Hello again. This time from Umbria, although only briefly as tomorrow I drop into Viterbo and hence Lazio, home to a football team for whom Paul Gascoigne, I believe, once played. Oh, and the Citta Eterna...Caput Mundi...Rome!!
But for me, despite the temptation to plunge along the SS No. 2 Via Cassia, and finsh my pilgrimage, Viterbo holds an allure which cannot be denied. Not only one of Italy's most beautiful Renaissance gardens, but the Terme dei Pape - the Pope's own personal sulphurous mud bath. Yes, it is my intention to spend the day blobbing in gloop and having some handsome Italian give me a massage. I am glad to say that I don't think Pope Ratzinger is due to join me, as we all know the German's predeliction for letting it all hang out in the steam room.
But rather than future delights, what of the past, I hear you cry? (you really should modulate your voices). Well, Florence and Umbria have heartened me somewhat, despite the continued travails of the non-open tourist offices. Having seen the cave where St. Francis of Assissi hung out before they built the Basilica of his name, I also feel rather more fatalistic about things. If F of A could live in a 2 by 4 scrape in the ground, I'm sure I could tolerate a night in a field. (though he did die of TB of the spine, so more than one night is not recommended.
But, to be honest, Tuscany's wonders have won me over - most obviously in the stunning 'Renaissance landscapes' of the Val d'Orcia. They are competely unnatural, designed even, by our forebears into an 'ideal of good governance'. But, oh, they are ravishing, and not only I think so, since they have been recognised as extraordinary by UNESCO.
Imagine if you will long slopes of ochre, chocolate and putty coloured land, dotted with the occasional lone cypress. Or long avenues of said cypress snaking along a road, or punctuating the sky along the ridgeline. Each shallow fold seems more perfect than the last, since the men who work this land are truly artists of the ploughshare. They work the fields into all sorts of shapes, so the ridges and furrows catch the light in different directions. It is so empty and tranquil after the big cities of Tuscany: almost a desert under the shifting shadows of an enormous cloudscape. I cannot imagine how it is in the height of summer. Absolutely simmering, and rather surreal, I shouldn't wonder.
On top of all this, of course, are more of Tuscany's gorgeous mediaeval villages, perched above the haze at around 500 m. I have to thank Albino of Saluzzo once again for guiding me to Pienza, truly the most glorious location of anywhere I have visited. The place itself is listed by UNESCO for being a perfect little mediaeval hamlet, but it is the huge panorama of the Val d'Orcia which makes it magnificent. In the morning, I walked along the parapet of the citadel watching the blue valley emerge below, and in the evening, I watched the long shadows fall and the villages glittering above the dark valleys. Radicofani, in the far distance, is the last bastion of Tuscany, and seemed to float in the sky at 800 m.
As you can imagine, all these hill top villages meant lots of slogging climbs, but I am getting used to the effort - reward bargain that is Italian cycling. A racing cyclist who passed me the other day sang out, quoting U2 I believe, 'It is a beautiful day', and I had to agree with him.
Since then, I have loitered with the Sisters in Cortona - a film set city (quite literallly, since they filmed Under the Tuscan Sun here). Despite its fame, it is really rather nice, with the upper town a delightful maze of alleys, Etruscan walls and olive shaded piazzas. Then Perugia, another Etruscan city and home to the famous mentor of Raphael, Perugino (Didn't like him either: very glossy and loud with these horrible little heads of cherubs everywhere). Thence to aforementioned Assissi, and one of the holiest places on earth, which hasn't stopped the Italians building a bloody great autostrada beneath it. But this didn't mar its splendour, at least not for me, since I was adopted there by the marvellous Rita.
Every time I think I have had my lot with Italy, someone like Rita emerges to persuade me otherwise. She was a tour de force; the kind who should work in the tourist office, since she did a lot better finding me accommodation than they did. They were shut - quella sorpresa - and so she took me under her wing and invited me into her shop and spent a good half hour ringing up nuns trying to find me a place for the evening. Since it was coming up to St. Francis's birthday, this was no easy task, but my, she was up to dealing with it. I don't know how many in the 152 convents and monasteries in Assissi she called, but I ended up with the Sisters of St. Brigid of Sweden (except they all seemed to be from India). Thus, I stayed long enough to see the famous frescoes of Giotto that literally changed the history of art forever. But I find I must go and eat, so you will have to wait for that, and the first use of empirical perspective, simple narrative, human scale and 3D volume...
You are, no doubt, relieved.
Ciao
Vx
PS Before I go, I must just mention the simple gorgeousness that was Todi. Another one of those turreted Town Halls with external stairs going to a balcony above the Piazza, just like a mediaeval painting. It occurred to me there that this is what Italy at its best is: the familiar backdrop for so much; from art to the settings of the plays of Shakespeare. Such places are still the hub of civic life: Todi's piazza was a throng of strolling people, old men taking coffee and children playing some kind of British bulldogs. There are times, usually on Sunday mornings, when the church has disgorged the locals into the square, when Italy more than lives up to its billing. Not in the big things, but in the small joys of day to day civic life. I am beginning to realise that Italy is about the extremes of pleasure and frustration.
Thursday 2 October 2008
All Roads lead to....
....Rome!
Just.
Technically, I am staying in the smallest sovereign state in the world, the Vatican City, but they don't have an internet cafe and the Pope is too busy to loan me his computer. But I do have a room with the City itself, and a real Room with a View, too, overlooking St. Peter's. And when I say 'overlooking' I really mean, 'next door', since it is to all intents and purposes on the Piazza. I can virtually shake hands with one of the ginormous statues on the collonades, and watch the queues of ant-like tourists from my bedroom window, marvelling at just how patient us camera wielders are when it comes to staring at famous buildings (my turn tomorrow, when I try and get into the Sistine Chapel).
How did I wangle this wonderous spot, I hear you ask? Well, it is all part of Being a Pilgrim and Being Lucky. Not, I hasten to add, because this was in any way organised. Rather to my surprise, there were no flags out and no Pilgrim welcome. In fact, there wasn't a reception spot of any kind, which struck me as rather surprising, given that Rome is the No. 1 pilgrim destination in the world for Christians. But, that notwithstanding, there is nothing. Niente. Rien. I was left wandering around feeling a little flat, being treated like just another Tourist. But I suppose I am really, despite 2,500 km of cycling, so I duly went to ask in the Tourist Office. They, of course, excelled themselves in being utterly useless, so I asked a passing posse of padres. (Posses of Padres are ten a penny round here). Having thus trapped a whole load of priests into showing Christian charity, I was directed to ring on the doorbell of the Franciscans. And since that doorbell just happened to be next door to the Pope, Wabbit and I will wake tomorrow to the bells of St. Peter's. (I know that Il Padre was looking forward to an audience with Wabbit, but unfortunately, we have arrived a day too late for that. Can't win them all, Benedict.)
Just as I was feeling rather pleased with this good fortune, another Funny Thing Happened On The Way to the Forum. (Actually, it was on the way to the Basilica, but I have been waiting about 2,000 km to say that!!). You know I mentioned those long serpentine queues, reaching half way around St. Peter's Piazza? Well, it seems that Being a Pilgrim has other advantages, if you are a girlie pilgrim and don't mind batting your eyelashes at the Swiss Guard. (Not an onerous task, I can tell you. At least, not given the Swiss Guard I got to bat my eyelashes at).
It happened thus: After being told that the Priest who could give me a Testimonial for completing the Via Francigena was away, the man in the TO suggested I go to the Sacristy. Since the Sacristy was in the church, this involved queuing. A lot. As I have the patience of a gnat when it comes to queues, I think I must have looked rather disappointed. Thus, showing a peculiar interest in doing his job, the man from the TO suggested asking the Swiss Guard, the elite force of the Vatican City army. So I did. And, my he was handsome that Swiss Guard. (And one has to be extremely handsome to look handsome in the red, green and gold stripes, puff ball skirt and funny hat, I can tell you. )
Anyhow, having lifted the barricade and escorted me up the stairs, (much to my delight and the consternation of the assembled hoards of queuing tourists), the Swiss Guard saluted me (I kid you not) and told me to come back if I needed anything. ('Anything at all', in fact, he reiterated) As a result I spent much of the time when I should have been awed by the majesty of St. Peter's interior having rather secular thoughts about just what kind of anything at all I dare ask for....
Even then, the pleasures didn't cease as preferential treatment was heaped on preferential treatment (and we all know there is no pleasure more uncharitable nor pleasurable than getting in ahead of a lots of Americans and Germans). When the assembled hoards were accosting the poor man from the Sacristy to bless their water, waiting dutifully behind the red cordon, I was ushered in, much to the surprise and envy of the multitude, merely to get a stamp on my Pilgrim Card. I have to come back tomorrow for the Testimonial, but I am not complaining if it means I get chatted up by the Delta Force of God and Switzerland.
But, seriously now. St. Peter's. It's quite big, you know. (Although I understand there is somewhere in the Ivory Coast, of all places, even bigger.) But...oh, I know I am going to upset you Italians, but it has all the atmosphere of a railway station. It is vast and wide, but it doesn't have warmth or any kind of spirituality. The building didn't move me so much as impress me. I gawped dutifully at the roof and the Michaelangelo dome, but it was an shock and awe not uplifting or intimate.
In fact, of all the churchs in Italy, only Orvieto cathedral has actually moved me. The difference? Well, my friends, Orvieto is Gothic. It is known as the Gilded Lily of Italy, and looks like a cross between a wedding cake and an altarpiece. But though the outside is stunning - all white and pale pink marble interspersed with gold mosaics - it is the austere, dark and cool interior that made me gasp with its beauty. A huge soaring vault - though without embossed arches - and that lovely Gothic sense of narrow height and the strange aethereal light from stained glass windows. There is something in the dimensions of Gothic architecture that, in and of itself, lifts the soul. At least, lifts my soul.
Nevertheless, I am pleased to say that I fulfilled my promise to Father Paolo, and will write to the Bishop of Pavia, as also promised. Thus, leg 1 at least, of my journey is complete and I am contemplating what to do about the next one. This has all become rather more urgent due to the news that the army have moved into Calabria, since there has been something of a killing spree going on by the Cormora (that's the mafia). Likewise, all I meet in Italy tell me I am half insane to contemplate going alone into Sicily.
So the options are thus:
1. Go for Sicily by boat from Salerno and back again, thence to Basilicata, skipping the toe of the boot and the Comorra.
2. Skip Sicily and take the Via Appia (??) to Puglia and thence up the Adriatic coast, avoiding the worse areas of drugs and vice and gangland violence.
3. Go for the whole caboodle and risk getting shot and coming back in a black body bag.
Mmmm. I am tempted to say 'You decide', but given what you made me do last time, I shall fight the temptation.
Will let you know after chatting things over with Jen and David and no doubt changing my mind many times.
Ciao!!
Vx
Just.
Technically, I am staying in the smallest sovereign state in the world, the Vatican City, but they don't have an internet cafe and the Pope is too busy to loan me his computer. But I do have a room with the City itself, and a real Room with a View, too, overlooking St. Peter's. And when I say 'overlooking' I really mean, 'next door', since it is to all intents and purposes on the Piazza. I can virtually shake hands with one of the ginormous statues on the collonades, and watch the queues of ant-like tourists from my bedroom window, marvelling at just how patient us camera wielders are when it comes to staring at famous buildings (my turn tomorrow, when I try and get into the Sistine Chapel).
How did I wangle this wonderous spot, I hear you ask? Well, it is all part of Being a Pilgrim and Being Lucky. Not, I hasten to add, because this was in any way organised. Rather to my surprise, there were no flags out and no Pilgrim welcome. In fact, there wasn't a reception spot of any kind, which struck me as rather surprising, given that Rome is the No. 1 pilgrim destination in the world for Christians. But, that notwithstanding, there is nothing. Niente. Rien. I was left wandering around feeling a little flat, being treated like just another Tourist. But I suppose I am really, despite 2,500 km of cycling, so I duly went to ask in the Tourist Office. They, of course, excelled themselves in being utterly useless, so I asked a passing posse of padres. (Posses of Padres are ten a penny round here). Having thus trapped a whole load of priests into showing Christian charity, I was directed to ring on the doorbell of the Franciscans. And since that doorbell just happened to be next door to the Pope, Wabbit and I will wake tomorrow to the bells of St. Peter's. (I know that Il Padre was looking forward to an audience with Wabbit, but unfortunately, we have arrived a day too late for that. Can't win them all, Benedict.)
Just as I was feeling rather pleased with this good fortune, another Funny Thing Happened On The Way to the Forum. (Actually, it was on the way to the Basilica, but I have been waiting about 2,000 km to say that!!). You know I mentioned those long serpentine queues, reaching half way around St. Peter's Piazza? Well, it seems that Being a Pilgrim has other advantages, if you are a girlie pilgrim and don't mind batting your eyelashes at the Swiss Guard. (Not an onerous task, I can tell you. At least, not given the Swiss Guard I got to bat my eyelashes at).
It happened thus: After being told that the Priest who could give me a Testimonial for completing the Via Francigena was away, the man in the TO suggested I go to the Sacristy. Since the Sacristy was in the church, this involved queuing. A lot. As I have the patience of a gnat when it comes to queues, I think I must have looked rather disappointed. Thus, showing a peculiar interest in doing his job, the man from the TO suggested asking the Swiss Guard, the elite force of the Vatican City army. So I did. And, my he was handsome that Swiss Guard. (And one has to be extremely handsome to look handsome in the red, green and gold stripes, puff ball skirt and funny hat, I can tell you. )
Anyhow, having lifted the barricade and escorted me up the stairs, (much to my delight and the consternation of the assembled hoards of queuing tourists), the Swiss Guard saluted me (I kid you not) and told me to come back if I needed anything. ('Anything at all', in fact, he reiterated) As a result I spent much of the time when I should have been awed by the majesty of St. Peter's interior having rather secular thoughts about just what kind of anything at all I dare ask for....
Even then, the pleasures didn't cease as preferential treatment was heaped on preferential treatment (and we all know there is no pleasure more uncharitable nor pleasurable than getting in ahead of a lots of Americans and Germans). When the assembled hoards were accosting the poor man from the Sacristy to bless their water, waiting dutifully behind the red cordon, I was ushered in, much to the surprise and envy of the multitude, merely to get a stamp on my Pilgrim Card. I have to come back tomorrow for the Testimonial, but I am not complaining if it means I get chatted up by the Delta Force of God and Switzerland.
But, seriously now. St. Peter's. It's quite big, you know. (Although I understand there is somewhere in the Ivory Coast, of all places, even bigger.) But...oh, I know I am going to upset you Italians, but it has all the atmosphere of a railway station. It is vast and wide, but it doesn't have warmth or any kind of spirituality. The building didn't move me so much as impress me. I gawped dutifully at the roof and the Michaelangelo dome, but it was an shock and awe not uplifting or intimate.
In fact, of all the churchs in Italy, only Orvieto cathedral has actually moved me. The difference? Well, my friends, Orvieto is Gothic. It is known as the Gilded Lily of Italy, and looks like a cross between a wedding cake and an altarpiece. But though the outside is stunning - all white and pale pink marble interspersed with gold mosaics - it is the austere, dark and cool interior that made me gasp with its beauty. A huge soaring vault - though without embossed arches - and that lovely Gothic sense of narrow height and the strange aethereal light from stained glass windows. There is something in the dimensions of Gothic architecture that, in and of itself, lifts the soul. At least, lifts my soul.
Nevertheless, I am pleased to say that I fulfilled my promise to Father Paolo, and will write to the Bishop of Pavia, as also promised. Thus, leg 1 at least, of my journey is complete and I am contemplating what to do about the next one. This has all become rather more urgent due to the news that the army have moved into Calabria, since there has been something of a killing spree going on by the Cormora (that's the mafia). Likewise, all I meet in Italy tell me I am half insane to contemplate going alone into Sicily.
So the options are thus:
1. Go for Sicily by boat from Salerno and back again, thence to Basilicata, skipping the toe of the boot and the Comorra.
2. Skip Sicily and take the Via Appia (??) to Puglia and thence up the Adriatic coast, avoiding the worse areas of drugs and vice and gangland violence.
3. Go for the whole caboodle and risk getting shot and coming back in a black body bag.
Mmmm. I am tempted to say 'You decide', but given what you made me do last time, I shall fight the temptation.
Will let you know after chatting things over with Jen and David and no doubt changing my mind many times.
Ciao!!
Vx
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