St Cuthbert's Way - Swing that bridge

I had thought it a delight to have Pascoe with us on the first two days of our walk, until, that is we came to a plank bridge, high above a river. 

Pascoe was unable to resist causing turbulence. And I was unable to stop myself snapping 'At least wait until I'm off the bridge.'

Luckily there was a second, even longer and higher plank bridge, so when he began rocking it, I had a second chance to show that I am really a good sport after all. It's a shame then that I heard myself growling, 'Just stop it.!'

However, soon Pascoe will return to Edinburgh, and I will miss his boisterous sense of fun. You will be able to spot me lingering midway over a fragile bridge above a raging torrent, looking wistful.

St Cuthbert's Way - Setting out

We've set off on another long distance footpath. In my sixties, with various arthritic joints, I never know if I'll make it. And actually, last time, there's a gap in our walk of the Pembrokeshire coast while my legs took a couple of days to recover. 

So this time I voted for a shorter path - St Cuthbert's Way. It follows the life journey of the gentle and nature loving man who wanted to be a hermit, but was singled out by the depth of his faith and the breadth of his ability to become a prior. What I had failed to take account of was that the route lay through the mighty Cheviot Hills.

Pascoe joined us for the start and we explored the red sandstone ruins of Melrose Abbey with its ornate window tracery. We admired the sculpture of the bagpipe playing pig, and the inscription to the redoubtable mason, John Morrow. We were silent a moment at the spot where Robert the Bruce's heart was buried.

But then it was time to start. And what a start. The map contours were jostling eachother as we made the steep ascent to a saddle between two high hills. My hip was creaking and my mouth was whingeing. But after that harsh climb and descent it got gentler, often tracing the windings of the great river Tweed, accompanied by herons, sand martins and black-headed gulls. 

Like Cuthbert himself, we took time to admire the nature around us, and we saw orchids, bell flowers, butter bur and sneezewort amongst others, and foraged wild cherries raspberries, whitecurrants, bilberries and sweet cicely. 

But all that appreciation slowed us down so in the end we had to dash for the bus (which was to take us from the path to our B&B) and my creaky old hip proved it could do it, today at least.

A Little Diaspora

I haven’t blogged for a couple of months, but in that time, big changes have been afoot. 

I started this blog when I was faced with my children all leaving for university more or less simultaneously. (Pascoe had been at university comparatively nearby but was to travel much further for his PhD).

Right now we are growing accustomed to the fact that Pascoe has made his life in lovely Edinburgh, Perran has been living and working in Brussels for over a year and Carenza has recently departed on prolonged travels across the continent of Africa.

However, knowing we were all about to part for a while, we got together for a week in Cornwall, and met up with my brother and father too.

I believe that the weather was very mixed, but all I can remember is sunshine, spring flowers, taking long walks on the cliffs, and watching the younger generation surfing.

Each time I look back, the distilled memories become more idyllic – something to sustain me until we are together again.

SICILY: Last stop, earthly paradise

In the 1490s. Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain were in charge of Sicily. They pursued their policy of 'convert or get out' and the Jewish and Islamic populations were part absorbed and part exiled.

But before then, in the time of Norman rule of Sicily (11^th to 12^th centuries), there had been a dialogue between different cultures, producing some of the most stunning holy buildings.

In our last days in Sicily, we have visited Cefalu Cathedral, then Monreale duomo, near Palermo, plus the Capella Palatina. Roman-style cosmati floors are topped by acres of golden Byzantine mosaics and panels of Islamic geometric motifs.

The different elements combine not only visually, but m

ore importantly culturally.

In every way, these Norman churches are more beautiful than Ferdinand and Isabella’s policy to Make Spain Great Again.

SICILY: Sometimes it’s better not to know

I was sitting on the delightful terrace of our B&B, attempting to sketch Castelbuono and vaguely waiting for Nigel to return with the cuppa he had gone to make. After a while, there was still no sign and I decided he must have fallen asleep in our room. After all, we’d been for a long walk in the mountains earlier.

I went in, and he was just hanging out some damp clothing to dry.

‘I’ve been washing out some stuff to see me through until the end of the holiday.’

‘What took you so long?’

‘Ah, well, I washed it out in the bidet, but then the plug got stuck and I couldn’t dislodge it, so I had to bale out the bidet.’

‘Well it’s good you solved it. And you’re okay for clothes until the end of the week now. Wait. You say you baled out the bidet. What did you do that with?’

A long pause.

‘The tooth mug.’

I stared at him.

‘…obviously I cleaned it out thoroughly afterwards.’

And yet somehow I still don’t fancy using it.

SICILY: Saved by a landslide

At Villa Romana del Casale, 3,500m2 of the most fabulous Roman mosaics are on display, if only one can get there. Luckily for me, Nigel was prepared to hire a car, drive on the right and brave Sicilian roads and moreover Sicilian drivers. 

For me, it was like meeting a film star - to see in real life these 4th century works of astonishing quality which I have often used to illustrate my teaching work. 

I loved particularly the massive mosaic showing men catching big game such as tigers elephants and ostriches and putting them in cages to take back to the Collosseum.

What really strikes me most however, is the fact that the owner of such a magnificently rich and expertly crafted villa is now uncertain. It is possible it was Maximian, a kind of deputy Emperor alongside Diocletian. 

It just goes to show that the pomp of this world will fade away. Unless of course, like the mosaics themselves, it gets trapped under a landslide. For that is the way they were so miraculously preserved for centuries.

In any case, the scale and quality of the surviving work was overwhelming and as we neared the end Nigel said,

'Well I'm glad you enjoyed that, but I am now completely mosaiced out!'

(Top pic may depict Maximian)

SICILY: A Bad Atmosphere

 

In Castelbuono, we visited the eponymous castle. Belonging to the all-powerful Ventimiglia  family, the main attraction was said to be the chapel of Santa Anna, high on the top floor.

Nobody was there, but in we went – the first verdict was that it was amazingly complete, with stunning virtuoso stucco work. Lots of cherubs and swags. What a delight!

But as we looked closer, we noticed that amid the frippery a host of little goblin faces were grinning at us. Many of the cherubs were grotesquely formed. It was disturbing. Behind a grille at the altar was the mummified head of Santa Anna, mercifully hard to make out. At an upper window, something was rattling, as if trying to get in.

We looked around with increasing distaste and soon exited. While on the top floor, we used the public loos. Beneath us, at the foot of the castle, we could hear a cheery school trip entering. For me, this dispelled the tension, but Nigel seemed even more motivated to leave the castle and he set off down the stairs in quite a hurry. I had not realised he was so sensitive to atmosphere.

‘Oh dear, Nigel. Is it because that chapel creeped you out?’

He gave me a look but said nothing until we had re-emerged into the sunlight.

‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s because I used the toilet and it wouldn’t flush, and thirty school kids are now headed straight for the scene of the crime.’

Hmmm. Perhaps he’s not that sensitive after all.

SICILY: what you do see when you haven't got your binoculars

Just before we left for Sicily, I said, ‘I must pack my trusty binoculars’

However, I got distracted.

In the absence of binoculars, the Merlin birdsong-identification app was great in confirming the ID of noisy birds, such as Cetti’s warbler, the Sardinian warbler, the short-toed tree creeper and the serin.

However, with quieter birds, we were never entirely sure.

Were those five massive birds of prey circling together above the Madonie Mountains gryphon vultures? Probably.

Was that huge pale-coloured eagle a Bonelli’s eagle? Maybe.

Was that shy brown and grey mottled bird in the woods a wryneck? Plausibly.

Perhaps the only advantage of forgetting my binoculars is that I get to decide exactly what I saw. 

So yes then, I did see those particular species and I am delighted to have done so!

 

SICILY: Scary animals

Nigel and I were walking in the mountains of the Madonie Park and had several contretemps with farm dogs – I’m not good with big dogs that bark and snarl at me. And that description covered the third set of dogs we met. 

They were not close to a farmyard and

there was no owner about so we ended up pushing our way through thorny brush to get round them.

We also saw half a dozen small black pigs rootling in the under brush. I wasn’t sure

whether or these were wild boar so I googled. No, these were Sicilian black pigs and generally ran away from people.

However, apparently the area was also loaded with wild boar, up to 1.8 metres long which usually ran away, but sometimes turned aggressive.

Advice: ‘Slowly back away.’

‘It’s hard to back away,’ I said to Nigel, ‘When you’ve already fainted from terror.’

Through all my animal panics, Nigel was phlegmatic, tolerant with only a hint of

impatience.

As we neared the car, my mood improved, and in a pathetic fallacy (look it up) the sun came out too.

With the sun came a large number of massive grasshoppers, about 10cm long (Egyptian grasshoppers). If one got close, they launched suddenly into mid-air and rattled their four stiff wings.

‘Look, Nigel, look!’ But he just didn’t seem interested. Unless…

‘Nigel, you’re not scared of them are you?’

‘Let’s just say they can stay over there and I’ll stay over here, and then we will both be

happy.’

Obviously, when I was scared of farm dogs and wild pigs, Nigel was supportive and

helpful, so now that I had discovered his own Achilles’ heel, there was only one way to behave.

That’s exactly right – I taunted him mercilessly.

Why giant fennel really matters

In the ancient myth, Prometheus (a Titan), decides he will steal fire from the gods and bestow it upon humans. Inside a stalk of fennel, he transported a few embers and gave them to us. For humankind, it is a game-changer – we can stay up after dark, ward off wild beasts, warm our homes and cook our food.  For the gods, however, it was an outrage – Prometheus was banished to Tartarus, where every single day, an eagle came and pecked out his liver while he was fully conscious, only for it to grow back overnight.

It’s a story with deep resonances for western culture – for instance, may an artist or poet be likened to Prometheus when they bestow their insights on us ordinary mortals?  It also feeds into the narrative that artists must suffer for their art.

But what has always bothered me is the little detail of the fennel stalk. The fennel I’ve cultivated in my garden or seen growing wild near the sea simply has not got stalks which would be capacious enough.

However, here in Sicily, fennel (finocchio) is one of the national plants.  And what fennel! It can be as much as ten feet tall and is an architectural shrub really. We even saw one guy who appeared to have the job of strimming fennel to stop it encroaching on the roads. The stalks on this giant fennel are an entirely different proposition and could easily accommodate a few embers, and maybe even a fire extinguisher to go with them.

Some might say the fennel stalk was not the most important part of that myth…but it mattered to me.

SICILY: He marched me up to the top of the hill

Turns out that on Easter Monday, everything is shut. Following the massive Sunday of Easter Masses and parades of saints' statues everyone is officially knackered. 

So it was a good day to be transferring between Enna, in the centre and Castelbuono in the Madonie National Park in the north. Or was it?

Before we left Enna, we had planned to explore the Lombardy Castle - a must see. But although, like a besieging army, we circled it, all gates were shut. The castle was having a day off.

 Instead, we climbed the nearby great rock where once Demeter and Kore (Persephone) had been worshipped. And we could see right across to Etna, smoking quietly from its snow-capped summit. Then, back down and into the car.

Next we parked at the historic hilltop town of Gangi. We climbed the steep slope but pretty much everything was shut, except the main church and (thankfully) the public toilets. Then, back down the picturesque narrow streets and back in the car. 

Finally on a whim we stopped beneath a hilltop castle built long ago by the powerful Ventimiglia family. The steep path up had once been broad and well paved, but now a thick growth of weeds had sprung up between the slabs. 'Looks like this is going to be shut, just like everything else today.'

But we kept climbing just for the heck of it. We passed a firmly shut ticket office, but still kept going. 

Finally, we were amazed to find the gate of the castle open. The ruins were not substantial, but they were certainly interesting to scramble about in.

At last persistence had been rewarded. Which is good as I don't think my knees could have managed even one more hill!

 

SICILY: Rape fountain

 

The first place we stayed in was Ortygia. Here a formidably defensible island was lucky enough to have a reliable spring of pure fresh water which emerged right next to the sea. In the spring’s origin myth, Arethusa was one of the goddess Diana’s girl-gang of nymphs. In Arcadia, Arethusa went to bathe in the river, but Alpheus, the god of that river fell in love with her and pursued her. To help her escape, Diana turned her into a rushing stream and sent her underground, finally emerging by the edge of the sea at Ortygia. However, Alpheus pursued her by running beneath the sea until he caught up with her at Ortygia and was still able to ‘mingle his waters with hers’.

Yuk.

A fountain in the central Piazza Archimede celebrates the whole sorry affair.

Next we went on to Enna, a hill town said to be the setting for the myth of Hades and Persephone. In the town square, sure enough, there is a fountain depicting Hades, King of the Underworld, seizing the beautiful young Persephone in order to kidnap her.

Also yuk.

After that we stayed in Castelbuono. We went for a drink in the old town square, and Nigel saw me staring at the simple unadorned water feature in the centre.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘This town doesn’t have a rape fountain,’ I said, ‘I like it already!’

SICILY: An Easter Sunday tradition

Sicily was for a long time under Spanish rule, and a Spanish tradition dating from the Inquisition has lived on at Enna. Each local church here sends out a group of its men, wearing the coloured robes of their church plus a pointed white hood. The idea is that these men are penitents and the hood is to nullify their identity and point their prayers to heaven. Their penitence takes the form of marching through the streets carrying a heavy float bearing the statue of their church’s saint.

These processions happened during Holy Week, so when we arrived at Enna on Easter Saturday, the main spectacle was past.  However, in Enna, there is a special celebration on the evening of Easter Sunday. We joined the crowd of spectators on the steps of the Duomo (cathedral).

We stood next to a woman who lived now in Trieste, but each year returned to her old home and brought her children to watch the processions. She spoke excellent English, and there was pride and affection in her voice as she explained the tradition to us.

A statue of Jesus is marched down the hill by penitents, now wearing their hoods rolled back. Another association of penitents carries Mary up the hill. At the end, they break into a run as if Mary and Jesus are thrilled to see one another again.

Once united, they are marched together down the hill. To ensure it is not over too quickly, they march four steps forward, three steps back, all the way to the west end of the Duomo (cathedral) and the ceremony ends for another year with some of the crowd going for Mass in the Duomo. 

Afterwards, we and the woman who had acted as our informal guide went our separate ways. However, whereas we are unlikely ever to see this again, I am certain she will return to her childhood home again next Easter to witness the parade. 

That was a little odd

 

Enna is a high hilltop town with extraordinary views, like the background of a Renaissance painting.

Just opposite our hotel was the delightful-looking church of Santa Chiara, shining gold in the evening light. 

‘Chiara - that’s my name in Italian!’

‘Let’s go in.’

The custodian of the church immediately took us under her wing.

The walls had an unusual pattern of grey marble squares, each bearing either a name, or the word ‘ignoto’. But it was the floor which immediately caught my eye. Politely I decided not to mention it.

The custodian (who proudly told us she had been in post for 36 years) explained that the church had been used in the aftermath of WWII as a war cemetery. As the winter snows melted, bodies from the German, Italian and British armies had been revealed and were now housed in these walls.

‘If they were Italian, we put their name on the tomb, if not, ‘ignoto’ – ‘unknown’.’

Each of those grey marble squares was the end of a grave.

In the lunulae above the tombs were glass mosaics of scenes from the war, including, as she pointed out, one of Mussolini looking much more handsome than in life. My eyes flicked to the floor again.

After the custodian had shown us a few more details, we put something in the offerings box and left.

Once we were down the steps, I said, ‘Did you see the floor?’

‘I certainly did. Swastikas – all over!’

We returned to our room and stared pensively out of the window at the little church. But although the view had not changed, it no longer seemed so delightful.

SICILY: Mikveh

 

I hadn’t heard of a mikveh, but one day, in Ortygia, I visited two, in each case descending a large number of worn and slippery stone steps to access them. The first was discovered 18 metres beneath the ground as a hotelier was renovating her ancient building.  The second was deep beneath what is now a church but was once a synagogue. In Siracusa there was once a population of c. 3,000 Jews before the Inquisition had them converted or expelled in the 1490s

These mikveh’s were plunge baths with steps leading into the water.  They were used by Jewish women for purifying themselves following menstruation and childbirth. They must immerse completely, just for a short time.

These subterranean pools were fed by natural clear springs and I found myself thinking that a ritual bath may have been quite a delightful thing for those long-ago women to do, particularly in the heat of the Sicilian summer.

Except that then our guide explained that the window above the bath was for each woman’s mother-in-law to watch and to check that the woman immersed herself correctly. 

No, that would certainly put a damper on it as far as I was concerned. I no longer have mikveh envy.

(Photographs of these ancient mikvehs were not allowed, so you’ll just have to imagine.)

SICILY: Bouleuterion

 

We had a hire car for the day and following our trip to Pantalica, Nigel wanted to get the most from it and we drove on to the Greek settlement of Akrai.

I hadn’t revised  Ancient Greek town planning recently, so when we came upon the ‘bouleuterion’, frankly I had to remind myself what one of those was – a bakery? – a pétanque court? In fact it’s an area where the city council meets, debates and votes.

In Akrai, the bouleuterion has a little semi-circular seating area overlooking a grassy rectangle. Although I was there to admire Greek city government, I was soon distracted by a gorgeous pink orchid within the enclosure. But as I stepped forward to photograph it, I became very aware of where I was planting my boots – every few inches there were more orchids – we counted, within that small, ancient space, seven different types (pictured below).

What was it about the bouleuterion which fostered such rich flora. Greek attempts at democracy were partial and flawed as we are constantly reminded, but at least they made a start. Perhaps ancient democracy provided fertile soil for rare and beautiful things to grow and flourish.