Posted on September 12th, 2009
Friday 21st August
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Today I went to Sienna and purchased a shirt. Obviously that wasn’t all I did, but I thought I’d get it out of the way first, as it’s been brewing for a while. Having avoided temptation yesterday, half way to the Pitti Palace, today it was just too much.
I didn’t give in at once, having lingered longingly on the way up the hill. I waited all day, then just happened to pass by on the way down…OK, that’s a lie, I went out of my way, got slightly lost, doubled back…I’m ably assisted in my folly by a charming sales-lady. In the course of selling me a lovely linen shirt for €25, I learn that she’s a biology graduate who can’t get a job in science. She lives in Montalpucino (2nd best place in Italy for wine) and works in Sienna. Her partner (or father, I’m not quite sure which) has to work in Rome. It’s tough all over, the credit crunch is biting here as well…e vero!
I’ve purchased a shirt, and now I’m not feeling as guilty as I should, given the parlous nature of my finances, just tired, very footsore and lonely.
I’ve been expecting it…comes a time on every trip when, despite the manifest advantages of solo travel, you just want to talk to someone…in English. Never mind. Well, not much, not enough to do anything about it….which is the root of the problem right there, when you get down to it.
But what about Sienna? Sienna is fab – un-spoilt mediaeval city centre and some world class art plus one seriously stunning space – Il Campo, the main piazza is justly renowned. An absolutely gorgeous place, rose-red, scallop shaped, divided into 9 sections commemorating both the rule by the Council of 9 and the folds of the Virgin’s cloak. Everything about it works; it’s harmonious, well proportioned, surrounded by lovely buildings and, as you enter, blinking in the sudden light from one of the streets feeding into it, deeply theatrical. As if the old city has been holding this up her sleeve, then…..taadaaa! If this doesn’t snatch your breath and make you smile, there’s really no hope for you.
Annoyingly, the combination of attractions I really want isn’t available on one ticket, so I decide to forgo the pleasures lurking inside the Duomo – apart from the Baptistery, all painted and lovely.
There seems to be a general rule against photography (exception, for some reason, the Baptistery again). Considering the fame of the frescos in the Palazzo Pubblico, and the general high quality of the art elsewhere, I feel this is mean spirited. Banning flash is OK, but if you’re going to bar photography altogether, then I think you have to offer better than the rather poor reproductions available on postcards, or expensive guide books.
Is this where I mention that Sienna is home to the oldest operating bank in the world, Monte dei Pasche de Sienna, still a major player on the Italian financial stage? I do believe it is. I’m unsurprised to read that they own some of the best art in Sienna, which can be viewed….if one writes to obtain permission. In fairness, I should also mention that in addition to the handsome Palazzos which were their original headquarters, they’ve also provided Sienna with its best and most interesting piece of modern architecture. A complex extension to the old buildings, completely invisible from the front, which stretches down the hill behind them both.
I don’t know if it’s the hills (Sienna is built across three hills, many of the streets are quite steep), the even higher buildings than Lucca, combined with the somewhat formal, dripping with gold Siennese style of art, but I get the sense that you have to work for it in Sienna. It seems like it’s all there to be seen, and the centre of the old city (centro storico) is small, but it’s hard to figure out the geography – what with the hills, and the height of the walls…there’s something a bit closed-in about the place.
Intriguing, but I can’t help thinking about the walls around the old city, and the bloody past. Sienna makes me think about some of the darker aspects of the middle ages; the endless warring between the city states and the Vatican, the legendary cruelty of the roaming bands of condottiére (mercenary soldiers) who did most of the fighting, the appalling persecutions of heretics, the unconscionable manoeuvrings of the banking clans, twisting and turning always to keep the advantage. We’re not quite as openly bloody (well, not at home, at least) these days, but this, too, is a part of our heritage….many of the financial structures still driving everything were invented in places like this.
Or maybe I’m just getting tired…look at those lovely flags all over the place, they’re all very festive….except they mark out the territories of the contrade (parishes) who compete in the Pallio (the famous bare-back horse race around the Campo), and just about everything else…I suspect you have to be born here to really understand. Open display and multiple layers of meaning…not that the display isn’t magnificent.
Like the frescos in the Palazzo Pubblico, room after room of dazzling work, including the famous allegories of good and bad government – painted by Lorenzetti in 1338 – pointed reminders to the councillors meeting in that room of the larger consequences of their decisions. So magnificent is it all that I find that I have to keep reminding myself that this is the Town Hall….this is the Town Hall…staggering testimony to the wealth and power of the place…but this is the Town Hall…inspiration, one suspects, of a thousand pale imitations scattered all over Europe; tasteful but essentially empty monuments to civic pride.
In addition to the allegories – ‘Andrew Grahame Dixon stood here’, a thought which gets me slightly over excited – I come across another very familiar image (The knight on the horse with the vivid orange-yellow surcoat) which pops up in virtually every book about chivalry or the middle ages. It’s called the Equestrian Portrait of Guidoriccio da Fogliano and is attributed to Martini, although apparently the experts have been arguing over it for ages. In truth, I find myself not really caring who painted it, and I know I’ll never remember the proper title, but I’m very thrilled to have seen it in the flesh, so to speak.
Once I can tear my eyes away from the familiar, worldly image, I’m rewarded with quite a different experience – a glorious, highly decorative Maestà, (Virgin surrounded by Saints/Angels) this one is indisputably by Martini, and very very lovely.
I’ve managed to resist the temptation to climb the huge tower attached to the Palazzo Pubblico, the Torre Mangia (the name commemorates a particularly rapacious minor official – mangiare, or ‘eater’) – but I needn’t have worried about missing the view. There’s no shortage of high vantage points, including the rear loggia of the Palazzo Pubblico which offers a great panorama of the surrounding countryside. Later on, I got some great views across the old city by snaking up the seemingly endless windy, narrow stair to the Panorama del Facciatone. This involves access to a (terrifyingly) narrow walkway across the top of vertiginously high wall set at right angles to the rear of the Duomo – relic of a hugely ambitious mid 14th C scheme to extend the Duomo, which would have resulted in it becoming easily the largest building in Italy. The plan was brought to an abrupt halt by the black death.
Across the Piazza from the Duomo is the Santa Maria della Scala. This huge complex of buildings, Sienna’s hospital for over 800 years, is currently being developed as the city’s major cultural complex. They haven’t finished it yet, so it’s currently an endearing, but confusing, mixture of wobbly old card notices and smartly etched glass information panels. They also haven’t quite worked out how to explain, or signpost, the apparently endless warren that lurks behind the innocent looking outer walls, so it’s very much a voyage of random discovery. Making me an even more unreliable narrator than usual – there could be whole worlds hidden away in there, for all I know.
It’s all a bit eccentric, but rather enjoyable, starting as soon as you step inside. Out of the achingly bright sunlight into the cavernous, cool dimness of an enormous room. The ticket desk and a small gift shop huddle in one corner, there might have been a painting on one wall. Mainly, though, I remember this great space as being full of the most delicious, soft, diffused light; the happiest result I’ve yet seen of the (almost universal, very sensible) local habit of draping windows with swathes of gauze.
Following my nose down a wide, long corridor, the first surprise occurs almost immediately. There’s a smallish chapel off the corridor, and at first I think it’s closed to the public, on account of it being full of scaffolding, swathed in deep blue cloth. But no – they are in the process of restoring the frescos, but you are allowed to climb up and have close look for yourself. At first I can’t quite believe this, but I’ve got a ticket, so the stern attendant lady irritably waves me into the room. Which I have completely to myself. Still smarting from the universal ‘no-photos’ rule, I immediately whip my camera out of my pocket and turn it on…so I do have a few (admittedly not very good – there wasn’t much light) photos, but there’s really no need, as I’m sure I’ll remember this.
It’s such a treat to be able to get so close – I could reach out and touch the paintings (I don’t, I hasten to add – I’m not completely stupid), and can trace the artist’s individual paint strokes. I think they’re mid 15thC, by Vecchietta, but I could be mis-reading the guidebook….and it’s hard to get a sense of the overall effect, as you can’t step back and see the whole. This only serves, however, to increase my respect for whoever painted this in the first place – quickly, section by section, before the plaster dried, with only candles for illumination, and probably bent into all sorts of weird shapes to get brush to plaster. Amazing.
Almost immediately it gets even better, as the corridor leads you into the Sala del Pellegrinaio (Pilgrim’s Room), one of the famous bits. This huge room, originally a hospital ward, was decorated in the mid 15thC with a series of frescos by Vecchietto and Bartolo. Unusually (for that time) the subjects were mainly secular, depicting the early history of the Hospital and the scala (ladder to heaven) from which it takes it’s name on one wall. The other side has a series of scenes illustrating the hospital’s many charitable functions. Full of colour and incident, they preserve many fascinating details of mid 15thC Siennese life – you can almost hear the babble of voices from the hundreds of individual faces that people the vivid scenes.
There’s a helpful series of sloping wooden interpretive panels (in Italian – I wonder if they have any plans for other languages) which also happen to be at exactly the right angle to provide a comfy backrest. Sit on the floor and lean back, as I did, and you’re at just the right angle to gaze at the scene on the opposite wall – I suspect a happy accident, but appreciated none the less, as the works are quite high up on the walls, and my neck’s starting to suffer a bit from so much upward inclination. Plus you can easily enjoy the lovely ceiling, with finely painted ribs and vaults
I could happily stay here for hours, but eventually fall prey to the ‘there’s lots more to see, hurry up or you’ll miss it’ demon, and drag myself upright and totter onwards…through a strange series of rooms with peculiarly baggy, beige carpeting, displaying what seems like a random collection of small chunks of sculpture, manuscripts, vestments and other ecclesiastical paraphernalia. There are hardly any labels (in any language) to guide you, and one senses this is a temporary bit, whilst they’re preparing something more exciting behind the scenes. The end of this series of rooms has some rather lovely frescoing on the ribs and ceiling of a handsomely barrel-vaulted roof. Is this the Capella del Sacro Chiodo (Chapel of the Sacred Nail), or was that the one full of scaff? Hard to say.
I vaguely remember that there’s an upstairs, but I take the downward option, instead, wondering through a couple of underground offertories dedicated to the Virgin and the local saint, Catherine of Sienna. I’ve never been anywhere quite like this before, and they strike me as being distinctly peculiar, almost spooky. There’s a real labyrinth of dimly lit (by weak bulbs and the occasional stray beam of natural light, deflected from who knows where) slightly dank rooms down here. It’s hard to tell where one chapel ends and the next one starts. Mostly, the panelled wooden walls and vaguely baroque moulded decorations are painted dark grey, the floors are dark marble slabs or creaking boards. There’s the odd dull gleam of white marble, and one very fine gilded altar-piece, but in general it’s a gloomy transit which adds to my impression of Sienna as a somewhat inward place.
I retrospect, I honestly don’t know quite what to make of this interlude – in striking contrast to the lofty, airy spaces (Churches and Chapels both) I have been exploring up to now, these troglodyte places seem to spring from a completely different part of the spiritual spectrum; private, almost furtive, superstitious. You begin to hear yourself breath in the dim chill and it’s not a very comforting sound. Half-forgotten, jumbled snatches of tales of hidden knowledge and strange heresies loom out of the shadows…Dan Brown’s wilder imaginings don’t seem quite so daft, down here…scary thought indeed.
Round a corner, and, pretty well without warning, I’m in a very long underground corridor, which vanishes deep into the bowels of the hill. Heading instinctively towards the light, I’m briefly tempted by the small archaeological museum, off the corridor, but I’ve been underground for too long. I need light, warmth and gelato…not necessarily in that order.
A bit later, sticky and (temporarily) sated, I head for the Museum dell’opera del Duomo Oh what a surprise, photos are forbidden…drat, there’s a fab carved stone lion over there, would be a great addition to my growing collection. Muttering slightly, I dutifully troop through the statuary, unmoved, for once, by rooms full of pretty decent classical and renaissance stone carving….and then forget everything else when I get to the room with the best paintings in…it’s not that large a room, and there’s so much gold on the astonishing works lining the walls that you just know instantly that this is where the good stuff is. The whole room is full of that unique glow, the unmistakeable signal of wealth, power and privilege. Despite which the hush that fills the room seems to me to have more to do with people in the presence of extraordinary beauty and spirituality, not the respectful quietness usual in the face of displays of great wealth.
I’m not, I think, being fanciful here. Tearing my attention away from the art for a second, I notice that many of my fellows are crossing themselves in that unself-conscious way that argues long practice.
Dominating the room, taking up almost the entire end wall, is Duccio di Buoninsegna’s luminous Maestà, true to the Siennese style of intricate and fine detail on a glorious gold ground. Duccio did, however, more or less abandon the traditional formality. Despite the conventional nature of the subject, he manages to infuse it with movement and life, and a far greater sense of perspective than was usual at the time (1308). Originally created to be the altarpiece of the Duomo, where it remained for over 200 years, this lovely thing is justly regarded as being Sienna’s greatest masterpiece – although, this being Sienna, one of the additional pieces of information that has attached itself to the work is that of being the most expensive piece of art ever commissioned at the time.
It’s not until later, re-reading the guide book, that I realise that the wonderful series of small panels that line one of the other walls, depicting various episodes from the life of Jesus with great skill and vivacity (like the oldest, poshest comic book in the world) were also by Duccio. Painted by him, in fact, on the other side of the Maestà. No wonder it was so expensive at the time. Now, of course, it’s more or less priceless…a fair assessment of anything that retains the power to take your breath away after 701 years.
The other thing that takes my breath away is the long, winding climb up all the stairs to previously mentioned Panorama del Facciatone. It’s worth it, but I’m feeling slightly rubber-knee’d by the time I make it back to terra firma. Looking around the Piazzo del Duomo for a suitable place in the shade to sit for a while, for a minute I think I’m dreaming. That can’t be Bach’s Toccata & Fugue I can hear, can it? Doesn’t sound quite right though…following my ears, I walk round the corner of the Duomo, and find a crowd gathered round a man coaxing immaculate Bach from a Piano Accordion. Wonderful.
Less wonderful is the realisation that I’ve missed the Baptistery, so have to go back round the corner and climb a lot of steps …again; because the Duomo is built on top of a tolerably steep hill what you might call the back and front doors are at very different levels.
Having dutifully wondered around the Baptistery – the fourth of the six places my ticket entitles me to enter – I have a moment of indecision, as the two other places I could go are, inevitably, at opposite ends of town. I doubt I have either the time or the stamina to do both, so which one should I aim for ?
Ambling idly along, mulling this over, my peace is rudely shattered by a marauding taxi. Much of the centre is supposedly pedestrian, but the taxis seem to go where they will. I wouldn’t be all that surprised to see one backing off a balcony, or parked halfway up a tree. Mind you, Taxis (and the few other cars encountered on the fringes of the pedestrian heart) do at least move fairly slowly, for the most part, giving you ample time to get out of the way. Scooters, on the other hand, hurtle along. As a pedestrian I’ve decided I hate them. Not only are they dangerous, they smell bad and sound worse. If I had one, I’d be impressing you with their many advantages, no doubt….I still think they whine like needy children, though.
For no other reason than that I like the sound of the name, I decide to head for Sant’Agostino. It’s downhill, too, which makes a nice change. Hang on a minute, this can’t be right, I’m at the bottom of the hill, it’s getting all modern. Must have missed it…damm, back up the hill again, but maybe I’ll go the other way, through the garden.
Which is all very pleasant, but still essentially up hill. Looking up at a huge brick bastion, topped with a tower/arch thing, I figure that must be the place. Quite a bit of sweaty, steeply uphill walking later I find a small sign on a wall that confirms that this is Sant’Agostino. Good. Just along the wall, though, is a handwritten sign apologising for being closed for renovations. Less good. At least there’s somewhere cool to sit – a small piazza full of plane trees – whilst I try and figure out what next. Examining the rather inadequate map in the guide book, I can’t help groaning quietly (it’s far too hot to do anything loudly) Not only is the only other place my ticket will admit me to a weary way away… I’ve also, somehow, contrived to place myself almost as far as you can get from the railway station.
What I really need is some motivation, something to help me along the way…and that’s why I ended up buying a shirt.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!
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Posted in Art, Other places, Sienna | 2 Comments »
Posted on September 10th, 2009
Thursday 20th August
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Unusually for Florence, you’re not allowed to take photos inside Santa Maria Novello (the huge church handily just across the road from the station. I’m not aiming to walk as far today). So you’ll just have to take my word for the wonderful Giotto crucifix, single Massacio and Botticello frescos, the entire sanctuary full of Ghirlandaio frescos and the Strozzi chapel, frescoed by Fillippino Lippi. Both of these latter are undeniably spectacular, floor to ceiling of vivid, intricate images, but ultimately I keep coming back to the things which seem to me full of real feeling. The crucifix, and the Massacio & Botticelli frescos – the one an almost severely formal Trinita, the other an early, charmingly informal nativity scene.
The old man in charge of the gift shop, possibly mistaking my dewy eyes and purple shirt for signs of devotion, refuses to accept the 1€ I’m trying to give him for the two postcards I’ve selected. Either that, or he’s been there long enough to recognise when someone is genuinely moved by what they’ve just seen. My Italian just isn’t good enough to understand, as he tries to explain. In the end we just exchange smiles, and I keep the money.
Trying to puzzle it out afterwards, I realise he’s right, in a sense. I might not be a believer in the Christian sense, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that I do believe, and that passionately, in the art. I’m deeply moved by the blazingly evident belief of the artists.
There’s more to see in the museum (originally a convent) next door, if only I can find the way in. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since I read about it in the guidebook, because the cloister is decorated with a series of frescos by Paullo Uccello, one of my favourite renaissance artists. I do eventually figure it out, buying my ticket from a faintly surprised looking lady behind the desk – who breaks off her morning gossip with another lady attendant long enough to serve me. The whole place has the slightly haphazard air of a small hotel that wasn’t expecting any guests so early in the day…I’m certainly the only visitor at the moment, and it never gets what one could call busy.
It’s lovely to have the place more or less to myself for most of my visit, but my gain is everyone else’s loss, this is well worth a look.
The Uccello frescos, although sadly faded, are full of interest – there’s what must have originally have been a startling panel depicting the last trump, evidence of the artist’s fascination with perspective, an expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden where one can get some sense of what must have been a beautifully verdant garden…and I’m particularly taken with the animals and birds that crowd in everywhere, or lurk in corners watching the action in the main scene. It would be so wonderful to see these restored to their former glory, but I suspect that the current orthodoxy – which sanctions cleaning and arresting decay, but little actual re-creation – makes that a remote possibility.
All the more frustrating, then, in a sense, that just off the cloister is the Spanish Chapel (so called as it was used by members of Eleonora de Toledo’s court in the 16th C, and was once the headquarters of The Inquisition) which is completely covered by extremely well preserved frescos by a relatively unknown artist called Buonaiuto. Ironies of preservation aside, though, the more I look, the more I realise that this is a magical place. A real little gem, whose relative obscurity seems to have ensured that it remains untouched, largely as the artist originally conceived it. A rarity, where every church and chapel seems compounded of the additions and alterations of passing centuries.
Sitting quietly on one of the thoughtfully placed benches, enjoying the riot of colour and detail around me, it finally occurs to me why I have such a fondness for this, essentially mediaeval, style of painting. It’s not just that they tend to be strikingly narrative and full of beautiful detail. I remember that mum had a book of Uccello, and spending hours poring over it as a child; loving the details and the odd perspective effects. Fascinated by an art which is neither simple nor as naive as it can at first appear.
On the contrary, the best of it is very sophisticated indeed (as I now realise) in that it strives to represent an idea of the world, a cognitive, imaginative construct; rather than simply what can be seen around us. The big frescoes seem more like conversations with the viewer, sharing the story. Like all good storytellers, the painters choose – what to leave in, what to exclude – they are consciously edited abstractions that also include jokes, asides and telling details.
Medieval art is often characterised as a means of conveying (largely) religious messages to a mostly illiterate populous, which is no doubt true. True, but also misleading to current sensibilities, which will almost unconsciously equate ‘illiterate’ with ‘stupid’. Hardly likely to have ever been the case. Despite our increasing saturation with images of all sorts, we are still overwhelmingly a text-based culture. So used to text customarily carrying all the inflexions and subtlety of meaning, indeed, that we tend to forget that it can also be done pictorially, with just as much complexity and depth. The cleverness of the modern graphic designer, employed in the service of our own gods of consumption seems thin and contrived, compared to the old masters of the renaissance. I am delighted to be encountering all this wonderful stuff….but a little embarrassed, also, as each new discovery reveals the depths of my ignorance.
Much of the rest of the day remains a bit of a blur – despite my initial intention of not overdoing it today, I still walked miles, weaving a random path through the multitudinous glorious that abound on every side; the Ponte Vecchio, Palazzo Strozzi (twice – couldn’t resist the lure of a very chic café), the roasting banks of the Arno around noon (how stupid can you get – the least shaded place in the city, at noon), various churches including the delightfully named Ognissanti (all saints – it sound so dull in English) Piazza Pitti – where I have a bit of a bridle upon learning that you can’t buy a ticket for just the Boboli Gardens alone; I’m temporarily sated with art, and have no desire to visit one of the many galleries of this and that included in the hefty entrance fee. I’ll go back to the other side of the river, then, see if I don’t…
The next thing I know, I’m sitting wearily on the steps outside the church of San Lorenzo, right across the other side of the city, eating gelati and staring vacantly at the throngs of passers-by (my perch is just around the corner from the main market area)…
Freed of many of the workaday concerns that usually tend to fill the head with flannel, I’ve noticed a number of minor visual pre-occupations floating to the surface. I’m becoming mildly obsessed with lions, images of which I keep seeing, and photographing, all over the place. It’s become a little game I’m playing with myself, to see how good a collection I can amass.
Something else, which I reckon started in Lucca, and which I caught myself indulging today, is a fascination with the shapes (often looking straight upwards, but not always) between adjacent buildings, roofs etc. There’s something deeply satisfying in the multiplicitious variety of glimpses of the sky they afford – hard to explain in words, but maybe the photos will make a bit more sense of it (I’m quite prepared to accept that it’s just me, though) It’s as if I’m collecting a series of keys with which to unlock ever more layers of the city. Florence, in particular, has the air of a place of multiple histories, about which one could spin endless stories. Somehow, the very fabric of the place is both intricate and elastic enough to make them all seem at least plausible, if not strictly true…like the tale about the strange race of fish-headed folk that live in the river who only emerge in the dead of night, creeping silently about the narrow streets preying on the drunks and strays. They’re tolerated due to an ancient bargain, struck with Cosimo di Medici, which grants them safety in return for their unrivalled knowledge of currents and tides (vital for trade)…a strange, slightly disturbing legend which I just invented.
Maybe this richness of possibility is one of the true hallmarks of the city. Why Lucca is definitely a city, although it’s tiny, and also why it’s perfectly possible to build new towns…but not new cities. You can plan a town, but the depth of complexity that characterises a true city can’t be designed, it has to grow, to develop slowly over many generations.
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Posted in Art, Florence, Other places | No Comments »
Posted on September 8th, 2009
Wednesday 19th August
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Pisa
Intrepid as anything, I’m up early today. Bus to the station…slight delay figuring out the automatic ticket machine, then entrain to Pisa. Not only that, but by dint of some effort I manage to stay awake on the train…more or less…and am rewarded by a moderately scenic progress through rolling hills most of the way…with a soundtrack of Grateful Dead (courtesy of my new phone, which does almost everything except wash and iron clothes), although it does occur to me that it should really be Vivaldi…or perhaps some nice monkish chanting. I’ll stick with the Dead, I think. There’s a definite air of the baroque about many of their better excursions, plus I inevitably associate them with LA. The only other place I’ve been in the last decade that’s this hot.
Having assiduously read the guide book I’m not completely surprised when most of Pisa reveals itself as a pleasant, but hardly exciting, 1950s town. (It was more or less flattened during the 2nd World War, necessitating a lot of re-building). On the way to the famous bit – almost as far as you can get from the station and still be in Pisa – I pass first a house with a gable-end completely covered in pastel-shaded Keith Haring type squiggly people, then a loggia at the base of a Palazzo by the river (Arno, again) that’s being restored. At ground level it’s all covered with hoardings…which are covered in a rich selection of really excellent street art. Fab! To the bemusement of several passer-by (on whom it all seems largely wasted) I take lots of photographs.
Across the river, and almost at the Campo di Miraculo (‘Field of Miracles’, as the famous bit is apparently known), I digress slightly, having spotted the modest façade of a smallish Romanesque church down a side street, and am very glad I did. Inside it’s very plain, almost austere, and I like it very much. It retains in large measure the feeling of a shared sacred space and I’ll bet it’s still used, actually has meaning for the community it serves. There’s the sense of a communal shelter, a place of coming together in the face of the un-bearable. A moments reflection, and one realizes this must be one of the primary functions of any sacred place, but it’s not something I’ve ever really experienced on an emotional level before…certainly not in an empty building. Is there something special about this place, I wonder, or has the minor epiphany experienced yesterday sensitized me in some way? Who knows…but I’m glad, and grateful, nonetheless
Aptly named, the Campo di Miraculi turns out to be another of those intensely theatrical, stylish spaces at which the Italians excel. You emerge, blinking in the sudden light, from a dark, narrow street, onto what initially seems like a lake of vibrantly green grass (In this heat? Some poor sod’s doing an awful lot of watering!) enclosed by warmly pastel-shaded cliffs of elegant architecture. Floating in the middle, an immense, dazzling white marble island – the Duomo, with attendant satellite, the Baptistery…and, of course, the incredible, impossible, un-fathomable tower. Leaning away like anything, as it has been ever since they got about half-way up during the initial construction, attempting to compensate for which accounts for the slight but noticeable kink.
It’s hard to convey in words just how peculiar the tower is; even harder to photograph in a way that gives any sense of the deep strangeness of it. Even if didn’t lean it would be well worth seeing, because it’s lovely, but the angle makes it unique, compelling and utterly odd. A glorious (although unintended) monument to the counter-intuitiveness of the laws of physics. Hard not to hold your breath, in expectation of the worst. Which, after almost 20 years of careful (and, I should imagine, incredibly nerve-racking) remedial work, has apparently been almost indefinitely delayed.
It is possible to venture all the way to the top, but only with a guide and after a long wait. It’s far too hot for that, and I would lack the patience even it weren’t , so I wonder off to the ticket office, still shaking my head at the loopy wonderfulness of the thing. And that no-one had the heart to pull it down and start again.
They have a cunning pic’n'mix ticket pricing system – the more bits you want to visit, the cheaper each one gets. Not a bad idea, and despite the huge numbers of people sloshing about the place I only have to queue for about 10 minutes. Just about long enough to agonise over which bits I can afford to go and see. I settle on the duomo and duomo museum.
The tower draws the eye so powerfully that the Duomo hasn’t really registered as other than a massive marble bulk, yet. I’ve been skulking around behind it, profoundly grateful for the shade, but it’s now time to take a deep swig of water, brace myself and step out into the light … go around to the front…and become enchanted by what must be one of the very loveliest buildings in Italy. Everything seems in perfect proportion, the various masses and volumes of the component parts most harmoniously balanced, so that nothing seems out of the scale, and it does all work as a whole – rather than a collection of (perhaps individually magnificent) bits all lumped together, the impression gained in Florence.
The façade is particularly appealing – it really established the template for all subsequent Romanesque churches – so well conceived that it gives an impression of soaring lightness, a simple schema of arches upon arches enlivened by green marble banding amongst the white. Standing directly in front of it, gazing upwards, I’m struck by the carved beasts that jut dramatically out of the corners of the first tier – like pegs to hold it to the sky, stop the whole confection drifting off into the blue empyrean. Which would surely be a miracle, although somewhat understandable on a day like this. There’s a peculiar quality to the light – dazzlingly bright, relentless – which, although it renders everything else hard-edged, immutably earthen, seems to lend the softly shining marble an airy, almost diaphanous quality.
Or, perhaps, it just leads to an over-heating of the imagination.
Either way, I am enchanted, both by the building itself and the notion of a floating cathedral.
The spell holds inside, and I spend a deeply happy interlude simply ambling about and drinking it all in – soaring arcades, rich decoration including the marvellous carving on Pisano’s ornate pulpit. Deep shadows and gleaming light pouring in from high-set windows. It’s all hugely impressive, despite being crowded with a babbling throng of visitors. In contrast to the airy look of the exterior, there’s a still, cool feeling of solidity inside. We, the visitors, are the diaphanous, insubstantial ones…we might as well be ghosts.
The only false note is, sadly, struck by a couple of pieces of modern sculpture – a small pulpit and larger altar. It’s not that they’re bad, as such. Certainly well-executed. It’s just that they seem…well, thin, somehow. Lacking something, in comparison to the glories around them. Passion? Conviction? Confidence? It’s hard to say what it is, but the lack is painfully evident. Something, perhaps, to do with religion’s gradual slide from being at the very heart of everything conceivable. Whatever it is, this lack obviously makes the artist’s job very much harder. (Which make Sutherland and Epstein’s achievement in Coventry all the more impressive, it occurs to me in passing)
The museum is very worthwhile (and blessedly cool). It’s stuffed full of bits from the duomo that have fallen off, been removed for one reason or another, or stored away and forgotten about for ages (in the astonishing case of a huge and elaborate tomb, plus associated sculptures). I’m not hugely excited by the vestments (fabulous though I’m sure they are), but there’s some wonderful illuminated manuscripts that keep me happy for ages, poring over the minute detail of the illuminations, and amusing myself imagining a renaissance predecessor to the player piano…an ingenious contrivance for playing the musical scores, which have something of the piano-roll about them.
It’s a peaceful place – or it would be, were it not for the demented whining of a huge strimmery-type thing being wielded by a seriously macho gardener in the courtyard. Eventually he stops, and a blessed quiet descends…lovely.
Lucca
So impressed am I with my own intrepidity (or should it be intrepid-ness?) that instead of doing the sensible thing; finding a quiet corner and having a little nap, or dozing on the train all the way back to Florence, I decide instead to detour via Lucca. (Who’s chief claim to fame these days is as Puccini’s birthplace) This turns out to be both a good and bad thing.
Good, because Lucca is absolutely fab, and I fall in love with it almost immediately. But my sore feet and dishevelled state (not to mention a certain digestive delicacy) tell their own tale. Despite a) drinking huge quantities of water, b) keeping in the shade wherever possible all afternoon and c) never moving faster than a slow amble, I’m knackered and my feet hurt… I have a rigatoni al ragu to thank for the dicky tummy, I think, but perhaps it’s just general heat stress and I’m maligning an otherwise exemplary bar (the house white was fine, and I like taking my refreshment in the shade of a huge cypress) unjustly.
It didn’t just do for me, either, all my toys seem to have given up the ghost. Well, I say all ..both camera and phone batteries have expired, I hope they’re OK, it did get very hot indeed.
But I’m getting ahead of myself…The train journey from Pisa is pleasantly scenic, distant rolling hills and great swathes of what I eventually realise is Bamboo all over the place.
Lucca, whilst it has a few modern-ishh bits, isprincipallylly a completely un-buggered-about-with smamedievalval city – complete with a full set of encircling walls. You can walk all the way around them, or hire a bike and cycle. Neither of which I did, but will make sure I do next time…and there will most definitely be a next time, I’m thinking I need to modify my original plan to return to Florence to just look at pictures in the Uffizzi to include at least an overnight stay in Lucca.
It’s lovely – winding streets, tall houses either side dotted with attractive piazzi and churches, several of which I had a look in. They’re all pretty much Romanesque, and I’m getting to be quite a fan. I think it’s the contrast between the wedding-cake exuberance of the exterior (although always constrained within a simple scheme or arches and levels, it’s all in the details) and the relative simplicity of the interiors. The fancy baroque pulpits/altars/tombs being added later, in the fashion of the day.
One of them – Santi Giovanni e Repparata – has been hacking away at the branch on which it stands, so to speak. They’ve excavated great swathes of the underpinnings to reveal a complex architectural history going all the way back to the Romans. All very interesting, with the best bits laid bare so you can see them from above. You can also descend to the lower depths and get some sense of what it’s built on (itself, mainly)…and, most memorably, look up from below the present day floor level; past all the layers into the 8thC Baptistery dome…a dizzying perspective.
It’s all explained in the notes they lend you, but a combination of the charmingly eccentric translation, the complexity of the story (the helpfully colour-coded plan looks like a mad mosaic) and the heat mean that I’ve retained very little hard information.
A bit later on, another church (the name of which sadly escapes me) and I think…’hey ho, more of the same, at least it’ll be cooler inside’…and am pulled up short, astounded, by a glowing Filippo Lippi painting hanging to one side of the alter. It almost leaps off the wall, the colours are so intensive (particularly compared to the no doubt worthy but essential dull 16th and 17th C stuff elsewhere about the place). Seeing this, and the contrast, I’m reminded again what the Pre-Raphaelites were on about, and that they may have had a point. Strangely, in retrospect I can’t actually remember what the subject of the painting was, having just retained an impression of intense, glowing colours.
These glorious things – art and buildings – have such beauty that they either make me grin like a loon or cry..or both at once.
And so it goes, as I wander about happily. Another great virtue of the place is that whilst it’s fairly busy, it’s not completely swimming with visitors, like Pisa and Florence. Via Filonga (Long thread street), the main shopping drag, is thronged, but only like a busy day in town at home.
Part of the pleasure (if, like me, you can’t be bothered to look at a map) is that you never know what’s going to be around the next corner. A piazza, a church…a tiny square full of second-hand books…or an old Palazzo with a whopping great tower…with a tree growing out of the top of it. You can climb the tower (it costs about £2.50, well worth it) so of course I can’t resist, despite a degree of nervousness about heights. It’s quite an undertaking and not recommended for the elderly or infirm. A good few flights (forgot to count how many) of worn stone steps, then a lot more steel stairs attached inside the hollow upper reaches of the tower. You might want to remove any hat you might be wearing at the top, as it’s very windy (and this on a baking hot, completely windless at ground level day – heavens knows what it’s like in winter)and I very nearly lost mine. Which would have been annoying, as I’ve had it for years and although it’s getting a bit battered now it was originally a decent Panama.
In passing, can’t help wondering why so few people wear hats when it’s this hot and sunny? Baseball caps don’t count (unless you’ve long hair or no neck), you’re still going to fry.
Anyway, hatted or not, it’s really worth dragging yourself up the 144ft and innumerable stairs, as not only do you get some stunning views (a very bad time for my camera battery to give up the ghost – swiftly followed by phone – bugger !) and some much needed coolth, it’s also strangely peaceful. Despite being fairly crowded. Instinctively, people just seem to stand and gaze, quietly. I could happily spend ages up here, but that wouldn’t be fair, as there’s not a lot of space, so I reluctantly wind my way back down again. Wondering, as I go, why anyone would want such a ridiculously tall tower in the first place. It – and the fortress-like Palazzo it’s attached to – were originally built by a family of rich merchants, the Guigini. Evidence of a turbulent past, I suppose.
It’s peaceful enough now, and apparently Lucca is one of the richest cities in Tuscany. I can’t help nurturing a profound hope that will long continue to be slightly off the main tourist trail. The Lucchese are clearly doing very well for themselves at the moment (if the very stylish shops are anything to go by). Although a babbling, sweaty, heaving mass constantly thronging the streets might give it an authentic mediaeval ambiance it would also make it good deal less pleasant place to visit.
There’s something very particular about the cheek-by-jowl nature of such places that makes them endlessly fascinating. By the very nature of the place, the internal life is just that – internal – behind high walls and in hidden courtyards. It reminds me of the Jewish Quarter in Cordoba, or the Alcazar in Granada, with the added benefit of that indefinable Italian stylishness.
After much, pleasantly random, wandering I eventually fetch up at the above-mentioned bar under a tree. Next to a table around which is ranged what – I’m probably far enough away now for safety – I can only think is the local coven. Five women ranged from ‘a certain age’ to ‘crone’, plus one (very attractive) youngster. Doubtless a daughter, or even grand-daughter. As a lone man (in a hat and rather bright shirt) I attract a certain amount of scrutiny – a foreigner, I reveal as soon as I open my mouth and try to order – not exactly hostile, but not entirely approving either. Sadly, I lack the courage to speak to them…and thus miss out on a lot of good stories, I suspect.
Later, replete and slightly drunk, I surprise myself by finding my way back to the station without trouble. All this gadding about for €19, I muse dopily on the train back to Florence. Try and do something similar at home – Oxford and Stratford in a day – well, you can’t, our train services being neither frequent or flexible enough. Even if you could, I shudder to think what it would cost. And we have the cheek to deride the Italians as lack-a-daisycall and disorganised. Why the f&*% do we seem to be the only country in Europe which can’t manage a decent public transport system?
A sombre thought to end a hugely enjoyable day, so I dismiss it and doze off to the rattle-clack…
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Posted in Art, Lucca, Other places, Pisa | 1 Comment »
Posted on September 7th, 2009
Tuesday 18th August
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After successfully finding my hotel and 3 or 4 hours sleep, it does indeed start to get better.
Somewhat restored, almost intrepid, I grab a bus and head into town…and gradually drown in…well, Firenze, I suppose. It’s all quite wonderful, but a bit much to take in, all at once…on hardly any sleep.
I’m staggered at how familiar it all seems. Not just the art, I’d expected that since I’ve been looking at this stuff virtually my whole life. It’s more than that, and I’m at a loss to account for it. Perhaps its that, even more than Rome, this is where I come from, where we all come from in the west. I’ll happily nail my colours to the mast as a classicist. An E.M. Forster/Robert Graves Englishman (I’m even wearing the panama hat, to prove it) An anachronism in these (supposedly) enlightened days, perhaps, but I work it out like this:
The stories, images, ideas might have originated in the east, but the Greeks found the best, most persuasive and compelling ways to tell them. The Romans gradually drained most of the strangeness out of the Greek stories, Byzantium filled them with spirit, but they didn’t become truly civilised until the Renaissance – which started right here. The Grand Tour disseminated this shining light throughout the West, and it became deeply embedded in the humanist striving at the heart of The Enlightenment. No Enlightenment, no Industrial Revolution.
This really is where we come from, no wonder it all feels so familiar. Bet I still get lost, though. Time to go and look at something famous…
Like the Duomo (Santa Maria del Fiore). Shame it’s just known as ‘the Duomo’, Saint Mary of the Flowers sounds so sweet. Looking at it, though, I can see why. The singular, declarative, emphatic ‘Duomo’ definitely suits the sheer bulk of the thing, it’s huge. But not heavy, monumental shapes relieved by intricate, almost soft decorative detailing.
Inside it’s a barn, and looks pretty much like what it was originally intended to be : a monument to Florence’s wealth and power, to civic pride. I thought the only larger interior space in Italy (St. Peter’s, in Rome) was a barn, as well. But there I was moved, despite the vast scale of the place, had that sense of being in a charged space.
Here, despite the phenomenal engineering achievement of Brunellischi’s crowning dome, I find myself paying more attention to the people around me than the space. (Perhaps perversely, I find I prefer Giotto’s lovely campanile) I’m struck by how many people cross themselves and light a candle…and then, almost without exception, join everyone else in adopting the ‘camera in both hands, held above the head’ gesture which seems to be the preferred gesture of – if not worship – acknowledgement? Acquisition? Whatever it stands for (all these, and more), it’s something I get very used to seeing over the next few days.
I nearly skip the Duomo museum, but end up being very glad I didn’t. It’s stuffed full of fabulous stuff, including the original panels from the ‘Paradise Gates’ of the Baptistery, stunning 14/15th C paintings and altar-pieces, Florentine style. (On a gold background, of course) and a wealth of other marvels…but happily climbing to the the top floor, nothing prepared me for Donatello’s Mary Magdalene.
A slightly less than life size carving, it’s astonishing, stunning. One of the most powerful and affecting images of loss and suffering I’ve ever seen and it made me weep. Even now, recalling the impact, I’m misting up.
For my money, this is one of the very greatest sculptures in the world (you can keep David, of which more later), this is worth the journey. Other artists have essayed the ragged, haunted figure, but there’s nothing quite like this, it’s like being kicked in the gut. It’s so rough, un-idealised. I can’t begin to imagine what sort of an impact this must have made when it was new. Almost impossible to believe Donatello came before Michelangelo. As unlikely as Picasso pre-dating Renoir…
Eventually I stumble blearily back outside, resolving firmly that a) I’m not going to fret about not being able to get into the Uffizzi, or anywhere else that’s full, as there’s more than enough to see as it is and b) enough of this emotional maundering, what the inner man really needs is…gelati…pistachio, grazie. Strange that I’ve waited this long. No wonder I got all emotional…
I now have a huge dollop of the finest pistachio ice-cream to be had anywhere, and am happily demolishing same leaning on a wall in the corner of the Piazza delle Singoria. Eying the Palazzo Vecchio on the other side of the square. In front of this, and under the Loggia dei Lanzi, just around the corner, is indisputably the finest collection of Renaissance statuary ever assembled in one public space. Anywhere. Ever. For free, for everyone to see. (Never mind that two of them are very good copies)
I am a very, very, very happy man.
In order, reading left to right, I can feast my eyes on :
A huge fountain featuring an impressive, though slightly indecorous, marble Neptune by someone who’s name I can’t recall.
Donatello’s bronze of Judith and Holofernes
David by Michelangelo
Hercules & Cacus by Bandinelli (famously slandered as a ‘bag of melons’ by Cellini)
then, under the protecting eaves of the Loggia
Cellini’s masterpiece, the bronze of Perseus and Medusa
Some very impressive lions
Giambologna’s sinuous, surprising marble of the Rape of the Sabine
various other classical things in the back of the loggia.
It’s very hot, the piazza is stuffed with people and my hands are sticky with melted gelati…but none of this matters, when there are such wonders to behold, and I gaze and gaze and gaze. Despite it’s fame and familiarity, try as I might my gaze slides off the Michelangelo, and keeps returning to Cellini’s dark and fascinating bronze.
Not just because it’s a thrilling treatment of a classical ( as opposed to biblical – we all have our prejudices) subject, but because it more than repays prolonged inspection. Get beyond the obvious, mannerist heroism of the pose – Perseus standing on the corpse of Medusa, holding aloft her decapitated head – and it’s deeply, touchingly, human. Perseus has a bit of a pot-belly and he’s rather narrow shouldered, but it’s his slightly withdrawn expression that really does it. No triumphalism here, it looks more to me like the apprehension of the enormity of what he’s just done. And, perhaps, the beginnings of the knowledge that his life has just come to its peak – it’s all downhill now – and the shadow of sadness that inevitably accompanies such a realisation.
The bright, white perfection of David simply doesn’t touch me in the same way – “perhaps [it's] very clarity and scrutability is antiseptic to the germ of magic…un-mythopoetic”, as Patrick Leigh Fermor astutely writes. Even I can see what all the fuss is about, it really does stand out as being subtly but powerfully different from anything around it. I find it almost inhuman in its perfection and, somehow, all surface. But then, I wasn’t all that taken with the Sistine Chapel (much preferring the Raphael just around the corner), so it’s clear that I just don’t get the big M.
It seems an odd thing to say, but on reflection it really has been worth the journey just for the past couple of hours alone. I really could happily go home now, if I had to (with a bucket full of gelati as a souvenir, naturally). It doesn’t get any better than this, anything else is just a bonus. Why it’s so important to come here and stand and gaze at the actual things themselves, in the place where they belong, rather than simply look at photos in books (as I have been doing for as long as I can remember) I don’t know. But it is, it makes all the difference in the world.
This has been one of the great days of my life…all right, afternoons, and I can begin to appreciate the impact such sights had on the impressionable young sprigs packed off on the grand tour. It’s the sort of the thing that stays with you for life, and, perhaps, changes how things look to you (or how you look at things, it amounts to much the same) forever.
Enough of this vapouring, time to go and see how much of this romantic nonsense survives pizza and beer.
Well, quite a lot, as it happens. Oh dear, oh dear oh dear.
Replete, but not quite ready to call it a day, I wander about for a bit…past a succession of what look to be very old buildings, currently occupied by a series of very stylish shops, mainly clothes and shoes. It’s a striking juxtaposition, but then it occurs to me; in a place like Florence this is the only way of getting a central location with the essential passing trade. Where else are they going to put them? Heaven forbid they should demolish some of the old bits (on the spurious grounds that they’re not really suited to modern retail needs) and replace them with some awful modern contrivance…like a shopping centre.
In the course of the week I discover that there is at least one modern shopping centre close to the ancient centre of Florence. It’s underground. Tactful and amazingly sensible, if you ask me. We could learn a lot here.
In retrospect, the foolishness that ensues in the course of trying to get back to my hotel was almost inevitable – something stupid had to follow an afternoon spent thinking such elevated thoughts. Unsurprising also that the stupid thing is me, belatedly realising as the bus bumps and rattles along that not only have I forgotten the name of my hotel, but I’ve also left all the bits of paper that might contain useful information in the draw of my bedside table.
I thought it was all going too well.
I can remember which number bus to get, but have only the vaguest of notions as to where to get off…so I can’t ask anyone for help, as I don’t have enough information to go on..as a result of which I ride the whole route, then all the way back into town again. Having pummelled the brain extensively whilst waiting for the next bus, to do it all over again, I eventually alight roughly where I’ve worked out I should be.
Fortunately – more by luck than judgement, I’m sure – it turns out that I’m right, even though I haven’t even remembered the name of the hotel correctly. What an idiot! I’ve realised that both buses (coming and going) go down the same side of the road, in the same direction. Confusing, but scarcely enough to excuse my extraordinary stupidity.
Oh well, got there in the end…and now I’ve worked it out there’ll be no stopping me. I blame the bulbs on runway 2 at Manchester Airport…and the long and wearying digressions that flowed there from. That’s my excuse, with which I console myself as I drift into exhausted slumber.
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Posted on September 6th, 2009
Monday 17th August
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Florence – a place I’ve always wanted to visit. I’ve dreamed of actually being in the same room as the fabulous Uccello, Botticelli and other master works in the Uffizzi for as long as I can remember. As it turns out, August is the very busiest, hence worst, time of year to visit. No-one told me booking gallery tickets in advance might be a good idea….until it was too late. As I refuse to spend half a day queueing for anything, getting into the Uffizzi will have to remain a dream for the time being…not that I mind, there’s so much else to see. Read on (unless you’re allergic to pictures of angels or stone lions) to find out what I did manage to discover, and why I’ll never be the same again.
As it happened, just getting there in the first place turned out to be a bit of an adventure
Manchester Airport
Isn’t it extraordinary how we’ve managed to make something as intrinsically fabulous as flying – actually leaving the ground, reliably, safely and reasonably economically – so tedious and stressful. Nothing will ever manage to completely deaden the magic of take-off itself, but almost every other aspect of the process has become dull beyond belief.
Looking around at random, I’m not entirely re-assured to realise that this is not just me being miserable, either. It’s mid-August, so it seems reasonable to suppose that most of the people around me are holiday-bound, but almost everyone looks stressed, bored, tired or irritable. So much so that the odd face showing anticipation, enjoyment…or any of the more or less positive emotions generally associated with ‘holiday’ stick out like a sore thumb….to the extent that I begin to suspect them of employing chemical assistance, probably quite unjustly.
Maybe it’s just something about these transitory spaces – departure lounges, motorway service stations, bus stations and the like – places that will only ever be on the way to somewhere else. Dead spaces that are never true destinations themselves. Apart, that is, from the great railway stations – honourable exceptions that are worth visiting for their own sakes. Is it, I wonder, something to do with the romance of rail ? Or is it that places like St. Pancras, Grand Central or Gare du Nord share a certain spirit…built as temples of transport, when going somewhere else could still be an adventure, something to be celebrated.
Nothing celebratory, it seems to me, about even the best of 20th or 21st century transitory spaces (and Manchester Airport, whilst not the worst, is far from being the best). Architecturally wonderful though some of them may be, they are simple too efficient to celebrate anything apart from their own efficacy at moving stupendous numbers of people smoothly through their shiny, soul-less bowels. We all benefit, and one should be grateful, but looking around it’s hard to spot anyone that seems to be enjoying themselves.
Abstract brooding about the difficulties of balancing efficiency and humanity in designing these places recedes, as it becomes increasingly apparent that something has gone wrong, that the first of my two flights to the sun (all change at Zurich) will be delayed.
There is now a small group of folks – would-be passengers of flight 395 – clustered anxiously around one of the information screens. We gaze hopefully up at the blinking display, acolytes of some strange information cult. As it becomes more and more obvious that ‘more information in 15 minutes’ is simply a black lie, a loose camaraderie develops. We’re all in this together long enough to overcome traditional British reserve – to the extent that I now know the names of 2 of my fellow strand-ees, and can recognise several more by sight ! Connor, a chatty history student from Manchester, is going to visit friends in Zurich…anyone else going to Florence? Yes, says Vicky, cross-legged next to me on the floor. Right, let’s see … 15mins later I’ve not only managed to re-book the connecting flights which we were obviously going to miss, but have also got someone to contact my hotel in Florence and arranged a night’s refund! Vicky has been busy too, having selflessly queued at the information desk, she tells us that it’s apparently something to do with faulty runway lights here at Manchester, but the flight’s definitely not cancelled, only delayed. Oh, and we can go and get something to eat upstairs, courtesy of the airport. Which has very small pockets, as it can only afford £4 a head which will just about cover a sandwich and a drink at the inflated ‘hah, we’ve got you now, where else can you go’ prices charged here.
Only another 2 hours to go – feeling and odd mixture of irritation and excitement – has anyone got a pack of cards? No. Shame. Vicky and I have cross-word puzzles, Connor goes in search of the Internet to try and email his friends in Zurich…
And we do, finally go (nearly 5 hours late). Despite everything, it’s a sunny afternoon, and as we break through the clouds into the wide blue yonder I’m gazing out of the window and grinning like a fool. Nothing ever spoils this magic moment.
Zurich
A short, pleasant flight, a lot of waiting and some irate (and pointless) ranting by a gentleman with a dodgy haircut and no patience later, our jolly band of travellers is finally on it’s way to the Zurich Airport Hilton for the night. Courtesy (and they have been extremely courteous, and efficient) of the airline.
Except we’re not, because the idiot in the Merc in front has apparently driven down the wrong bit, and doesn’t have the pass, or spell, or whatever it takes to get through the yellow barrier in front of him. For some reason, resolving this eventually involves the idiot, the driver of our mini-bus and a bulky, frowning security person… and a lot of earnest discussion. Welcome to Zurich.
Canvassing the folks in the bus, whilst we wait, I’m happy to discover I’m not the only one who looked out of the window on the way here and thought that the whole country looked remarkably neat and well-kempt. I suspect I am, however, the only person who subsequently amused themselves imagining a giant, field-sized hoovery/comb contraption, industriously wielded by well-organized gangs of rubicund Swiss farmers. According to a complicated rota.
Peversely, I now long to meet a messy, disorganised Switzer with no respect for authority. (The idiot in front doesn’t count, the Merc bears German plates) Not likely in the hotel, where all is bland, polite efficiency, tastefully subdued lighting and seemingly endless corridors. I could have sworn it looked like a multi-story building from outside, yet the lift only appears to go downwards. Is it built in a huge hole ? Two floors down and yet there’s a service road outside my window. Eh? I’m confused.
We’ve been given vouchers for a meal, but it’s late, and I’m too tired to be hungry. Can I trade it in for a drink or two, instead? I spend a bizarre but enjoyable sojourn in a very plush bar with Vicky (who I learn works for a theatre company in Lancaster as a DSM) and a refugee from ‘Auf Wiedersehn, Pet’ , geordie accent and all. I never did learn his name, but he’d a great fund of tales of dodgy doings all over Europe.
Despite the comfortable bed, too much to drink late at night combined with general anxiety ensures I get very little sleep. It’s so early it’s still dark when the minibus decants me – bleary eyed, head full of lead and stomach churning – back at the airport. Not exactly an auspicious start.
This flight is on time, and it’s half-empty. It’s become a lovely sunny morning and there’s hardly any cloud, so I can look down and enjoy the Alps on the way.
Clutching these signs of good fortune to my chest, I choose to believe that it gets better from here on in.
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