Across the great divide

Milan to Zurich.....

Across the great divide,

Just grab your hat, and make that ride.....

The Band

Know what?  If I had to choose (forgive me  this irrelevance).....  If I had to choose between the Duomo di Milano and a Howlin' Wolf concert.  It would be hard....  

But the Wolf is gone.....  (He was wonderful - I saw him in Lancaster in about 1971.....)

But Milan Cathedral is washed in the light of the dying sun and, if you throw in an aperitif in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, as the planet tips toward night, maybe I might veer towards the urban.

Milan is frightfully trendy.  All the young men wear sharp blue suits, open neck shirts and shiny shoes with no socks.  The women wobble on extremely high heels, are draped in shapely dresses or short skirts and flimsy tops, all upstaged by gold chains and designer purses.  And everybody seems to be drinking flutes of Prosecco.....

I quaff a large Campari (the wrong drink for Milan), find myself a place to eat risotto alla Milanese and osso buco, then retire to my shabby fourth floor hotel.

The night is then shattered by a violent thunderstorm, but in the fresh morning I breakfast on a spremuta, a cappuccino and a cornetto alla crema in the Mercato Centrale, under the edges of Milano Centrale, the largest railway station in Europe.

Two and a half hours later, after a ride along the shores of Lake Como, I arrive in Tirano, where tagliatelle con ragu di cervo and verdura alla griglia with Valtellina wine at the Trattoria Gagin revive me.  

It's a fine little town at 429 metres above sea level in the foothills of the Alps. Friendly and unpretentious, surrounded by mountains, but seriously historical, I look down towards the south from my terrace:

And up towards the north:

I then take refuge, after an aperitif with Rinata, in the Vineria di Andreotta Filippo, where calice of superb wines are accompanied by plates of tasty nibbles sufficient to pass for supper.....

In the morning I board the Bernina Express at 08.06 and set off for the Bernina Pass at 2,253 metres. 

This railway, completed in 1920, links Italy with Switzerland and forms a part of the 384 kilometre narrow gauge Rhaetian Railway network.  Not far out of Tirano we circle the Brusio Viaduct, returning over our tracks in a stunning trick to beat the altitude.

Although this journey might perhaps be enhanced by the snows of winter, the scenery is spectacular (even if on this particular day the light isn't great).  Looking back down at the Lago di Poschiavo I wave farewell (for the time being) to Italy, and we zig and zag on further up the mountains.

At Alp Grüm, at 2091 metres, we stop for twenty minutes while the crew take coffee in the bar, and we admire the scenery, looking up towards the Vadret da Palü glacier, here obscured by clouds (and perhaps shrinking as we stand and stare....)

The highest point is Ospizio Bernina, at 2,253 metres. This is Lago Bianco, and here the language changes from Italian to Engadin Romansch and German and the waters now drain towards the Danube and the Black Sea as we begin to slip down to the north.

At Morteratsch we can appreciate what a glacier really looks like, grinding down the mountain, still enormously powerful even in its dying throes....

And then it really is all downhill.  Not that it is unattractive, but it is a bit of an anticlimax.  I change trains at Chur, taking a table in the restaurant car of the DB express to Zurich, treating myself to lentil and sausage soup and a bottle of Helles as we cruise alongside the lake.  It is a sunny Sunday, and the shores are busy with Swiss citizens doing absolutely nothing....

The city, the largest in Switzerland, straddles the Limmat, and is lively, with the cobbled streets of the old town busy with both Swiss and tourists doing nothing.... I take a beer in the Zeughauskeller, where some kind of heavy machine gun sits atop the main entrance.

Then, a little later, I manage to get a table in Zum Kropf, an ornately decorated restaurant/beer hall dating back to the fifteenth century. An Augustiner K'Salat, a couple of Ambers and an Apfelkuchli and it's nearly time for bed.....

She's gone, but I don't worry:

I'm sitting on top of the world.

Walter Vinson and Lonnie Chatmon

(as sung by)

Chester Burnett

aka Howlin Wolf

And the coming home

 Part three: The long road 'home'

When I was a boy I used to really enjoy weekend walks, often exploring abandoned farm buildings or distant woods with a pal, or sometimes inviting myself to lunch at unsuspecting households of friends.  The wrench, however, was the retreat, the having to go home, the retracing my steps.  A sense of dull depression would creep over me, not because I didn't like home, but because it included the responsibilities of chores and homework and school the next day.....

A similar feeling descends on me as I think about the long road 'home.' 

However, before I leave, we take a trek up Monte Labbro, a 1,200 metre hill not far from Arcidosso, once the home of the charismatic 'Prophet of Monte Amiata' David Lazzaretti (1834 - 1878).  Four kestrels sprint and flutter in the strong mountain breezes - possibly two young ones being schooled by their parents?  The views from here are wonderful, across the Tuscan countryside and up to the heights of Monte Amiata (1,738 metres) with the plumes of steam from the geothermal power station near Santa Fiora in the foreground:

And then, all too soon, it is time to bid my friends farewell, including ninety-something year old Corrado (pictured at the head of this piece), who was born in the house where I have been staying (but who moved down to be beside the road around fifty years ago).  We have shared many a glass of his rustic wine in the past, but today he spills me a coffee.  His wife, Concetta, died exactly one year ago, and he is managing pretty well, despite failing eyesight, though complains about the difficulty of getting domestic helpers who don't put things away in the wrong places.....  Considering that he was born in the time of Mussolini, was a boy when German troops stomped and shot their way through in the 1940s, and then lived his adult life under 66 different governments, considering all that, he is in pretty good shape, and I hope I will see him again on my next visit.

I drive across country, crossing the River Orcia and past some spectacular examples of biancane - eroded rocks typical of the Crete Senesi  - then wind up past La Foce (famous home of Iris Origo) to Montepulciano and then down to the Val di Chiana and on to Arezzo.  

It's all happening here.  A sunny Saturday and everyone is in their finery.....

In the Piazza Grande a massed gathering of paramedics and mountain rescuers sing the National Anthem for me and we all are then treated to an aria from La Traviata.  

There's a wedding in the Cathedral, which swallows the beautiful bride into its dark entrails:

And another in the Pieve di Santa Maria, where the priests are taking no chances:

It's a day for parading (don't they look fabulous?):

And then an evening for the Passeggiata (soooo relaxed!):

I feel rather alone in this city this time (Amanda and I were last here a few years back) without my little companion - I guess weddings remind me - and yet there is life all around, children dashing about playing chase in the Piazza, and hundreds of really healthy looking young people engaging with their friends in a ritual of Saturday Night excitement, the girls all dressed in black skirts or trousers, bare midriffs and fine tops, the young men studiously less careful, except in their hair cuts.

I take comfort in the bottle-lined interior of La Torre di Gnicche (Piaggia S. Martino 8), where la signora Lucia makes me welcome and I sample some local affettati and vino for my supper.  It is quiet, even though it is barely fifty metres from the Piazza Grande.

I retire to my hotel room, high above the central streets, but can hear, through my slumbers, voices well into the night, with the final farewell calls around three.  But all in good humour - no sound of breaking glass, or voices raised in drunken violence.  It is calm, and friendly, and harmless....

In the morning, with clouds beginning to gather, I have to return the car to Florence, and then I stroll about the crowded, smiling streets.  

It is beautiful, and it is busy.  2020 was a disaster year, of course, but this year things have picked up.  One million two hundred and fifty-five thousand tourists have been registered in Florence in the summer of 2021, a rise of 185.7% over last year (although this is still 60% down on 2019).  

Although many of the visitors here are Italians who have chosen not to travel abroad (or who could not) most of the tourists here are Europeans (German, French, Dutch, Belgian, Swiss and Austrian) but not American or Japanese.  Apparently this is especially thanks to the introduction of the European Green Pass in August - and  I can vouch for the efficacy of this.  My NHS Covid Pass App (which I printed out and carry in my pocket) has been accepted in every bar and restaurant on this trip - I have just had to show the QR code and every little zapper from Paris to Tuscany has recognised me and given me a big green tick - how simple is that?  And it means that not only do the baristas and restauranteurs know that I am doubly vaccinated, but all the other diners or drinkers can rest assured that I am too.  No pass = no entry.  OK, so there may be some disappointed people, and people who have reason not to be vaccinated, but for the vast majority of people this brings peace of mind, and means that places can now function almost normally.  I have to have a driving licence to drive, and my wife is no longer allowed to, which, practically speaking, means that the roads are safer than if everyone could drive whether licensed or not.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream......

Anyway, the skies darken and thunder rumbles.  As predicted, the heavens open and a heavy storm sweeps the streets clear of mankind and unkind.....  For a moment I think my roof is leaking, but then I realise the paint has run....  It isn't like this in never land.  You simply don't know up from down.

And then it is over.  The cobbles gleam and there isn't a crowd in the sky. Pretty soon it will be tomorrow and the world will forget what has been and what.  But for now, I have the extraordinary privilege of staring at Brunelleschi's dome as if it were about to be completed:

And a strange light illuminates the facade of the cathedral, bathing it in a pinkish glow:

Night falls.  A pizza and a glass of vino, a wander past the hotel I used to prefer,

and bed.  In the morning I board the Freccia Rossa to Milan, where, in a complex of modernity and imagination, including a thoughtful garden of delights and some ancient empty streets, I have a few hours to wait, 

Which wait I partially fill by indulging in a last meal before my execution.... A truly beautiful risotto alla Milanese followed by Abbacchio a scottadito (with a side dish of porcini trifolati) with some Roero Arneis (2019) and then some Nebbiolo d'Alba.  Thank you Alla Cucina della Langhe (Corso Como, 6) - If you are in the neighbourhood, please give them my regards.

And then it is all aboard the TGV for Paris, eight hours (it is delayed) of scenery and sneezing (not me, but the woman next to me), hauling sometimes at 300kph.  I cannot help but feel the gravitation pull of Italy behind me, as I nervously approach my homeland.

I won't go on.....  I know some of my readers will have different ideas, but the absolutely worst part of this trip was my return to the UK.  I was prepared for this - I had had a Lateral Flow Test in Florence (supervised online); I have been twice vaccinated against Covid 19; I am healthy and have no obvious symptoms; I have a new blue British passport; I have the NHS Covid pass; I spent around £200 on tests including the Day 2 PCR test for my return; I was born in the UK; I pay taxes; I have a permanent address in the UK....  But despite all this I was reduced to a trembling wreck at the Gare du Nord by the overriding feeling of unwelcome and inefficiency (the Gov.uk website was down exactly when I needed to show my Passenger Locator Form).  After ten days of friendly (sympathetic) travel through three different countries I really felt it might have been preferable to have gone to Calais to hitch a ride on a leaky dinghy to Dover.  

Indeed, if it weren't for the fact that I had to get back to look after Amanda, and that I have some rights, I would have happily turned round and gone straight back to Italy.  No wonder that hardly any European HGV drivers (et al) want to go through this humiliation on a regular basis.

Just one little example: with my new blue Great Britain (sic) passport I had to go one way through the channels towards the security check.  Guess what?  Our channel wound its way in convoluted rounds to eventually be reintegrated with the simple straight channel for anyone else.....

Some apologies to those who disagree with my take on this, but Brexit has been a predictable disaster.  I am ashamed to be a British citizen.  I have been back ten days and Johnson makes a speech without mentioning supply difficulties (I couldn't get any fuel near here yesterday) and Theresa Coffey sings I've had the time of my life at the Conservative Party Conference closing disco.....  Universal Credit drops by £20 a week; fuel prices are at an all time high (with all the knock on effects that will have on food prices); heating one's home will be hundreds of pounds more this year; and Pandora has opened a box that spotlights the fact that the poor person who may falsify their benefit claim is such a minnow in the huge lake of tax evasion and surreptitious corruption that is this Tory world.

Fuck!  Nowhere and no one is perfect, and Italy's plethora of difficulties, governments, parties and disasters doesn't make for a good comparison, but all in all I would rather take my little one back there and see the sun go down with a glass of good red wine, than fret myself to death here in this so-called Bullingdon sovereignty where thousands of pigs can be eliminated because of 'supply problems' and food banks and supermarket shelves are running on empty.

Che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole,
n’aria serena doppo na tempesta!
Pe’ ll’aria fresca pare già na festa...
Che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole.

O, sole mio!

The end of the road.  Back home, on the beach with my little one....

Calling cards from a misspent youth

What larks!..... Let the good times roll!

Today and tomorrow, and yesterday, too
The flowers are dyin’ like all things do
Follow me close, I’m going to Ballinalee
I’ll lose my mind if you don’t come with me
I fuss with my hair, and I fight blood feuds
I contain multitudes

Bob Dylan

I contain Multitudes

Me neither....  His Bobitude has his way of surprising us, which usually means he is both ahead of the game and out of orbit.  But.... If I can hazard a glean, I think there may be a suggestion that at the end of life we look back and see a tangle of strands (I sing songs of love/I sing songs of betrayal....) all of which combine to make up the fibre optic that is our shining light.  (Though shining lights are really blended rainbows....)

Recently I have been prompted to open a jar of memories.  I have been sifting acres of photos, and coming across faces who happened to cross their lives with mine - some briefly, and some deeply.  Some I remember clearly; with some I am still in contact.  Others have disappeared almost entirely and I cannot even recall their names, (let alone their blood types or passport numbers....)

Here's just a few, (with no intended disrespect to any who might wonder why they are not represented here....  This is truly a skate on the thin ice of memory....)

But, I know this one, and where this was.  But when.....  note the ciggies under the chair....  That dates it!

And these guys?  I was on an early bus from somewhere to Ajaccio, and the driver put us down in a mountain village.  The next thing I knew I was raising a glass of champagne to.....  a Saint?  a Hero? 

I still don't know.  But it was a great breakfast......  Thanks guys....

And while we are in Corsica, this stone shed in a river valley in the mountainous heart of the island was where I lived for what seemed like the infinitely expanded present....  

I would still be there.....  I really would.....

Here is a friend of mine from the Canary Isles.  She had an African (Arabic?) name, as she rejected Spanish rule.  

Not unlike my Corsican friends, (who were not enamoured with the French).....

And here, about to be run down by The Cutty Sark, is the daughter of an Italian journalist, who later married an Opera Singer.....

Meanwhile here's one of a number of close friends with a Palestinian connection, though her mother was American (of German heritage).  Father (Mohammed) was a senior official at FAO; elder brother drove a Ferrari to the States on commission, but had a few scrapes on the way.....  Ouch!

But they were such a kind, welcoming family.....

And here's the daughter of one of the Kenyan Flying Doctors, who, despite being employed in Rome (and I think [?] maybe related to someone else I knew....) fixed me up with a terrific safari in East Africa.....

(see https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2017/02/kenya.html

 and 

https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2017/02/kenya-2.html)

And who must have taken this picture of me on the Napoli Express.....

And here's a Jewish girl (from Milan) I met on the ferry from Genoa to Barcelona (when I should have been looking after thirty or so pupils.... Well, they had no where to go.....)

But that's about all I remember.....

I did see her once again in Rome, for lunch, though I don't think I was Italian enough for her.....

'Fraid I don't know who this is either, except she seems to be in my flat in Trastevere.....  I have a vague feeling she was an unhappy au pair.....

Hope she's happy now, somewhere.....

This is Sana. Later involved in the Intifada....   (Not that I know much about Intifadas....)

And her gentle elder sister Wa'fa, who gave me Edmund Burke Feldman's Varieties of Visual Experience, one of my still unread treasures....  I think it was a birthday present, though I was in a dark room at the time.....

Such lovely people - such lovely smiles (and so many knitted jumpers!)  I have been so blessed....  

I mean this.  The variety and colour of life can be found in other people, other places (although it doesn't have to be thus.) In my storybook there aren't many happy endings, but there are lots of good beginnings.....

Here's another scene from the opera buffa that has been my life....  One of the first times I took Amanda to Tuscany, to a remote farmhouse, 600 metres high on Monte Amiata, where peace comes dropping slow (and the ticking of my wristwatch on the window sill would click and clock the break of day....)

I think all the above pictures were taken in the '80s, though I'm not sure exactly.  

This one, below, would have been from ten years before, when I was at Lancaster. 

When I was just setting out.....  

Those were the days my friend

We thought they'd never end

We'd sing and dance forever and a day

We'd live the life we chose

We'd fight and never lose

Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

La la la la...

Yep.... 

La, La, La, La.....

I have been so blessed to have known, and loved, all these people (and more).  All the strands of light from the rainbow that weave the light of our lives.....

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air: 

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision.... shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 

As dreams are made on, and our little life 

Is rounded with a sleep.

WS

The Tempest

Thank you....  Thank you all....

Once I had mountains in the palm of my hand
And rivers that ran through every day

I must have been mad

I never knew what I had

Until I threw it all away

Love is all there is, it makes the world go 'round

Love and only love, it can't be denied

No matter what you think about it

You just won't be able to do without it

Take a tip from one who's tried

Bob Dylan

I Threw It All Away

Hey, everybody, let's have some fun

You only live but once

And when you're dead you're done

So let the good times roll

Let the good times roll

I don't care if you're young or old

Get together, let the good times roll

Let the Good Times Roll


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In Memoriam Mike Wall

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