside the bar as a flashing blade draws blood from a young man’s midriff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the distance I hear a fusillade scatter shot in the leaves on the Gianicolo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dancing ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A faint glow haunts the rooftops as gradually the moon rises, huge and yellow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The light completes the darkness as shades deepen and the piazza stills, holds its breath and falls to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the wall someone has written in a shaky hand, scratched, not chalked:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ho bisogno….”</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Text and photographs by Richard Gibbs</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape alt="" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Rome_rione_XIII_trastevere_logo.png" id="_x0000_s1049" o:button="t" style="height: 167.2pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 215.85pt; margin-top: 1in; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-vertical-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 164.85pt; z-index: -1;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/af/Rome_rione_XIII_trastevere_logo.png/220px-Rome_rione_XIII_trastevere_logo.png" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.png"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" anchory="page"></wrap></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="mso-element: endnote-list;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span></div><div id="edn1" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref1" name="_edn1" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[i]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> “I have need….”</span></span></div></div><div id="edn2" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref2" name="_edn2" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[ii]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sampietrini</i> are cobble stones, smooth surfaced, but with a tapered underside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were introduced as a hard-wearing but flexible street paving (they allow water to soak away and do not crack with subsidence or earth movement).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, in 2005 the Mayor of Rome, Walter Veltroni, declared his intention to remove them from all but pedestrian areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have noticed that where they have been taken up in recent years (such as for service conduits) they have not been relayed with the care or expertise of old.</span></span></div></div><div id="edn3" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref3" name="_edn3" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[iii]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> The <placetype w:st="on">Museum</placetype> of <placename w:st="on">Rome</placename> in Trastevere – opened in 1976 as the “<placetype w:st="on">Museum</placetype> of <placename w:st="on">Folklore</placename> and Romanesque Poets” - is housed in what was once the Monastery of Sant'Egidio, where barefoot Carmelite nuns lived until the fall of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city>. In 2000 the museum was reopened to the public with the name of “The Museum of Rome in Trastevere” and it focuses on aspects of everyday Roman life in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The collection includes paintings, prints, drawings and watercolours, among them the series of "Vanished Rome" by Ettore Roesler Franz, a crib incorporating scenes of daily Roman life in the nineteenth century, and six life-size representations of day to day life in the period, known as "Roman Scenes". The museum also contains some of the personal possessions of Trilussa, which were donated to the <place w:st="on"><placetype w:st="on">Municipality</placetype> of <placename w:st="on">Rome</placename></place> after his death and are in part exhibited in the video installation space named after him. Unfotunately none of this was available to us on our recent visit.</span></span></div></div><div id="edn4" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref4" name="_edn4" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[iv]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> The most popularly Roman [of the Quarters of Rome] both for its roots and for the character of its people.</span></span></div></div><div id="edn5" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref5" name="_edn5" style="mso-endnote-id: edn5;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[v]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Romanesco</span></i> or <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Romanesque</span> is a </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regional_language" title="Regional language"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">regional language</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> or </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sociolect" title="Sociolect"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">sociolect</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> within the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_language" title="Italian language"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Italian language</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is spoken in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rome" title="Rome"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Rome</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> and is part of the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Central_Italian" title="Central Italian"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Central Italian dialects</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> and is therefore close to the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuscan_dialect" title="Tuscan dialect"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Tuscan dialect</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_language" title="Italian language"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Standard Italian</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are few grammatical and idiomatic differences from Standard Italian. It is however rich in expressions and sayings, and is used for informal communication by most natives of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city>, often </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Code_switching" title="Code switching"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">in a mix</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> with Italian.</span></span></div></div><div id="edn6" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref6" name="_edn6" style="mso-endnote-id: edn6;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[vi]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> “What are they talking?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Italian?” (ie: “What language is this?”)</span></span></div></div><div id="edn7" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref7" name="_edn7" style="mso-endnote-id: edn7;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[vii]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> “That damned incurable disease.” (ie: Cancer)</span></span></div></div><div id="edn8" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref8" name="_edn8" style="mso-endnote-id: edn8;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[viii]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> “Tail cooked in the herdsman’s way!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aaah!” (A popular way of cooking ox tail)</span></span></div></div><div id="edn9" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7335761951292462061#_ednref9" name="_edn9" style="mso-endnote-id: edn9;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[ix]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> The attitude of carelessness – “I don’t give a damn!” (or: “Who gives a shit?”)</span></span></div></div><div id="edn10" style="mso-element: endnote;"><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Dedicated to all friends in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region>, particularly Gino and Mary, Simon and Connie, Gerry and Maria, and Antonio.</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoEndnoteText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-2727422704910627262?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-4969797463409159802011-08-25T21:03:00.000+01:002012-05-03T22:29:56.337+01:002012-05-03T22:29:56.337+01:00The Road Not Taken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">These photographs were taken in Ashridge woods, very near to Frithsden, in Hertfordshire, near where I grew up. Although Robert Frost probably wrote these lines in Gloucestershire when with Edward Thomas in 1914 or so, something I read gave me the impression they may also have walked together within closer reach of London. Whatever the truth, I think the pictures link quite well with the ethos and dilemma represented in the poem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #333333;">Robert Frost on his own poetry:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><br /><em>"One stanza of 'The Road Not Taken' was written while I was sitting on a sofa in the middle of England: Was found three or four years later, and I couldn't bear not to finish it. I wasn't thinking about myself there, but about a friend who had gone off to war, a person who, whichever road he went, would be sorry he didn't go the other. He was hard on himself that </em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><em>way." </em></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b1g9pRyNzjc/TlaqKQdB_PI/AAAAAAAAAFY/KOk6px_Jbc0/s1600/TheRoadofIndecision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="452" qaa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b1g9pRyNzjc/TlaqKQdB_PI/AAAAAAAAAFY/KOk6px_Jbc0/s640/TheRoadofIndecision.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-496979746340915980?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Little Gaddesden, Berkhamsted, Hertfordshire, UK51.78664689087716 -0.547773703613302151.76347589087716 -0.5801062036133021 51.809817890877156 -0.5154412036133021tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-66559138640095577622011-08-24T20:30:00.000+01:002011-08-25T20:29:13.871+01:002011-08-25T20:29:13.871+01:00Hampstead Heath<div style="border-bottom: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-left: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-right: windowtext 1.5pt double; border-top: windowtext 1.5pt double; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 4pt; padding-right: 4pt; padding-top: 1pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-alt: double windowtext 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-border-alt: double windowtext 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-top: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">A Stroll on the Heath</span></span></b><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Not long ago my mother was in the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Royal</placename> <placename w:st="on">Free</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place>, Hampstead, and from her room on the 8<sup>th</sup> Floor I watched flurries of snow settling on the higher ground of the Heath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked wild and foreign – the dense snow clouds looking like icebergs drifting in on a cold current from the north and east.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gazed at the weather and saw the whiteness fall, thinking of the natural fauna chilled and hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t really occur to me that this was a park, a play-place for weary Londoners; it was a view of another time, another world.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">When John Keats lived next door to the Brawne family, in the penultimate year of his short life, he was a long way from <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">London</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His sojourn here until his fateful departure for Rome in September 1820, following the death from tuberculosis of his younger brother Tom in December of 1818, was productive and properly romantic, given his output of glorious verse and his affection for his neighbour’s daughter. John and his two brothers had previously lodged in Well Walk, Hampstead, having fled from the unhealthy damp of <place w:st="on">Cheapside</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This address, like Flask Walk, is a reminder of the fact that Hampstead was once known for its beneficial waters, and also, at 300 feet above sea level and approximately 5 miles from the City (as the crow would fly) this was a salubrious and pleasant place.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tBC0vgKzBho/TlU3z-w1ulI/AAAAAAAAAE8/B9m-HmDkG8U/s1600/Keats+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="208" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tBC0vgKzBho/TlU3z-w1ulI/AAAAAAAAAE8/B9m-HmDkG8U/s320/Keats+3.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">After Tom’s death, John was invited to lodge with his friend Charles Brown in a relatively new, semi-detached house called Wentworth Place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keats had already met the 18-year-old (he was 23) Fanny Brawne and in 1819 she moved into the other half of the house with her family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was supposedly here in the garden, under a plum tree, that he wrote his “Ode to a Nightingale,”</span></span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; <br />
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow <br />
And leaden-eyed despairs, <br />
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, <br />
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">How much of his thoughts were actually about a nightingale, and how much with Fanny, or his brother, or his own declining health?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">The house is decorated in period style and contains furniture and memorabilia from the time of its poetic occupation, though it was added to and changed in later years when owned by the retired actress Eliza Jane Chester, who had supposedly been associated with the Prince Regent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The address is now “Keats Grove” and it is only a few minutes walk from Hampstead Station on the Northern Line or from Hampstead Heath mainline station.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><shape id="_x0000_s1029" o:allowincell="f" o:allowoverlap="f" style="height: 251.95pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 269.9pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal: center; mso-position-vertical-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 391.35pt; z-index: 4;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata cropbottom="5037f" cropleft="6097f" croptop="2968f" o:title="Keats 1" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image003.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" anchory="page" type="square"></wrap></span></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3H0IfsT4sY4/TlU2vO4pPQI/AAAAAAAAAE0/OMZNMXZw300/s1600/Keats+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3H0IfsT4sY4/TlU2vO4pPQI/AAAAAAAAAE0/OMZNMXZw300/s320/Keats+1.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">In July 1920, Thomas Hardy wrote the following lines:</span></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: large;">At A House In Hampstead Sometime The Dwelling Of John Keats</span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></i></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">O </span><a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-a-house-in-hampstead-sometime-the-dwelling-of-john-keats/##"><span style="color: windowtext;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">poet</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">, come you haunting here<br />
Where streets have stolen up all around,<br />
And never a nightingale pours one<br />
Full-throated sound? </span></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">And he imagines that perhaps his spirit returns from <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city> to inhabit the place – just, perhaps, as Andrew Motion did more recently when he spent months there working on his biography of Keats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a soulful place, and one of the sites in Greater London most evocative perhaps of a certain time, almost two hundred years ago, when <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">London</place></city> city was surrounded by fields and villages, rather than suburbia and concrete.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;">Of course Keats was not the only celebrity to have walked on the Heath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact one reason he moved there was that Leigh Hunt, the critic and one-time associate of Lord Byron, lived nearby, and at his house Keats met several other poets, including Percy Bysshe Shelley, another young man destined to meet death in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xEpq4yDCLrs/TlU3aRm-TwI/AAAAAAAAAE4/5vDjYHjXH-4/s1600/Keats+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xEpq4yDCLrs/TlU3aRm-TwI/AAAAAAAAAE4/5vDjYHjXH-4/s320/Keats+2.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Keats also bumped into Coleridge, of the older Romantic generation, whilst walking on the Heath, as Coleridge then lived, and was later buried, in Highgate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coleridge was walking with one J. H. Green, who had taught Keats at Guy’s Hospital, when, as Coleridge recorded, “A loose, slack, not well-dressed youth met Mr Green and myself….” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to Keats they strolled in conversation for almost two miles, touching on, amongst other things, nightingales, which apparently Coleridge found disturbing!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">To the north of the Heath, a couple of miles wander from Keats’s house via the Vale of Health (where D H and Frieda Lawrence resided in 1915, with Katherine Mansfield and John Middleton Murray as neighbours) is Kenwood House, home of a collection of fine art (including a Rembrandt self-portrait – “Portrait of an Artist” – and Vermeer’s “The Guitar Player”) which was bequeathed to the nation in 1927 by Edward Cecil Guinness, 1st Earl of Iveagh – hence the title, “The Iveagh Bequest.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house dates from about 1700 but acquired its current splendour when acquired by the 1<sup>st</sup> Earl of Mansfield and restyled by Robert Adam between 1764 and 1779.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>{If you are taken with this location, by the way, as Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts were in the film “Notting Hill,” you could hire the East Wing (Music Room, Green Room and Orangery) or the Adam Library and Dining Room, from 6.30pm to 11.00pm for just £3,500 (plus VAT.)}</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PRU4a8P5ZJE/TlU4SA4OdUI/AAAAAAAAAFA/KN17iEsQ3DA/s1600/Kenwood+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="203" qaa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PRU4a8P5ZJE/TlU4SA4OdUI/AAAAAAAAAFA/KN17iEsQ3DA/s320/Kenwood+1.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">It’s not far from Kenwood House to Highgate, which borders on the north east of the Heath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Hampstead this was once a separate village, as mentioned, home to Samuel Taylor Coleridge in his later years, until his death 1834, though he had previously lodged here in 1816 in a vain attempt to throw off his opium addiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coleridge’s home, at Number 3, The Grove, was also the home of J B Priestly from 1933 to 1939.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another poet who lived here was John Betjeman, who passed his childhood years at Number 31, Highgate Hill West.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course you would not have found Sir John in any of the pubs around here, as he was famous for “liking wine and loathing beer,” but there are some fine hostelries for thirsty walkers, from The Wrestlers (98 North Road, Highgate) to The Flask (77 Highgate Hill West) on this side of the Heath to The Holly Bush (22 Holly Mount, Hampstead) and The Flask Tavern (14 Flask Walk, Hampstead;) and for those who like a Dickensian atmosphere, there is also the Spaniards Inn (Spaniards Road, NW3) which got a mention in “The Pickwick Papers.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3utI8Cp4VX8/TlU1kkSz1pI/AAAAAAAAAEs/NL9tq1_WGMM/s1600/Karl+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3utI8Cp4VX8/TlU1kkSz1pI/AAAAAAAAAEs/NL9tq1_WGMM/s320/Karl+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1026" o:allowincell="f" o:allowoverlap="f" style="height: 263.4pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 362.9pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal: center; mso-position-vertical-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 396pt; z-index: 1;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Karl 2" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image007.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" anchory="page" type="square"></wrap><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">For a different type of nostalgia, however, visitors to Highgate shou</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">ld not miss a sortie into <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Highgate</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</placetype></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is divided into two burial grounds – the 17 acre <placename w:st="on">West</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</placetype>, which was opened in 1839 when <city w:st="on">London</city> was desperate for space to inter its departed, and the 20 acre <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">East</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</placetype></place>, which opened its gates in 1860, at which time some 30 burials a day were being performed here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two areas were connected by a tunnel with a hydraulic system for moving coffins from the Chapel without leaving consecrated ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As fashions for ornate memorials changed, and with the decline in the work force during the First World War, these cemeteries began to fall into disrepair and became overgrown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until the founding of The Friends of Highgate Cemetery in 1975 that a gradual programme of restoration began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nowadays you can visit the <placename w:st="on">West</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</placetype> as part of a guided tour, but the public are allowed into the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">East</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</placetype></place> every day on payment of a small charge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is here that you will come face to face with Karl Marx, and some of his followers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is here that you can wander amongst the overgrown and the forgotten, in an extraordinary garden of remembrances.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hFot0qpagDQ/TlU2KH4CdxI/AAAAAAAAAEw/Xym3QEsej_0/s1600/Karl+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hFot0qpagDQ/TlU2KH4CdxI/AAAAAAAAAEw/Xym3QEsej_0/s320/Karl+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">On the Highgate side of the Heath there are the Highgate ponds, a series of fresh water pools where ladies and gentlemen may plunge into the stimulating waters of the one of the two sources of the river Fleet, dammed into ponds in the 17<sup>th</sup> and 18<sup>th</sup> centuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A mile or so to the west another tributary has also been dug into the Hampstead ponds, one of which is a mixed bathing lido.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On August 18<sup>th</sup> 2011 the temperature in all three of these was an exhilarating 19º Celsius…..</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AgWq1VVzY4E/TlU5cgyxFfI/AAAAAAAAAFI/Fi28RbsQOy8/s1600/Paul+Foot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AgWq1VVzY4E/TlU5cgyxFfI/AAAAAAAAAFI/Fi28RbsQOy8/s320/Paul+Foot.JPG" width="212" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Between these two valleys, and the highest point in the 800-odd acres of Hampstead Heath, is Parliament Hill, which perhaps took its name from its use as a defensive position for parliamentary troops in the Civil War, though it was once known as Traitor’s Hill, and presumably was a place of execution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until comparatively recently cattle were grazed here, and in the time of Keats or even Dickens there would have been plenty of livestock at large. Today the grass is still unmown in summer, but the network of paths and myriads of strollers, joggers and sunbathers keep it relatively under control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a wonderful vantage point, at 322 feet above sea level and with an uncluttered view (which is protected by law) across the Thames valley it can be spectacular on a clear day and it is the perfect spot to wind down and contemplate the relationship between man and environment, in a way that perhaps Wordsworth had in mind when seeing the city from Westminster Bridge.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1nzFKp1Y-rA/TlU6fw9_QDI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/s3kWrxDI3k0/s1600/Workers+of+All+Lands+Unite.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" qaa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1nzFKp1Y-rA/TlU6fw9_QDI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/s3kWrxDI3k0/s320/Workers+of+All+Lands+Unite.JPG" width="212" /></span></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><shape id="_x0000_s1027" style="height: 287pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 431.5pt; z-index: 2;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><imagedata o:title="Parliament Hill" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image009.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="square"></wrap><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></shape></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;">In this elevated position it is appropriate to consider the role of parliament and the necessity of law in our ordered society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The current by-laws for Hampstead Heath reflect this in their attention to detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Produced in 1932 and still extant, we are constrained to be sensible, even if desperate for a swim at Christmas:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<b>7 </b>No person shall in any open space wilfully break or damage any ice on any pond or lake, or, when prohibited by notice, go or attempt to go upon any such ice.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, if intent on getting the better of your neighbour, remember that: “<b>24 </b>No person shall in any open space race or train any whippet or other dog.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To prevent an explosion of certain commercial practices: “<b>29 </b>No person shall in any open space sort rags, bones, refuse or matter of like nature or mend any chair.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, finally, in case you were thinking of taking a walk instead of having a shower, remember that: “<b>35 </b>No person in a verminous or offensively condition shall lie about in any open space or lie upon or occupy any seat therein.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BvJUFaxhzMw/TlU55Ro2nKI/AAAAAAAAAFM/7PoXJ0sNcw0/s1600/The+Shard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BvJUFaxhzMw/TlU55Ro2nKI/AAAAAAAAAFM/7PoXJ0sNcw0/s320/The+Shard.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">The view from here reminds me of where I came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overlooking <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">London</place></city> is a reminder of the industry, expansion and achievement of humanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overlooking Hampstead Heath from the eighth floor of a Hospital in winter is also a reminder of that, but in addition it recalls our relationship with nature and our precarious position in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blustering snowfall I watched illustrated the capricious power of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The delicacy of one snowflake binds with the delicacy of a million others to coat the landscape with a freezing blanket of white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, gazing from the hospital room, my mother in bed behind me, I shivered.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CS5lofjp5Ek/TlU45DkP4NI/AAAAAAAAAFE/96EMKwFNCEA/s1600/Parliament+Hill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CS5lofjp5Ek/TlU45DkP4NI/AAAAAAAAAFE/96EMKwFNCEA/s320/Parliament+Hill.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-6655913864009557762?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-16689037203401107452011-08-15T21:31:00.000+01:002012-05-04T16:52:35.553+01:002012-05-04T16:52:35.553+01:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Cul-de-Sac</span></strong></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T0ZO4IgUQrA/T573l8aygzI/AAAAAAAAASA/_f_rSn6ROpI/s1600/Statue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T0ZO4IgUQrA/T573l8aygzI/AAAAAAAAASA/_f_rSn6ROpI/s320/Statue.JPG" width="212" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">When Lionel Stander (Dickie) pushes a stolen car, with dying Jack MacGowran (Albie) at the wheel, into the picture at the beginning of Roman Polanski’s 1966 film, “Cul-de-sac,” he probably wasn’t thinking of St Aidan and the early Christians in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Britain</place></country-region>, but he was most definitely following in their footsteps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a weird, and wonderful, causeway that links Lindisfarne, or <place w:st="on">Holy Island</place>, to the mainland, (and it still traps a few incautious travellers</span><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"> <stroke joinstyle="miter"></stroke><formulas><f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></f><f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></f><f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></f><f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></f><f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></f></formulas><path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"></path><lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></lock></shapetype><shape alt="" id="_x0000_s1026" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 256.15pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal: center; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical: top; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 427.45pt; z-index: 1;" type="#_x0000_t75"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata o:href="http://www.dvdbeaver.com/film3/blu-ray_reviews54/cul-de-sac_blu-ray/title_cul-de-sac_blu-ray.jpg" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="page" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB">every year).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<shape id="_x0000_s1035" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 150.55pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 477pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 258.8pt; z-index: -4;" type="#_x0000_t75"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata cropbottom="9027f" cropleft="6743f" cropright="5782f" croptop="10075f" o:title="Seal" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image003.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The BFI one-line synopsis of this film reads: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An eccentric couple living on a small island are terrorised by gangsters</i>,” and there is something about this statement which resonates beyond the film and into the reality of this romantic outpost of civilisation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the tides draw back in summer the gangsters, in family sedans, mobile homes and charabancs, flood into the car park, and trail around the village, swarm over the ruins and wind their way into the castle, intimidating and intruding upon the eccentric locals, of whom there are more than a couple, but less than a couple of hundred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the website </span><a href="http://www.lindisfarne.org.uk/general/welcome.htm"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">http://www.lindisfarne.org.uk/general/welcome.htm</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> you can read the following statement:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The small population of just over 160 persons is swelled by the influx of over <u>650,000</u> visitors from all over the world every year</i>,” and although these visitors bring prosperity, and perhaps happiness, the disparity of numbers can be quite terrifying.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7MB8ccOtBlA/T6Ofc69-niI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/byYJ6mwOt40/s1600/Skyscape+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" mea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7MB8ccOtBlA/T6Ofc69-niI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/byYJ6mwOt40/s320/Skyscape+1.JPG" width="320" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Once the tide begins to rise, however, the majority of visitors slip away and peace returns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you have timed it right, and the tide cuts the island off for the evening, you can almost feel you have the place to yourself (and a few seagulls) and the sense of isolation that St Aidan must have found here in 635 AD when he founded the Priory can be imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It becomes an island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wildlife, which can flock as much as the trippers, at least keeps itself to itself, or flocks in the more remote areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A seal, head above the water, bobs in the waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As seals do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As seals have done since the Ice Age or before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It watches me, camera inadequately pointed, inadequately lensed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is no David Attenborough crew, and he (or she) knows it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God, I love a seal.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">But, back to the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hard to really get the picture of 635 AD.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Romans:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>long gone (Flavius Stilicho, c.365 – 408, was the General most responsible for the withdrawal of Roman forces from <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Britain</place></country-region>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Vikings:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not yet really up to much (their raids on <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Britain</country-region></place> didn’t begin ‘til the end of the 8<sup>th</sup> century).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Picts:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>having disposed of the 9<sup>th</sup> Legion they seem to have slipped into Art and Design in northern <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Scotland</place></country-region> (spectacularly as it happens).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martyrs:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>past their heyday (though the custom was still alive).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And St Aidan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Represented in art by a stag (so perhaps quite a chap?) – born in <country-region w:st="on">Ireland</country-region>, trained on Iona (a small island just off the south-west tip of Mull in the Hebrides) and sent to sort out <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Northumbria</place></country-region> by his friend King (later Saint) Oswald who had recently (633) defeated (and killed) the Welsh King Cadwallon of Gwynedd at Hexham and reclaimed his father (King Ethelfrith)’s kingdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Aidan walked across the causeway to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne and set up camp (in 635).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must have been quite a journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have just checked and from Iona to <place w:st="on">Lindisfarne</place> would probably have taken weeks if not months!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is 272 miles, according to the AA, and though the roads are probably slightly better these days the traffic is more intense!</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">So what was going on?</span></div>
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<shape id="_x0000_s1028" stroked="t" strokeweight="3pt" style="height: 252pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 388.35pt; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-horizontal: right; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical: center; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 167.35pt; z-index: 3;" type="#_x0000_t75"><stroke linestyle="thinThin"></stroke><imagedata o:title="Saint" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image005.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Dark Ages (roughly the period between the fall of the <place w:st="on">Roman Empire</place> and the Italian Renaissance – though scholars still dispute the Dark/Middle definitions)?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A time of extraordinary artistic production (e.g. “The Book of Kells” - but don’t try and get that on your Kindle, or the motherboard might erupt - but also e.g. “La Divina Commedia.”)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A time of consolidation and reformation (if that word hasn’t been misappropriated?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Romans had left the islands of <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Britain</place></country-region> without a core in any sense and yet Christianity was becoming something of interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 597, a Roman monk named Augustine was sent by Pope Gregory the Great to <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">England</place></country-region> (the land of the Angels) and in 601 he was enthroned as the first Archbishop of Canterbury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though Augustine died in 605, and despite his lack of success in converting the indigenous population to Christianity, he started a trend which did eventually catch on, though Ireland, having been evangelised by Patrick (385 – 461), was way ahead at the time (it had become almost exclusively Christian by the early 6<sup>th</sup> century).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">It was St Columba (or Colmcille) who, with twelve followers, founded the monastery on <place w:st="on">Iona</place> in about 563.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was born in Donegal in 521 (and is not to be confused with St Columban, who was born in Leinster in 540 and who ended up in Bobbio, in Italy) and died in 597.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among his many achievements which impressed the northern Picts was the expulsion of a water monster from the river <place w:st="on">Ness</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway it is unlikely that St Aidan knew Columba, but he was originally from <country-region w:st="on">Ireland</country-region> and was certainly on Iona in 635, as it was in that year that he was sent to <place w:st="on">Lindisfarne</place>, with the specific remit of replacing his predecessor who was reputedly too rough in his missionary tactics. </span></div>
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<shape alt="" id="_x0000_s1029" style="height: 225pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 261pt; margin-top: 369pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical-relative: page; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 168.15pt; z-index: 4;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata blacklevel="-1966f" gain="74473f" o:href="http://www.aidanharticons.com/saints/8_big.jpg" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image007.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="page" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Aidan was consecrated Bishop and made his headquarters on the island, where he set up a monastery which specialised in training English boys to become missionaries among their countrymen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the Venerable Bede, St Aidan “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was a man of remarkable gentleness, goodness, and moderation</i>,” and his practice was to recycle, rather than accumulate, any wealth, so that any surplus went to the benefit of the poor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aidan survived the death of his friend and patron King Oswald, and was fortunate in having the continued support of his successor, Oswin, but when he was murdered in 651, Aidan died of grief a fortnight later.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">At this point, on August 31<sup>st</sup> 651, a seventeen year old Northumbrian by the name of Cuthbert had a vision of angels accompanying Aidan’s soul to heaven and he became a novice at the monastery at <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Melrose</city></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 664, in the company of St Eata, he went to <place w:st="on">Lindisfarne</place>, but in 676 he went to live as a solitary on one of the remote Farne islands some distance off the Northumbrian coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was called back to the mainland to become a bishop in 684, deftly swapping Hexham for Lindisfarne with his friend Eata, but only managing two years there, before, sensing his imminent death, he retired finally back to Inner Farne, where he died on March 20<sup>th</sup> 687.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>St Cuthbert had a touch of the St Francis about him, with a keen interest in birds and wildlife, but also a very charming and practical nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bede refers to him repeatedly as, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a child of God</i>,” and he was deeply attractive to his flock. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">As an aside, in the meantime, there had been an ongoing problem between the Celtic Church (following from St Patrick, but illuminated by the Ionians) and the Roman Church (stimulated by Pope Gregory) about the date of Easter, which reached something of a conclusion at the Synod of Whitby in 664, when King Oswy of Northumbria voted in favour of Rome and the Celtic die-hards retreated to Iona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the fixing of the date of Easter is still being discussed to this day, it was the Venerable Bede, born in 673 near Jarrow, (and who died in 735) who wrote on calculating time and it was by using his exposition of the Great Cycle of 532 years - the interval between two ‘identical’ years – that the Church was able to calculate the date of Easter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bede’s scholarship covered many areas beyond Christianity and although his most famous work, a key source for the understanding of early British history and the arrival of Christianity, was “Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum” or “The Ecclesiastical History of the English People,” (which is also the first work of history in which the AD dating system is used), he also wrote of nature, of how the earth was a sphere and </span><shape alt="bede" id="_x0000_s1030" o:allowoverlap="f" style="height: 188.25pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 392pt; margin-top: 0px; mso-position-horizontal-relative: margin; mso-position-horizontal: right; mso-position-vertical-relative: margin; mso-position-vertical: top; mso-wrap-distance-left: 8.5pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 8.5pt; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 137.25pt; z-index: 5;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:title="bede" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image011.jpg"></imagedata><wrap anchorx="margin" anchory="margin" type="square"></wrap></shape><span lang="EN-GB">how the moon influences the cycle of the tides – very advanced stuff at the time.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, when Cuthbert died in 687 the monastic community on <place w:st="on">Lindisfarne</place> started a cult in his name. It is known from the history of other cults, such as those of St Wilfred, St Columba and St Brigid, that a major cult would have required a beautiful Gospel Book. The Lindisfarne Gospels was probably begun as the major icon for the cult of Cuthbert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This work is one of <country-region w:st="on">Britain</country-region>'s greatest art treasures, and it was almost certainly made on <place w:st="on">Lindisfarne</place> between 680 and 720. The gifted artist-illuminator was called Eadfrith, who was bishop after Cuthbert, until his death in 721. Although it was written in Latin, the manuscript contains the oldest surviving translation of the Gospels into English, added between the lines by another hand around 970. The Lindisfarne Gospels reflect many influences: native British, Celtic, Germanic, Roman, Early Christian, Byzantine, North African and Middle Eastern, as Britain was a land of many cultures, with an emerging national identity and enthusiastic new forms of learning, literature and art. The Lindisfarne Gospels was a stunning creation of this new 'insular' culture and is an amazing testament to the fact that, far from being a dead end, <place w:st="on">Lindisfarne</place> was in touch with the rest of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To stand there today, after the tide has washed away the trippers, is to experience something of the insular solitude that Eadfrith must have relished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would have risen early and, between prayer and sustenance, laboured in the scriptorium, the high stone windows filtering in the chilled light from the sea, the cries of gulls and the washing of the waves, the music in his ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the British Library, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this work is evidence of its time, showing a fusion of the beliefs, politics and challenges of the day. But it is also timeless. It offers us clues to the past and inspiration for the future….. Eadfrith employed an exceptionally wide range of colours, using animal, vegetable and mineral pigments. It was an enormous act of faith</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is most unusual that the whole work seems to have been all his own, as most illustrated manuscripts were the product of team work, but in some places this manuscript remains partly unfinished, suggesting that Eadfrith's cherished work was ended prematurely by his death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There might have been advantages even in the comparative isolation of Lindisfarne, but also perhaps advantages in not being quite as remote as <place w:st="on">Iona</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it benefited from being on the north/south route (very close to the A1 indeed) and yet anyone stopping off there had to stay for more than a glass of mead!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miscalculate the tides and you could be stuck for at least a night!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, possibly, scholars and thinkers, artists and traders, brought fertile interruptions to the tranquillity of this island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far from being a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cul de sac</i>, it might have been a lay-by of great interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It certainly has a lure to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether it is religion or architecture that is your personal metier, or whether you are a bird-watcher or a walker, the island is rich in resources.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roman Polanski returned only five years after shooting “Cul-de-Sac” there, using the castle (sixteenth century in its core, but remodelled by Edwin Lutyens in 1903) as a location this time for Glamis Castle (with some cardboard additions) in “Macbeth” (and nearby Bamburgh castle for both Cawdor and Dunsinane).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The crabs that scuttle through “Cul-de-Sac,” a jokey symbol of the cancers in society, are no longer present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Beckett-like dialogue, representing the tragedy of pessimism, such as in the lines croaked by Jack MacGowran, “Well, here we are.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which prompts Lionel Stander to query: “Where?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Jack MacGowran to reply: “In the shit….” are replaced by Shakespeare’s tragedy of optimism, (“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.….”)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The Holy Island of Lindisfarne, to give it its full title, is a glorious place to visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some respects, it is a cul-de-sac, as you have to retrace your steps to leave it, but that’s no defect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact it is a positive, as you have to make the effort to go there, and your arrival, and departure, will be affected by the rhythm of nature in the tides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so is the presence of others, so that if you come to stay, you will find there is plenty of space and the stillness of early morning or the calm of evening can be savoured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Natural England staff a 3,500 hectare Nature Reserve here, with a constantly shifting landscape of sands and a coastline of dunes, mudflats and saltmarsh – heaven in the autumn and winter for drifts of birds from the arctic -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>though you are warned to beware quicksands and unexploded ordnance.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is a wild, natural place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stay at the Ship Inn, wander the shore line, take in the views – across to the Cheviot Hills, to Bamburgh, and out to the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Farne</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Islands</placetype></place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The skyscapes and seascapes are breathtaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air is invigorating, fresh and salty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind pushes and pulls me, powerful and elemental.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel cleansed and inspired, without complications of having to be somewhere else, of having to meet any deadline or catch some appointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of the Celtic past, of the Anglo-Saxon world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stones of the ruined Priory stand firm, despite the destruction they signal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The castle stands proud, like a crowned molar, defying the decay of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I think again of the term cul-de-sac, and am then reminded that when originally picked-up for American distribution by Filmways, the film “<i>Cul-de-Sac”</i> carried the advertising tagline, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sometimes There’s Nothing Left To Do But Laugh!”</i> and I wonder how much those elders of the early Church liked to laugh? For a moment I sit in the bar of the Ship Inn and imagine Saints Aidan and Cuthbert in the corner, sharing a conversation over a warm glass of mead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tide is up, the causeway flooded, and I believe I can hear them chuckle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The Holy Island of Lindisfarne’s name originates as the island of the people from </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Lindsey</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> or <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Linnuis</span> (OE <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Lindesege</span>) which was the name of a small <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Saxon_kingdom" title="Anglo-Saxon kingdom"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Anglo-Saxon kingdom</span></a>, which lay between the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humber" title="Humber"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Humber</span></a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wash" title="The Wash"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">the Wash</span></a>, absorbed into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northumbria" title="Northumbria"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Northumbria</span></a> in the 7th century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name Lindsey itself means the '<placetype w:st="on">island</placetype> of <placename w:st="on">Lincoln</placename>' which derives from the fact that it was surrounded by water and was very wet land and had <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincoln,_England" title="Lincoln, England"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Lincoln</span></a> towards its south-west corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fitting name all round. (The picture shows old friend Lindsay thinking about St Aidan, and the dangers of water.)</span></i></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Text and photographs by Richard Gibbs</span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Summer 2011</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-1668903720340110745?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Holy Island, Northumberland TD15, UK55.671239 -1.80203955.6622845 -1.822209 55.6801935 -1.781869tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-1650988994718029322011-06-01T13:48:00.000+01:002012-04-29T21:26:41.111+01:002012-04-29T21:26:41.111+01:00The Island of Giglio<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The sun sets below you from the terrace of the “Ristorante Da Maria”, shimmering on the waters of <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Campese</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Bay</placetype></place>, silhouetting the Faraglione, jagged stacks that owe their name to their resemblance to the fangs of a lion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You dine in style within the ancient walls of Giglio Castello, served by piratical waiters, cooked for by family members who are passionate about food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The combinations of flavours here reflect the proximity of the sea – barely more than a kilometre away as the Merlin stoops – and the wild heights of this rocky Tuscan island – almost five hundred metres above the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cuttlefish and funghi porcini, squid and basil, rabbit and wine vinegar, pine nuts, capers.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Il Castello is the Tuscan heart of this rocky island, 8.7 kilometres long and 4.5 wide at its broadest, though it is an exceptional, atypical place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giglio has been inhabited for millennia, but never overpopulated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even today its regular population is only about 1,600.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Objects from the Stone Ages have been discovered on the island, and in 1950 a cache of relics from the Bronze Age were also found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Etruscans certainly knew the place and from about the time of Christ Romans frequented the place, and a fish pool that belonged to a patrician villa near the port can still be seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are also many wrecks, some of them Roman, in the clear waters around the coast, which attract divers from all over the world.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">In the Middle Ages pirates scoured coastal parts of the <place w:st="on">Mediterranean</place>, and repeated raids on Giglio drove the people from the shore up to Il Castello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was strongly fortified by the Medici family from <city w:st="on">Florence</city> after the infamous Barbarossa completely depopulated the island in the 1540s, deporting about seven hundred people to slavery in <place w:st="on">Constantinople</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The intricate, honeycombed and honey-coloured citadel remains now much as it has been for centuries, with only minor adjustments, such as the conversion of donkey stables into holiday apartments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here you can still buy the remarkable local wine (Ansonaca, made from tiny, sun-filled grapes, which only thrive here and on Monte Argentario, the mainland only 14 kilometres away) in deep, cool cellars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can still pay your respects to the forearm of St Mamilius of Montecristo, which is kept in the parish church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can still acknowledge the memory of Rossini (who passed some time here) by joining in the jam sessions on the stepped central street in the evenings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, as your exquisite meal in Da Maria draws towards a <i>dolce</i> and <i>amaro</i> conclusion the clouds begin to drift through from one window to another, almost as if they lived there.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">In the mornings, if you’re up early, you’ll catch the sea at its limpid best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bright turquoise above the granite sand, a true aquamarine above the weeded reefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plunging deep inside the waters you’ll share your space with wrasse and barbel, mullet, bream and schools of tiny fry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally you’ll glimpse crafty and dangerous weaver fish, burying themselves in the sand, and subtly disguised cuttlefish or a brassily obvious conger eel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sea urchins (now a protected species) abound, as do tiny hermit crabs and other rock-scrabbling, green-shelled crustaceans.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">It’s not a place of extensive beaches, and there’s not a sand dune or golf-link in sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s against the law (and more-or-less accepted practice) to use a motorboat within 200 metres of the shore – except of course in the port where regular ferries dock and manoeuvre to and from Porto Santo Stefano on the mainland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jet-skis just don’t appear, though ritzy great motor yachts may, gliding into quiet coves self-consciously to anchor in the still of dusk and then slipping guiltily away as the sun begins to warm the hungry gulls on the rocks.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Giglio, whose name derives from the Greek for goats (igilion) and not from the Latin for a lily, is pan-like, not regal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even today it is largely impenetrable, dense macchia (a heady mixture of broom, arbutus, lentisk, sistus, tree heather and myrtle) and steep, angular folds rather than graceful and grassy slopes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On my first visit, some twenty years ago, I lost my way from the heights of Il Castello down disused mule-tracks to Campese, and eventually arrived scratched and scared after epiphanies of extinction on the wild mountainside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The principal ways are clearer today, but you could easily find the space to get lost in some area where cultivation has given way to wilderness (usually the brambles are worse where land has previously been cleared).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year, it was good to meet a donkey, being skilfully ridden up the track from <place w:st="on">Porto</place> to Il Castello, a sign that some traditions are still alive.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">After the last Turkish raid in 1799, sailors from <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Naples</place></city> and the south began to colonise the coast, and Il Porto began to take its modern shape and importance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Campese, the third nucleus on the island, only grew to anything like its current proportions in very recent times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pyrite mining at Cala delle Allume in the mid-twentieth century (which closed down in 1962) employed young men from Castello who would walk down the mountain before dawn, work the deep, hot and stuffy galleries naked, all day, before climbing back up again in the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of those men, by the way, the first to earn cash wages for anything on the island, since died of respiratory diseases not unrelated to their working conditions.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Giglio is a paradise, despite the obligatory existence of some serpents (there are actually no vipers).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The population might increase by a factor of ten or more every brief summer, but, by and large, those who seek the beauty and tranquillity of such an Isle do appreciate its beauty, and therefore help to preserve what they come to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The creation of the Parco Nazionale dell’Arcipelago Toscano (National Park of the Tuscan Archipelago) in 1991 has limited the possibilities of development in the southern part of the island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The presence of Greenpeace at Torre del Lazzaretto (or is that just a rumour?) cannot be unrelated to the politics of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is even one hotel (Pardini’s Hermitage) that prides itself on its inaccessibility – it can only be reached by boat or by a very difficult footpath – and which not only caters wholly for its guests but has a ceramic workshop, all you need for watercolour painting, musical instruments and a well-stocked library.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really it is no ordinary island.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">In the bars and restaurants you will see pictures of history and pictures of seasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snow on the hillsides and rooftops, waterspouts (twin ones) just off Campese, freighters loading pyrite, fishermen landing swordfish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a highly colourful and varied environment, with a wealth of natural and human resources.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you haven’t been, you should.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you do go, leave it as you find it…!</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">As a parting gift, Carlino, a native of the island now in his seventies, brings me some of his homemade wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He still works a parcel of land, and regularly fishes from a small boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The flavour of his Ansonaca is strong, pungent, almost impossible to describe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No wine connoisseur would use words like ‘citrus’, or ‘blackberry’, or ‘fruity’ to sell this potion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s almost a mixture of salt and sunshine, almost sunburn, and it has an after-taste of prickly pear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not a wine for the faint-hearted, and when Carlino proudly tells me that he treads the must with his feet I am tempted to wonder whether he takes his boots off first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is an acquired taste, like the island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, once tasted, it is never forgotten! </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Of course this was years ago, before Francesco Schettino, the captain of the €450million, 114 thousand tonne <em>Costa Concordia</em>, felt he would like to show off by sweeping past the port with inches to spare on January 13th this year (2012) risking the lives of the 4,234 people on board (and losing those of 32). Apart from the awful experience for all concerned and the terrible deaths of those poor souls who were unable to make it to safety, it could also have had the most devastating effect on the local ecosystem and on tourism had they not been able to decant the fuel supplies. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">As it is the enormous (290.2 metre long) hulk still lies there, and may be there for a year or so, as a bizarre and terrifying tourist attraction, with chemicals leaching out of it into the water as all the batteries and furnishings break down with every lapping wave.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Captain Schettino said, <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I have to take responsibility for the fact that I made a judgment error." And so, one of Italy's most beautiful places bears the scars of individual vanity and stupidity.</span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-165098899471802932?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Isola del Giglio, 58012 Isola del Giglio Province of Grosseto, Italy42.3536308 10.9016040000000242.317172799999994 10.867844000000021 42.3900888 10.93536400000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-79427329083707811762011-05-28T17:18:00.000+01:002012-05-01T18:48:56.035+01:002012-05-01T18:48:56.035+01:00Le Cinque Terre<stroke joinstyle="miter"></stroke><formulas><f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></f><f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></f><f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></f><f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></f><f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></f></formulas><path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"></path><lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></lock><shape id="_x0000_s1026" style="height: 263pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 424.1pt; mso-position-horizontal: center; position: absolute; width: 396pt; z-index: -1;" type="#_x0000_t75" wrapcoords="-41 0 -41 21538 21600 21538 21600 0 -41 0"><imagedata o:title="Italy April 2011 114" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GEORGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"></imagedata><wrap type="tight"></wrap></shape><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Le Cinque Terre</span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">away from it all?</span></span></b></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iQMpuajCY-s/TlUSWtwaEFI/AAAAAAAAAEE/mLpo-a62524/s1600/Lemons+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iQMpuajCY-s/TlUSWtwaEFI/AAAAAAAAAEE/mLpo-a62524/s320/Lemons+1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Le Cinque Terre is a rugged stretch of coast on the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_Riviera" title="Italian Riviera"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Italian Riviera</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liguria" title="Liguria"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Liguria</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, slightly to the west of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Spezia" title="La Spezia"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">La Spezia</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">. There are, not surprisingly, five villages: </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monterosso_al_Mare" title="Monterosso al Mare"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Monterosso al Mare</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vernazza" title="Vernazza"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Vernazza</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corniglia" title="Corniglia"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Corniglia</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manarola" title="Manarola"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Manarola</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Riomaggiore" title="Riomaggiore"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Riomaggiore</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">. The coastline, these five villages, and the surrounding hillsides are all part of the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Cinque</placename> <placename w:st="on">Terre</placename> <placetype w:st="on">National Park</placetype></place> as well as being one of the <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">UNESCO World Heritage Sites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of these</span> sites (and in 2011 there are 936 of them: 725 cultural, 183 natural, and 28 mixed properties, in 153 different states) is a place (such as a </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forest" title="Forest"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">forest</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mountain" title="Mountain"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">mountain</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake" title="Lake"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">lake</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desert" title="Desert"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">desert</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monument" title="Monument"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">monument</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Building" title="Building"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">building</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, complex, or </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City" title="City"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">city</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">) that is listed by </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UNESCO" title="UNESCO"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">UNESCO</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> as of special cultural or physical significance to the common heritage of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_population" title="World population"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">humanity</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DnzKF_w4A28/TlUVUyhXPII/AAAAAAAAAEY/sC33swWdzcg/s1600/Riomaggiore+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DnzKF_w4A28/TlUVUyhXPII/AAAAAAAAAEY/sC33swWdzcg/s320/Riomaggiore+2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k_Fh5lMKR8w/TlUV3DgjOPI/AAAAAAAAAEc/RxHgFtIn6nE/s1600/Riomaggiore+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">In some ways being designated a World Heritage Site could be seen as a mixed blessing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The City of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bath</place></city>, for instance, was designated one in 1987, and now the queues to see the Roman Baths wind round the block, and Jane Austen and Fanny Burney must be turning in their graves in reaction to the busloads of trippers who wouldn’t know which way up to put a lace doily….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And on Dorset’s <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Jurassic</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Coast</placetype></place> (World Heritage Site since 2001) it is very very hard to get a drink in the “Square and Compass” (http://squareandcompasspub.co.uk/) at Worth Matravers without jostling with multiple families weighed down with casts of trilobites and bags of fossils.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">In Italy there are 48 sites currently on the list (which is the highest concentration in the world); not surprisingly these include the Historic Centres of Rome (1980), Florence (1982) and Siena (1995), the city of Venice (1987), the Piazza del Duomo in Pisa (1987, 2007), the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trullo" title="Trullo"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Trulli</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alberobello" title="Alberobello"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Alberobello</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> (1996) and the Archaeological Areas of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pompeii" title="Pompeii"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Pompeii</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herculaneum" title="Herculaneum"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Herculaneum</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torre_Annunziata" title="Torre Annunziata"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Torre Annunziata</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> (1997).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, since 1999, at the 21<sup>st</sup> session of the UNESCO World Heritage Committee, as well, Le Cinque Terre (together with Portovenere and the Islands of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palmaria_(island)" title="Palmaria (island)"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Palmaria</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tino_(island)" title="Tino (island)"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Tino</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tinetto" title="Tinetto"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Tinetto</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">) have been blessed (or cursed) with the designation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Now I might be something of a sceptic here, although I am not casting aspersions at the collective wisdom of the members of the world heritage committee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s be frank – Le Cinque Terre is a beautiful area and the five separate villages, perched crazily as they are above the jagged shores, tumbling colourfully down the slopes from terraced hillsides fragrant with wild flowers to kiss the sea in all weathers – are like bright jewels in a fantastic natural crown of striated rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s be frank – other areas such as this have been subjected to being cast into concrete shrouds and private projects which have all but destroyed any sense of heritage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s be frank – without some efforts to preserve customs, practices, wild-life, vegetation, indigenous architecture, the world and all its billions of inhabitants would be the poorer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But also, to be frank, perhaps there should be a more discreet way of doing it?</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">To quote Wikipedia: “Over centuries, people have carefully built </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terrace_(agriculture)" title="Terrace (agriculture)"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">terraces</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> on the rugged, steep landscape right up to the cliffs that overlook the sea. Part of its charm is the lack of visible corporate development. Paths, trains and boats connect the villages, and cars cannot reach them from the outside. The Cinque Terre is a very popular tourist destination…..”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is the key to this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lack of visible corporate development? – </i>I hardly think so!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region> clearly displays a lack of corporate development, albeit mainly in the twentieth century, and this is hardly to be celebrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cars cannot reach them from outside? </i>– now that may hold a clue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact there are roads and streets and vehicles do come and go, but these are either those who live there (who have to park on the periphery of their respective village) or delivery or service vehicles, without which the bars and restaurants in particular would rapidly cease to function.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the average visitor has to take the train, and this is perhaps where Le Cinque Terre do hit the spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W9L2Zus8Q-Y/TlUTf6D-9AI/AAAAAAAAAEM/tYN5HurDR5g/s1600/Manarola+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" qaa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W9L2Zus8Q-Y/TlUTf6D-9AI/AAAAAAAAAEM/tYN5HurDR5g/s320/Manarola+1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">On a recent visit to the area I couldn’t help but notice a good-humoured group of Americans, who were being teased by a trio of ever-so-slightly uncouth southern Italian youths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were all travelling north on a train from Pisa and this diverse group of travellers clearly had not been long in Italy but were infused with a sense of direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At La Spezia<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(“Is this La Speeschia?” they enquired) we disembarked and made our way to the office dedicated solely to Le Cinque Terre, where train tickets or passes the trains and the walking routes for one or two days need to be purchased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This office tends to be busy, but it is well stocked with information and the multi-lingual assistants are helpful and efficient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My American friends duly acquired their passes and we all headed for the next train to Riomaggiore and beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And these Americans, informed and prepared by World Heritage advertising, disappeared off to explore this world of “unspoiled” villages and nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is where it becomes an extraordinary success story, which presumably is an outstanding example of corporate development, for the trains from La Spezia tunnel their way through Le Cinque Terre on a frequent and precise timetable, stopping at each of the five villages on their way to Genova and back, thus connecting these remote and “inaccessible” villages with the cities and airports of Rome, Milan and everywhere else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they are not just dinky little tourist shuttle services either; you are looking at full scale, double-decker (again a mark of the corporate development of the Ferrovie dello Stato Italiano – would that the British railway barons had thought to make their tunnels tall enough for double-decker trains!) full length electric trains. And they are full!</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">At the height of the season, for most of each day, these trains are embarking and disembarking literally thousands of tourists at every stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Carabinieri are out in force to ensure a reasonable flow of pedestrians up and down each narrow main street and, although we are talking about decent, well-behaved World Heritage Tourists here and it’s not marked by street gangs or family beach parties, the throngs of international visitors can be oppressive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think the Palio in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Siena</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think a slow motion bull run in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Pamplona</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think of underground trains in the rush hour!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">And why are they here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well again, to tinge this with cynicism, they are celebrating a world without cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, this is one of the defining features.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, there are many other attractive aspects, such as the exquisite natural landscape, the beautiful light on the sea as it sparkles at the feet of the cliffs, the</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> trails that wind steeply up and down terraced hillsides, through olive groves and vineyards; and the delicious foods and wines, much of which is somehow local, but one of the unconscious desires the holiday maker seems to yearn for is to get away from the tyranny of the car, and where better to do this than in tiny, old-fashioned <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">villages by the sea?</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">There are other places in the world that kind of support this idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB">The cobbled, traffic-free, high street of the fishing village of Clovelly in North Devon, built into a cleft in a 130 metre high cliff, tumbles its way down past whitewashed and flower bedecked cottages to a tiny working port, and is the nearest thing we have to Le Cinque Terre in the UK (though perhaps PortMeirion might argue with this…) The traffic free marvel that is Venice is a mecca for autophobes; we’ve already alluded to the Campo Santo of Pisa and the heart of Siena.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But imagine </span>Trafalgar Square without the snarl and stampede of traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine your home town without cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are so inured (and beholden) to our private means of transport that when UNESCO decrees that a place is beautiful because it is not accessible by car, we flock there in wonder and don’t even dream that it could happen elsewhere.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">But, back to Le Cinque Terre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this occasion we stayed at the Locanda Ca Dei Duxi in Riomaggiore, nestled into the walls of an ancient house just like the sparrows I observed in the nearby church walls – precarious, but safe and snug, each in their individual space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had Cinque Terre Cards, which allowed us to walk on the Via dell’Amore (characteristically decorated with padlocks representing undying love) and, had it not been closed due to landslips, the </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Sentiero_Azzurro&action=edit&redlink=1" title="Sentiero Azzurro (page does not exist)"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Sentiero Azzurro</span></a> ("Light Blue Trail") which connects all five villages (Riomaggiore, Monterosso al Mare, Vernazza, Corniglia and Manarola).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is twelve kilometres long, and has a vertical shift of five hundred metres. </span><span lang="EN-GB">And we treated ourselves to dinner at the Ristorante Ripa Del Sole, which is run with passion and care by Daniela Bertola, her brother Matteo and his wife Tatiana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From their dining room the views of the sunset over the castle ruins are superb, and with almost everything, from the fish to the wine being locally produced, you could almost taste the lack of cars!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among many delicacies we had anchovies in five different ways and trofie al pesto, and finished off with glasses of the legendary “Schiacchetra” – the vino passito of Le Cinque Terre</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> (made from a combination of Bosco, Albarola, and Vermentino grapes but those that have been allowed to sweeten on the vine)</span><span lang="EN-GB">. </span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before we left, to return to the world of cars, our host recommended returning in the late autumn or even winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is quieter then, and, with the sea to warm the air, the climate is mild when other parts of <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Italy</place></country-region> may be snowbound or bitterly cold with mountain air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The train duly picked us up at Riomaggiore, within sight of the blue sea, and then, a short tunnel or two later, it dropped us back in the hustle and bustle of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">La Spezia</place></city>, with its pleasures of concrete and cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2efszMjMtM4/TlUNLY73AmI/AAAAAAAAAD8/bASXpEOdvA0/s1600/Copy+of+Riomaggiore+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">We should be grateful that </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">in 1998 the Italian Ministry for the Environment set up the Protected natural marine area and that in 1999 the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parco_Nazionale_delle_Cinque_Terre" title="Parco Nazionale delle Cinque Terre"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Parco Nazionale delle Cinque Terre</span></a> was set up to conserve the ecological balance, protect the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we should be grateful for World Monuments Watch and the World Monuments Fund which study and support the management of the conservation of the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally we should be grateful to UNESCO for their designation as a world heritage site, for, despite the way this has led to the invasion of tourism, at the least this fuels the local economy and helps with the preservation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, perhaps, with the lessons learned from the attraction of this area, we may find the thrill of car-free villages and “a lack of visible corporate development” catch on and even become the norm, rather than the exception.</span></span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-7942732908370781176?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com019017 Riomaggiore La Spezia, Italy44.0988707 9.74081820000003544.0759792 9.711652700000036 44.1217622 9.769983700000035tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-29273852898361691682011-05-02T12:11:00.000+01:002011-08-24T20:42:34.909+01:002011-08-24T20:42:34.909+01:00Camaldoli<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large; text-transform: uppercase;">The silence of the Wolves</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large; font-variant: small-caps;">congregazione camaldolese dell' Ordine di San Benedetto<br />
<b>comunità monastica di Camaldoli </b><br />
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sacro eremo di Camaldoli - Arezzo<br />
monastero di Camaldoli – Arezzo</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1PO5ac6PyWY/Tb7B3pLBCJI/AAAAAAAAACM/fu9Qfmx6mdo/s1600/Camaldoli+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" j8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1PO5ac6PyWY/Tb7B3pLBCJI/AAAAAAAAACM/fu9Qfmx6mdo/s320/Camaldoli+4.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Spring comes late to Camaldoli.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 1104 metres above sea level, immersed in thick forest and cloaked in deep silence this hermitage is chilly despite the sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have travelled from the Ligurian coast, where hottentot figs flower and bougainvillea thrives; through Florence where the fresh green of the Boboli gardens sets off the massed violet racemes of the wisteria to perfection, and up the winding roads from Poppi, where vines and olives give way to chestnut trees, beeches, oaks and then pines.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is much to explore in these forested hills, known as “Il Casentino.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is an area of some 800 square kilometres, with its highest point at Monte Falco which reaches 1658 metres above sea level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The river Arno, which is the fourth largest river in <country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region>, rises at 1358 metres on Monte Falterona before coursing to the sea through <city w:st="on">Florence</city> and <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Pisa</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a wealth of history here, too, including the celebrated battle of Campaldino (near Poppi) in which some 11,000 Florentines – including a youthful Dante Aligheri – trounced a similar number of Aretines on June 11<sup>th</sup> 1289. In 1224, Saint Francis of <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Assisi</city></place> received the stigmata at La Verna (1129 metres) and in 1051 Saint Giovanni Gualberto founded the monastery of Vallombrosa (958 metres).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">The National Park of Monte Falterona, Campigna and the Casentino Forest is approximately 70 kms east of Florence, which puts it pretty much at the heart of Italy, midway between the Tyrrhenian and the Adriatic seas, and it was here, almost exactly 1000 years ago, that Count Maldolo d’Arezzo gave the ruined castle of Fontebuona and a parcel of land to a young monk by the name of Romualdo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saint Romuald, as he was to become, was born at <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Ravenna</place></city> in about 950, and is said to have fled the world after witnessing his father killing a relative during a dispute about property.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After some time in <city w:st="on">Florence</city> at San Miniato, he founded the Benedictine community of Camaldoli (taking the name from his benefactor), which, despite reconstructions over the centuries, survives with two impressive complexes of buildings here as well as having the monastery of San Gregorio al Celio in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Rome</place></city>. Camaldoli is also the mother house for several male communities in <country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region> as well as the <country-region w:st="on">United States</country-region>, <country-region w:st="on">India</country-region> and <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Brazil</place></country-region> as well as being the inspiration and spiritual reference point for a number of female monastic communities in these countries and others.</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2m7ZKJprBe0/Tb7B50bGS3I/AAAAAAAAACQ/TyzRntBa63Q/s1600/Camaldoli+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2m7ZKJprBe0/Tb7B50bGS3I/AAAAAAAAACQ/TyzRntBa63Q/s320/Camaldoli+5.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">The main monastery buildings are in a narrow gorge at 816 metres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Originally this consisted of accommodation for a few monks and visitors, but it was enlarged to create capacity for one hundred, and this included a water mill, a pharmacy, and, at its peak in 1520, a printing press which produced the “Costituzione Camaldolesi” containing rules for, amongst other things, the planting and conservation of fir trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nowadays the grand, but irregular, building contains a monastery, a baroque church with decorations by Vasari, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Foresteria</i> (or guest rooms, now called the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hospitium Camalduli</i> where groups of visitors may stay in retreat), an infirmary for the care of elderly monks, a refectory with a beautiful inlaid wooden ceiling, cloisters, courtyards, an important library, the ancient pharmacy complete with antique jars and a stuffed crocodile, and a modern gift shop, selling herbal remedies, honey and religious items. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wqcvg5c7Klk/Tb7B0w2rbfI/AAAAAAAAACI/dE7U4ZqnAPo/s1600/Camaldoli+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wqcvg5c7Klk/Tb7B0w2rbfI/AAAAAAAAACI/dE7U4ZqnAPo/s320/Camaldoli+3.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Legend has it that Romuald quickly found his peace disturbed by followers and well-meaning but over-enthusiastic visitors and so moved, in 1012, 2.5 kilometers up the road (and nearly 300 metres higher) to settle into the deepest silence amongst the rocks and the firs and larches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He built five cells and a little oratory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first church here, dedicated to Christ the Saviour, was consecrated in the year Romuald died, 1027, but this was enlarged and rebuilt several times before being destroyed by fire in 1693.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The present church is baroque, with an elegant façade and two bell towers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The decorations inside include a marble bas-relief of the Madonna and child by Tommaso Fiamberti and a glazed terracotta of the Madonna and child with saints in the style of Andrea della Robbia.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ew9wiX1IiFE/Tb7B8Dk7VcI/AAAAAAAAACU/EH55R09gYY0/s1600/Camaldoli+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ew9wiX1IiFE/Tb7B8Dk7VcI/AAAAAAAAACU/EH55R09gYY0/s320/Camaldoli+6.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Beyond the church, secure behind an iron fence, there are twenty cottages, in five rows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the hermits’ cells, self-contained units complete with walled gardens for the cultivation of vegetables and herbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only sign of occupation is the trickle of woodsmoke from a chimney – here silence is the rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although there is a refectory adjoining the church, it is only used by the community for meals together twelve times a year, and even then the rule of silence is observed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nzMcOMTq3Ww/Tb7Bvpd0ovI/AAAAAAAAACA/fUaHAOxLndM/s1600/Camaldoli+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nzMcOMTq3Ww/Tb7Bvpd0ovI/AAAAAAAAACA/fUaHAOxLndM/s320/Camaldoli+1.jpg" width="212" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">Although several of the cells have been occupied by notable visitors, including one constructed by Pope Leo X in 1523 in penitence for the fact that Princess Maria Medici had visited the hermitage dressed as a man, and they date from different periods, they are all similar in their austere plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just opposite the church, and part of the larger buildings, is the cell of Saint Romuald himself, and this was visited by Pope John Paul II in 1993. The cell remains as if Saint Romuald had just slipped out to church – spare, functional, deep, dark and strangely comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside a small garden, supervised by a sprightly redstart (in complete disregard of the rule of silence) would have provided herbs and vegetables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside, a corridor leads to the main room, with a fireplace, desk and box bed, off which there is a tiny oratory and an even tinier closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that is it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a thousand years now a community of no more than twenty men has lived here, never speaking, dedicating themselves to the Benedictine principle of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ora et labora</i> (prayer and work). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IGD--mqIo-g/Tb7C2TMdRFI/AAAAAAAAACg/K6HLLoVmWQY/s1600/Camaldoli+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IGD--mqIo-g/Tb7C2TMdRFI/AAAAAAAAACg/K6HLLoVmWQY/s320/Camaldoli+9.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">The Hermitage routine starts at 6.00am with the Office of Readings, in the church, followed by private reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Lauds is sung at 7.30am which is followed by breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From 9.00 to 11.15 the monks work or study.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there is the celebration of Eucharist at 11.30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 12.30 they have lunch, followed, as stated on the official website, by “free time”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From 3.30pm to 6.30 they work or study again; at 7.00 Vespers is followed by “dinner or free time” and at 8.30pm they retire to their cells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By comparison, the routine in the more relaxed monastery has a start time of 6.15am and after dinner at 7.40pm there is “personal time and rest” at 9.00pm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NmzNt7QdSco/Tb7CzuKeKwI/AAAAAAAAACc/K_1J3975Uoo/s1600/Camaldoli+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NmzNt7QdSco/Tb7CzuKeKwI/AAAAAAAAACc/K_1J3975Uoo/s320/Camaldoli+8.jpg" width="183" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">The work activities will vary, but they include, certainly for those in the main monastery, the necessary routines of life in a community, such as laundry, cleaning, preparing food, gardening and gathering fuel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These monks also help care for the hermits, and of course the younger brethren need to help care for the older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The emblem of the Camaldoli community is of two doves drinking from the same chalice, which symbolises communion within diversity, nourished by a relationship with God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hermits spend time in mediation on the words of the bible, and in the study of other religions with a view to forming bridges between eastern and western monastic traditions, developing, despite their silence, ecumenical and inter-religious dialogue.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vYbPkEResI4/Tb7Cwk40GyI/AAAAAAAAACY/2We6gAsFFhQ/s1600/Camaldoli+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vYbPkEResI4/Tb7Cwk40GyI/AAAAAAAAACY/2We6gAsFFhQ/s320/Camaldoli+7.jpg" width="212" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: large;">The seasons come and go, but in the silence of the forest little has changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are still wolves and eagles in these mountains, and in winter the hermitage can be completely cut off by snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In summer it may be besieged by Florentines and Aretines fighting for a share of the peace and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">freschezza</i> at this altitude, but the rule of silence prevails and the hermits proceed with their dedication and self-discipline, whatever else may be happening in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tsunami, rebellion, Bunga-Bunga – it makes no difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sealed in their silent cells, the inhabitants of the Sacred Hermitage of Camaldoli live as examples of religious order, removed from the jealousies and competitions of the material world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not (perhaps) important whether they are Camaldolese, Catholic, or Christian – it is important that it is possible to live such a life, and that it can be good to live without double-glazing or central heating, supermarkets or internet shopping, imported goods or ice-cream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fashions do not need to change; life alone does not need to be sad, or unprofitable.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gj2pxN7T0FA/Tb7ByegptDI/AAAAAAAAACE/dFu_qympAF4/s1600/Camaldoli+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" j8="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gj2pxN7T0FA/Tb7ByegptDI/AAAAAAAAACE/dFu_qympAF4/s320/Camaldoli+2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond;">Viewed from a different, more cynical, point of view, it could be argued that a number of reclusive men living in tiny cottages at the top of an Italian mountain offer little to malnourished millions around the world, but this was never the point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we leave the courtyard, we step into the little shop and bar that nestles in the wall of the compound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apart from the books and icons, honeys and tisanes on offer there are a number of CDs of sacred music and also DVDs on sale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I browse through the titles: Liliana Calvani’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Francesco</i>, a curious role for a troubled Mickey Rourke: Philip Groning’s fine visual examination of La Grande Chartreuse in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Into Great Silence</i>; Francesco Rosi’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christ Stopped at Eboli</i>, not exactly a study of religious seclusion though a marvellous film. Then, curiously, I find several copies of Clint Eastwood’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gran Torino</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was this doing here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could the man with no name be a metaphor for the life of a hermit?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Garamond; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Eastwood’s taciturn characters are invariably widowed, divorced, separated or otherwise unattached – and he generally has a mission, or calling, but this film does not immediately seem to fit. However, as the eminent film critic Philip French pointed out in his review, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what gives the film its formidable strength is the way Eastwood shows [the hero] struggling with his prejudices and coming to terms with a changing world and with his inner demons</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is an enigma here, perhaps not dissimilar to the riddle about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out of the strong came forth sweetness</i>; perhaps the men who inhabit the silence in these forested mountains are not so silent after all.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-2927385289836169168?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Poppi Arezzo, Italy43.7327705 11.76402589999997943.6528625 11.65356289999998 43.812678500000004 11.874488899999978tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-89828532374380635092011-05-01T20:08:00.000+01:002012-05-04T17:43:13.224+01:002012-05-04T17:43:13.224+01:00Ossi di Seppia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Amanda and me at a place we treasure - on the slopes of Monte Amiata in Tuscany. The vetta (peak) is behind, the vegetation scrubby and perfect for wild bores like us. Dry as cuttlefish bones.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-8982853237438063509?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0SP22, 53023 Castiglione d'Orcia Sienna, Italy42.9770555 11.548462942.9305865 11.469498900000001 43.0235245 11.6274269tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-23190693324578934862011-04-07T22:23:00.000+01:002012-05-04T17:44:07.679+01:002012-05-04T17:44:07.679+01:00Between the Cradle and the Grave<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E-9jxz_Xcas/T6L3EKUSp0I/AAAAAAAAAT0/Wloo-tw-eQc/s1600/Between+the+cradle+and+the+grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" mea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E-9jxz_Xcas/T6L3EKUSp0I/AAAAAAAAAT0/Wloo-tw-eQc/s640/Between+the+cradle+and+the+grave.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-2319069332457893486?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Ayot St Lawrence, Codicote, Hertfordshire AL6, UK51.834388 -0.265878951.824576 -0.2856199 51.844199999999994 -0.24613789999999997tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-6241136753291726322011-04-07T21:04:00.000+01:002012-05-04T17:52:09.064+01:002012-05-04T17:52:09.064+01:00Sailing To Byzantium<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wYfQLUIbS9E/T6BBl7zyuII/AAAAAAAAAS8/qygo7WbwTes/s1600/An_aged_Man_3%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" mea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wYfQLUIbS9E/T6BBl7zyuII/AAAAAAAAAS8/qygo7WbwTes/s640/An_aged_Man_3%5B1%5D.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-624113675329172632?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Ayres End Ln, Harpenden, Hertfordshire AL5, UK51.797150546729114 -0.33096313476562551.75788854672911 -0.40992713476562503 51.836412546729115 -0.25199913476562497tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-36252149057993663132011-03-30T21:07:00.000+01:002012-05-04T17:44:51.695+01:002012-05-04T17:44:51.695+01:00The Magificent Seven<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fZnaAVJjn3U/T6BCUCHy25I/AAAAAAAAATE/LYsCBSN2X9E/s1600/The_Magnificent_Seven%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="451" mea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fZnaAVJjn3U/T6BCUCHy25I/AAAAAAAAATE/LYsCBSN2X9E/s640/The_Magnificent_Seven%5B1%5D.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-3625214905799366313?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Ferrers Ln, Saint Albans, Hertfordshire AL4, UK51.7963012303668 -0.3024673461914062551.7913912303668 -0.31233784619140625 51.8012112303668 -0.29259684619140625tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-91979439851229413422011-03-05T22:17:00.000Z2012-05-04T18:32:53.485+01:002012-05-04T18:32:53.485+01:00Samuel Beckett 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q7hZBmvuvlc/T6L11DrGa1I/AAAAAAAAATs/oaIqDWF0bj0/s1600/Graveyard+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" mea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q7hZBmvuvlc/T6L11DrGa1I/AAAAAAAAATs/oaIqDWF0bj0/s640/Graveyard+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-9197943985122941342?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com015-18 Sandhill Close, Bedford, Central Bedfordshire MK45, UK52.03897658307622 -0.521850585937551.88272508307622 -0.8377075859375 52.19522808307622 -0.2059935859375tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-27292957113498804512011-03-05T22:11:00.000Z2012-05-04T18:33:51.599+01:002012-05-04T18:33:51.599+01:00The Palace Beautiful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U_LgdX3JlJc/T6L0VjwyeqI/AAAAAAAAATk/GdfD-aSetuM/s1600/Palace_Beautiful_2%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="451" mea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U_LgdX3JlJc/T6L0VjwyeqI/AAAAAAAAATk/GdfD-aSetuM/s640/Palace_Beautiful_2%5B1%5D.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">One of several relics with connections to Bunyan..... To be explored further..... This was actually the "Palace Beautiful" where Pilgrim found hospitality. In the background are the Bedford Levels.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-2729295711349880451?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com060 Snow Hill, Maulden, Central Bedfordshire MK45 2, UK52.0339078196625 -0.4751586914062551.722070819662505 -1.10687269140625 52.3457448196625 0.15655530859375tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-28442367362042703512011-03-05T20:28:00.000Z2012-05-04T18:32:18.995+01:002012-05-04T18:32:18.995+01:00What is this Life?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">A moment's comtemplation whilst crossing the M1 just outside Redbourn in Hertfordshire on a walk from Harpenden to Berkhamsted to visit my ailing father. </span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-2844236736204270351?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0M1, Saint Albans, Hertfordshire AL3, UK51.80341376088411 -0.414218902587890651.79359526088411 -0.43395990258789063 51.813232260884114 -0.3944779025878906tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-60599966012058371482010-10-25T20:50:00.000+01:002012-05-04T17:55:26.628+01:002012-05-04T17:55:26.628+01:00Nomansland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5G9E1kjoY2M/T6LgDjPYfZI/AAAAAAAAATY/BRaIo9nFZMA/s1600/Nomansland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="451" mea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5G9E1kjoY2M/T6LgDjPYfZI/AAAAAAAAATY/BRaIo9nFZMA/s640/Nomansland.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">When everyone (including Ralph Richardson, John Gielgud, Harold Pinter, and my dad) were very much alive (1975), Doctor Brother Gibbs Senior and I managed to see "Nomansland" in its entire novelty at Wymondham's Theatre in London's best end, with Ralph and John on top form, the former oily with motorcycle grandeur, the latter with grubby raincoat seediness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Now, here in this picture, we play Hirst and Spooner (men in their sixties) and contempt-plate the passing of life and lives on Nomansland Common, Wheathampstead, shortly before our dad took flight for kingdom come.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-6059996601205837148?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Ferrers Ln, Saint Albans, Hertfordshire AL4, UK51.800521113317444 -0.30899047851562551.79806611331745 -0.313925978515625 51.80297611331744 -0.304054978515625tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-90542629355532301932010-10-25T20:26:00.000+01:002012-05-04T18:16:59.450+01:002012-05-04T18:16:59.450+01:00Here is Chaos....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VYwau8zQmLA/T6A4xJSrmtI/AAAAAAAAASg/Yl8UvIZp42c/s1600/Chatsworth+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" mea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VYwau8zQmLA/T6A4xJSrmtI/AAAAAAAAASg/Yl8UvIZp42c/s640/Chatsworth+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">R I P Paddy Fermor, master of the English Language, whose lifetime correspondence with Deborah Mitford, the Duchess of Devonshire, Mistress of Chatsworth House, is only outshone by the correspondence I had with him when I lived by Lake Bracciano in Italy and wrote to him about his description of the reflection of Bracciano Castle in the lake which I could see from my balcony. Charmingly and not at all in tearing haste he replied (from Kardamyli, on July 7th 1988). "Alas, I mustn't agree to the idea of a visit!" he wrote. "Things are going so badly and slowly with my present book - largely because of being led astray with reviews, introductions, and visits, I've taken a vow that they must all stop until a safe, secret part of the book is reached and I am sure you will understand." </span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-9054262935553230193?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Chatsworth, Derbyshire, UK53.226193 -1.599772253.207181500000004 -1.6392542 53.2452045 -1.5602902tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-18197740915303949282010-10-16T21:09:00.000+01:002012-05-04T18:20:39.194+01:002012-05-04T18:20:39.194+01:00The Self Unseeing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aaL98DO4Z6A/T6BC7z8emLI/AAAAAAAAATM/gloLeYORdCU/s1600/The_Self-Unseeing%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="452" mea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aaL98DO4Z6A/T6BC7z8emLI/AAAAAAAAATM/gloLeYORdCU/s640/The_Self-Unseeing%5B1%5D.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The interior of the Barley Mow Inn, in Kirk Ireton, Derbyshire. A pub that dates back to the days of King James Ist and which has altered less than many old hostelries. Although geographically quite out of keeping with Thomas Hardy, I could not help but recall this poem in this very English interior.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-1819774091530394928?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Main St, Ashbourne, Derbyshire DE6, UK53.047593 -1.60351252.97123 -1.7614405 53.123956 -1.4455835000000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-58040225478005258822010-03-01T20:34:00.000Z2012-05-01T18:24:21.181+01:002012-05-01T18:24:21.181+01:00From the West Country - The Mendip Fringe, 2<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Chew Magna lives up to its name, and once upon a time it must have been magnificent, if the size and style of some of its buildings is anything to go by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a third storey to some of the eighteenth century houses that would have been home to quite a few servants, and there are outhouses and stables and walls and gates and ornaments and decorations and a degree of opulence not found in every village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harford House is one such dwelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another is The Firs, which boasts 16 chimney pots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence the name, “Magna,” and that’s the way it still feels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I am not quite sure who is building what out of breezeblocks right in the centre of town, near the triangular village green with its ancient thorn tree.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The village has <i>history</i> – you can feel it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the largest village in the area, and was already important in Saxon times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a thriving centre for the wool trade in the middle ages, and the Bishop of Bath and Wells built a palace here near St Andrew’s church, some of which survives as Chew Court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The church itself is notable for its 15<sup>th</sup> century tower, embellished by pinnacles, and inside has a Norman font and rood screen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also from the 15<sup>th</sup> century is the Church House, now called the Old Schoolroom, which has a beautiful façade with an ornate doorway and five windows giving onto the village green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of the manor house was rebuilt in 1656. A house called “The Rectory” (though surely not the original?) was built on the main road south in 1672.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many wealthy businessmen from <city w:st="on">Bath</city> and <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bristol</place></city> have chosen to live here over the years, possibly to live quieter and healthier lives, possibly to enjoy retirement, but they have endowed Chew Magna and created a harmonious and elegant town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are three pubs, the Queen’s Arms, the Pelican and the Bear and Swan (a fine building from 1886, with something Victorian in its wooden furniture), and three nearby farms provide bed and breakfast for those who would like to prolong their visit.</span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Chew takes its name from the river Chew, which rises at Chewton Mendip and flows seventeen miles to join the <place w:st="on">Avon</place> at Keynsham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This also gives its name to <placename w:st="on">Chew</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Lake</placetype>, which was created in 1956 to provide water for <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bristol</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walk down the <placename w:st="on">Chew</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Valley</placetype>, under the watchful eye of <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Chota</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Castle</placetype></place> and its potent black guard dog, and survey the bright expanse of water from the dam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a shallow lake, averaging fourteen feet deep, but it covers over twelve hundred acres when full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many farms and houses were lost when the valley was flooded, but roads and hedges reappear in times of drought, and tree stumps can clearly be seen at the shallow end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is very popular for fishing (mainly fly fishing for trout, though pike of over thirty pounds have also been landed) and sailing, and is well managed as a recreational facility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lake recently hosted the World Fly Fishing Championships, and fishermen can make use of Woodford Lodge, a custom-built clubhouse, while other visitors can find refreshment at Chew Valley Lake Tea Shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are also Nature Trails to follow and bird watching is also popular:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>over 260 species of birds have been recorded here.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The fishing season does not start until late March, (for information call the Bristol Water Fishing Hotline, 09066802288, 25p per minute) and I have an appointment in Blagdon so must make tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My route takes me through Chew Stoke, something of a poor relation to Magna, but a pretty and thriving village nonetheless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The architecture is more vernacular and the pubs (The Yew Tree Inn and The Stoke Inn) possibly more rustic and homely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are some quaint touches, such as a neat little two-arched bridge over the brook where Pilgrim’s Way meets The Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite a few of the buildings date from the eighteenth century and there are many farms close by, some with names that tell something of their origin or the past (Fairseat farm, Pagan’s Hill Farm).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I take a rather indirect route over to Blagdon, to sample the air at the summit of Gravel Hill, which reaches some one hundred and thirty metres above sea level, and from where there are superb views around the surrounding countryside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drop down Pit Lane, with the local names becoming more intriguing the further I go (Dewdown Lodge, Pixey Hole).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually I reach the tail of <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Blagdon</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Lake</placetype></place>, just below Ubley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With time pressing I decide on skirting the <place w:st="on">Lake</place>, informed by locals that I risk the wrath of the Bailiff if found without a permit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately there is no information about where such a permit may be found, though I would be more than happy to pay the £2 requested as a contribution to the well being of the local wild life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lake is stunning in the winter sunshine, and I hardly see a soul all the way round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds, from heron to teal, are happily making the most of the off-season, however, and, had I had time to linger and make use of the hides, I could have observed the shimmering light and the flickering birds to my heart’s content.</span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This lake is almost one hundred years old now, and is stocked with trout, like Chew, by Bristol Water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is about 440 acres of watery heaven, nuzzling the Mendip foothills, skirted by mature woods, 42 feet deep at its deepest, and known to aficionados as the birth place of still water trout fishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boats (rowing or electric motor only) can be hired from Blagdon Fishing Lodge, where permits are also obtainable in the season, or enthusiasts may perch themselves almost anywhere on the seven-mile perimeter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are supposed to be about two hundred thousand trout in this lake, and some catches have weighed in at over three and a half pounds, so there’s plenty for all!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are facilities for other visitors, too, however, and you do not have to speak the language of small flies and nymphs, buzzers and diawl bachs, to enjoy these surroundings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On Sunday afternoons, from May 27<sup>th</sup> until September 30<sup>th</sup>, the Blagdon Pumping Station and Visitor Centre is open, with a still functioning beam engine as well as many exhibits and hands-on displays, and there is plenty of space for picnics and a nature trail as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I manage to reach the track that leads up towards <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Blagdon</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Church</placetype></place> without the pleasure of the Bailiff’s company, however, and make it to my destination slightly out of breath at the last climb, but exhilarated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The view back over the lake and the countryside from the garden of the New Inn is wonderful, something you would not expect just ten miles southwest of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bristol</place></city> city centre (as the crow flies!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the log fire, ale and vittles inside the pub is worth the trip as well!</span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-5804022547800525882?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Chew Magna, Bristol, Bath and North East Somerset, UK51.3658307 -2.61082120000003251.3398852 -2.648523200000032 51.391776199999995 -2.5731192000000322tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-82550953220954362192010-01-26T20:33:00.000Z2012-05-04T18:25:03.330+01:002012-05-04T18:25:03.330+01:00My days are in the yellow leaf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q2Rk3JFWwWk/T6A5-TdrPXI/AAAAAAAAASw/bgGcd3pvTTM/s1600/Yellow_leaf%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" mea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q2Rk3JFWwWk/T6A5-TdrPXI/AAAAAAAAASw/bgGcd3pvTTM/s640/Yellow_leaf%5B1%5D.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-8255095322095436219?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Aldbury, Hertfordshire HP23, UK51.801147 -0.60082351.791328 -0.620564 51.810966 -0.581082tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-1831019876401501702010-01-26T20:32:00.000Z2012-05-01T18:26:59.861+01:002012-05-01T18:26:59.861+01:00From the West Country - The Mendip Fringe, 1<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s a certain something about Bus Stations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cosmopolitan bustle, the unhurried purpose, the smell of spilt oil, and the purr of big diesels – all controlled but disparate movements and noises blending into a general hum of purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within the bright confines of the snack bar, tea steams in polystyrene cups, ashtrays spill over with teabags and crushed fag ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the stands, men, women, young and old, queue in patient order, their expectations quietly contained behind their masks. The colourful coaches and double-deckers nuzzle in and load, then edge out and depart, heading for magical destinations, the great elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fishponds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bath</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><place w:st="on">Weston-super-Mare</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Midsomer Norton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I board the Chew Valley Explorer, bound for Churchill via Blagdon, and head out of town, gradually leaving the suburbs behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a change it is great not to have to drive, and, also for a change, it is wonderful to be able to gaze out of the windows, taking in the surroundings, not just having to concentrate on the exhaust fumes in front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also great to have the raised vantage point that a bus affords, and soon we are skimming past <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Chew</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Lake</placetype></place>, which shines like a polished mirror in the sun over the still, silver, frosted, beautiful countryside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a clear crystal blue sky, frost everywhere, frost on the grass, frost on the roofs, and villages still in the winter sunshine: Bishop Sutton, Chew Magna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The weak sun just glimpses over the skyline through the bare trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <place w:st="on">West Harptree</place> the church clock gleams golden like a face reflecting the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Blagdon where the church tower stands proud above the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a chill in the air; it’s a sharp crisp winter’s day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bus leaves me to linger here, and there’s plenty to see and delightful pubs to savour, but I climb the hill, past Pratt’s garage, left in a time warp with 1950’s petrol pumps and signs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Further up the hill, past the pottery, there is Channel View, 1908, and indeed you can still see across the landscape to the <place w:st="on">Bristol Channel</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then, above Blagdon, Luvver’s Lane plunges off between hedges, catkins high above the path, symbols of spring to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hedge has been trimmed neatly but violently with nicely layered piece of hedge, uprights driven deep in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blackbirds chatter excitedly in the woods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At 200 metres above sea level, at the end of Luvver’s Lane, leading on to the Limestone Link, with Big Batch rising up to 325 metres above on the south side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A charm of goldfinches leads me across the Barrington Combe road to moor land rising on left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bridleway churned up by horses, feet and bikes though the ground is frozen bone hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Near Goatchurch cavern I cross a deep gully carved by a stream; the limestone strata above Barrington Combe gently undulating like waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a waterfall gushing down the hill but it disappears down a swallet hole and the streambed is left dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The sun is warm on my back, though there is ice on the puddles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are strange cuts and dips in the land, with spiky reeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dry stone walls crumble among the trees on one side; on the other, Rowberry Woods fall away deep inky black with the sound of water flowing at the bottom of a deep scarp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I reach the foot of Dolebury Warren.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before me is a ridge of limestone covered in grassland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the information board this is a place of bee and pyramidal orchids, yellow wort, drop wort and kidney vetch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tiny but beautiful spring annuals such as rue leaved saxifrage, common storks bill and early forget-me-nots thrive on the shallow rocky soils.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In places bell heather and bilberry grow amongst limestone heath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The acidic soils derive from sands blown onto site during the last glaciations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dolebury Warren is specified a site of specific scientific interest by English Nature and a scheduled ancient monument by English Heritage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a 2000-year-old Iron Age fort from which there are excellent views out over the <place w:st="on">Bristol Channel</place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The National Trust owns the site that also has a medieval rabbit warren (which provided the local inhabitants with fresh meat) and a Celtic field system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crisp frosted grass matches the shadows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A buzzard flies low across past me, unconcerned by my presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pass ancient anthills, hummocks grassed over and trimmed by the sheep like green nodules, ridged hillsides and bare trees:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not a single leaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am alone, high above the countryside around, but fringed by trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is evidence of a tree felling programme within the hill fort ramparts to enhance wildlife interest:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they are taking out non-native trees, especially turkey oak and sycamore of very little wildlife value; good quality English oak and hawthorn, ash, spindle, holly and wayfaring trees are being retained to keep the open parkland aspect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ramparts are impressive with sizeable limestone blocks and scree stones, and the fort is some two hundred metres long, sloping towards the west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is an amazing view, and it is a brilliant defensive position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The levels are flat like a map and diminutive church towers and steeples mark the parishes below. There is a steep track down through woods to the A38.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">There are four pubs in Churchill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The extraordinary Crown Inn, CAMRA pub of the year 1999, on the corner of Skinners Lane and The Batch, which is a place that is almost from another time, certainly from a wilder world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A step away there is the bright and cheerful Nelson Arms, and on the A38 there are two pit stops, one on either side of the road: the Stag and Hounds and the Churchill itself, with the grand old man’s cigar-toting portrait as an Inn Sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Crown, however, is a different experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not an everyday, modern, carpet and fruit machine boozer at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Possibly, just possibly, it’s a place that started life around the end of the last glaciations, where Iron Age men raised horns of mead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly it is a fitting place to end a stumble through limestone gorges and over a 2000-year-old fort…</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zpVW5lWlfs4/Tldch78bJGI/AAAAAAAAAF0/ZK5uo4jEHt4/s1600/The+Crown+at+Churchill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" qaa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zpVW5lWlfs4/Tldch78bJGI/AAAAAAAAAF0/ZK5uo4jEHt4/s320/The+Crown+at+Churchill.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-183101987640150170?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Blagdon, Bristol, North Somerset BS40, UK51.3276496 -2.71854480000001851.3104876 -2.7450408000000177 51.3448116 -2.692048800000018tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7335761951292462061.post-76587219768583472272009-09-26T20:39:00.000+01:002012-05-01T18:30:03.841+01:002012-05-01T18:30:03.841+01:00From the West Country - Severn Beach and Beyond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I last visited <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Severn</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Beach</placetype></place> some twenty-five years ago, and certain details are etched on my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a shingle bank along the <place w:st="on">Severn</place>, behind which crouched some houses, most of which seemed then to have seen better days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the distance could be made out the smokes of Wales and the towers of the old road bridge, which was in fact quite new (opened in 1966) and, as the seventh longest suspension bridge in the world, it was something of a wonder as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trudged along the riverside, wondering if the place had actually had better days, and then I returned to <city w:st="on">Bristol</city>, full of slightly salty fresh air, and forgot about <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Severn</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Beach</placetype></place> for years and years.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">However, courtesy of the 9.20 train from Redland, whose station has been colourfully decorated as part of an unofficial youth occupation scheme, I recently returned to the same location, to find that many things have changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the same old houses behind the beach are still there, but they won’t be for long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New buildings and new roads are the order of the day, and there’s a growing community around the railhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second crossing, as it seems to be known, carrying the motorway to South Wales and back, snakes across the <place w:st="on">Severn</place> at almost the same place as the mainline rail tunnel burrows under.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bridge is a colossus of concrete, awesomely beautiful in its grandeur and daring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is, indeed, a visitor’s centre, planted on some waste ground just behind the last derelict vestiges of my earlier visit, and in the shadow of the new bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This centre is operated by the Severn Bridges Trust, and it is advisable to telephone on 01454 633511 if you are planning a visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(In the winter it is only open from 11 to 4 on Saturdays and Sundays.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">On this visit it is freezing cold, with crystals of ice on the rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steam blows out to sea from the industrial areas of Avonmouth; vapour trails scar the powder blue sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bridge gleams in the sun, spectacular, seeming alive with the persistent sound of the traffic pouring across in both directions. The tide is up; the high water swirls close to Binn Wall, which is decorated with debris of branches and seaweed, evidence of previous flooding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Near the bridge two commemorative stones have been set side by side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first bears the date 1815, and simply bears the names:</span><span lang="EN-GB"><em> “E Williams, Surveyor, and F Calthan, Mason.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></em></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">The second bears the inscription:</span><span lang="EN-GB"><em> “This stone was unveiled by Mrs KJA Brown, Head of Regional Services and Defence Group, Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, to commemorate the completion of improvements to the Binn Wall by the Midlands Region of the Environment Agency between 1993 and 1998.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></em></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">I now have a clear view of the “old” bridge gleaming white ahead of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Close to the wall there is an old farm - Severn Lodge Farm - a substantial building with 28 chimney pots, outhouses and a walled garden; it has an elegant portico to shield the front door and a neat little twin lawn front garden. Before the new wall it must have had its own defences, and there is still an old sign saying</span><span lang="EN-GB"><em> “unsafe for bathing, mud and currents.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></em></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">Out on the jetty, with the current flowing fast and muddy below, I can’t think why anyone would have thought that bathing might have been at all acceptable!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two plaques on</span><span lang="EN-GB"><em> </em></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">tell stories of past crossings from this point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first commemorates,</span><span lang="EN-GB"><em> “the crossing of John and Charles Wesley founders of Methodism, their journeys to <country-region w:st="on">Wales</country-region> and <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Ireland</place></country-region> from the ferry near the English Stones during the Eighteenth Century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dedicated for the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of their conversion May 28<sup>th</sup> 1988.” </em></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">The English Stones lie under the new bridge, just beyond Goblin Ledge and just before the Shoots, a channel through Crab’s Bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second plaque is inscribed:</span><span lang="EN-GB"><em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“South Wales Union Railway:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the remains of the terminal pier where train passengers embarked for Portskewett 1863-1885, Pilning Severn Stage Parish Council.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></em></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Down on the shore between the two bridges, the Pill issues into the Severn, with Red Ledge on one side and Sugarhole Sand on the other, leading up to Northwick Oaze, the mudflats which continue to the pier under Aust Cliff, from where the Aust Ferry used to ply, right up until the 1966 opening of the first bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is amazing to think that only 45 years ago, the only way to cross the Severn below <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Gloucester</place></city> was via this route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shore is dotted with grassy tussocks; ice on the Pill that formed at high tide now flops down amongst the vegetation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The grassy meadows are frosted, scavenged by flocks of Fieldfare while Dunlin and Oystercatchers scour the stones and mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A well-wrapped fisherman tries his luck and dog walkers steam up and down the footpaths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <place w:st="on">Severn</place> way continues on from here right to the source of the river, some two hundred and ten miles in all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is one of the longest way-marked walking trails in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Britain</place></country-region>, offering exceptional access to areas of historical and ecological interest, and providing endless opportunities for observing bird life.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">Perhaps another day!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn back towards <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Severn</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Beach</placetype></place>, facing down towards Portishead and the Ocean, and the hills of Gordano.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nearer the village the signs of habitation increase: </span><span lang="EN-GB"><em>“No cycling,” “Safety Notice:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No Parking - Area must be kept clear for emergency vehicles;” “Danger – Razor Wire.” </em></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-style: normal;">The birds on the mud flats pursue their prey regardless; likewise the fishermen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is peaceful and, despite the changes all around, it is timeless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Severn</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Beach</placetype></place> has changed, and is still changing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are neat rows of modern houses, shops and caravan parks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Post Mistress assures me that there are wonderful sunsets, information she delivers with pride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems a calm and settled place, even the loss of the local pub to more housing development does not seem to have caused outrage:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the nearest pub now is at Pilning, a couple of miles away – what’s a couple of miles?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">As I wait for the bus to return to the train at Avonmouth, I notice that passing drivers do not seem to be wearing seatbelts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I board the bus, which is helpfully provided with lap restraints, but notice that the driver does not wear his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am the only passenger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we draw away, the rivers fall behind me: rivers of traffic over the bridges, the river <place w:st="on">Severn</place>, the river of time.</span></span></i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7335761951292462061-7658721976858347227?l=essaysanddiversions.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Richard Gibbshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01474252371842160766noreply@blogger.com0Severn Beach, Bristol, South Gloucestershire, UK51.56033859999999 -2.66282739999996951.54594559999999 -2.6712563999999692 51.574731599999986 -2.654398399999969