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.

SICILY: Beware of Bats

 

Before we came away I did due diligence and googled whether there were any health issues we should be aware of in Sicily.  It turned out that the tapwater was potable. All we had to look out for was (when walking in the countryside) ticks, some of which carry a virus. Also, bats – their bite carries a rabies risk. I relayed this to Nigel.

‘Well, at least it should be easy to avoid those!’ How we laughed.

Today, Nigel hired a car and drove boldly on the right hand side of the road along winding mountain tracks.  Our goal was Pantalica, a river canyon where the cliffs were honeycombed with ancient tombs. Our excellent guide, Paolo, showed us tombs dating from the Bronze Age Siculan people, right through to caves re-used as Byzantine churches in the 5^th Century AD. In one place he showed us how the river had been diverted along a millrace.  The mill had been there to grind gunpowder. 

‘Of course, the gunpowder mill was here because one of the ingredients needed for gunpowder is nitrates and nearby is a huge source of nitrates.’ 

‘Really?’

He pointed to a massive cave nearby, ‘Bat guano.’

‘Oh – do bats still live there?’

‘Yes indeed.  There are eight thousand bats in that cave – five different species.’

Nigel and I flicked each other a glance. But in fact, although we saw ravens and warblers and a host of spectacular flowers, we saw never-a-bat. We stood much more chance of slipping on the steep rain-wet limestone tracks than catching rabies.

At the end of the trip, we returned to the hire car and set off on the right-hand side of the winding mountain road, the fog descended and a rainstorm pelted the windscreen, obscuring the way ahead.

‘Phew. So glad we are safe from those bats.’

SICILY: A palace worth living in

 

In preparation for our Sicily trip, I read The Leopard by Lampedusa, about he way the Sicilian nobility declines during the unification of Italy in the nineteenth century. I then watched the excellent TV adaptation, and finally the Fellini film. The opulence of that age, even as it passed, was poignant. 

There is a particular sequence in the book where the lovers, Tancredi and Angelica explore the many unused rooms of the palace at Donnafugata using them as a place to kiss. The Prince who owns the house says, ‘A house of which one knows every room isn’t worth living in.’

I hoped to see one or even two of these magnificent palaces at the Baroque town of Noto. But when we got there, not only was it raining, but the famed palaces were inexplicably shut.

We were ourselves staying in a once-palace in Ortygia. We had one of several self-catering apartments. The owner was renovating the palace a bit at a time, as he could afford it. Which meant that there remained a large semi-derelict wing. One evening Nigel and I ventured into it.

There were many vacant rooms containing odd fragments, such as a huge artificial Christmas tree, light fittings made from old chairs hanging from the ceiling. Here a pile of rubble, there a magnificent marble staircase.

I had my Donnafugata after all.

I would like to report that Nigel and I used the empty rooms as a place to kiss, but in fact, the air of neglect spooked me and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

So I am clearly not cut out to be a member of the nineteenth century Sicilian nobility after all.  I suppose I’ll just have to send back the crinoline I purchased on Vinted.

SICILY: Of Greek Temples and Oranges

Nigel and I had come to Sicily (by train and ferry so as not to contribute to climate change)

I had predicted my favourite trip would be to the row of magnificent Greek temples ranged along a ridge near the town of Agrigento.

Sure enough when we got there, they displayed those graceful architectural proportions, much written about, especially the extraordinarily well preserved Temple of Concordia. The ruins of the less complete temples were picturesque, flickering with lizards, and with many tiny jewel-like flowers bobbing in the breeze from the sea. Incredibly impressive were the vast statues of the telamons, giants who once help up the architrave of the Temple of Zeus.

When we could take in no more, however, we descended to the Garden of Kolymbethra at one end of the Valley of the Temples. Down in a cool river gorge, it recreates a Sicilian small-holding.

We were dried out, and it was good to see frogs floating in a water cistern and to walk beneath fragrant blossom. Serins brightened the air with their song.

Some of the trees were laden with oranges. It was uncertain whether we were allowed to eat them or not, but Nigel and I did, two each. Each orange was an explosion of juice and crowded my mouth with intense flavour.

So although this was the day when I had encountered the remains of six extraordinary Greek temples, what I found myself saying to Nigel was, ‘I shall never forget these oranges.’ 

Of men and logs

 

Nigel went down to a four-day working week. The idea is to find the activities with which he will one day enrich his retirement.

His top pick was volunteering for the Woodland Trust at Heartwood, our local forest. There are hedges to be laid and trees to be planted.  The first time, Nigel took only a spade, but he has now added a camping stool, thermos flask and sandwiches to his accoutrements.

It all sounds like healthy outdoor fun - rather like a camp for superannuated scouts. Meanwhile, at home, I have a lovely quiet day.

On Sunday, we went together for a ramble at Heartwood and Nigel showed me what he’d been doing. 

‘In the woods, folk tend to trample the bluebells which then take a long time to recover. We’re using logs to edge the path and encourage visitors to stay on the straight and narrow.’

Next, at the edge of the woods, we saw an impressive pile of logs.

‘Look! Those are the logs we use to edge the paths.’

Quietly, I imagine the partners of the energetic Heartwood volunteers ringing one another secretly to arrange that there is a great big pile of logs available, enough to keep the working party busy for hours.

While we have another lovely quiet day at home.

One year on

It's a year since Mum died.

I guess, because we lived 300 miles apart, there's a sense in which she remains alive in the same way she always was to me, a presence in my heart rather than in my sitting room.

I have also found more concrete ways for her to continue to be part of my life. 

I brought home some of her calligraphy artwork and have been gradually framing it for myself and the children.

My favourite is an experimental piece which says 'the test of a vocation is the love of the drudgery it involves.'  This was a quote she often repeated, as she enjoyed every aspect of her calligraphy, and even learned how to cut goose quills and to make ink from soot and oak apples.

Amongst the artwork there was also a drawing - a swift chalk portrait of me as a little girl. If it were possible, everyone should have their portrait drawn by someone who really loves them. There can be no likeness as cherished.

And if I want a hug, I can still find her love in the indestructible sweaters she knitted me. 

There are many other ways in which her life still touches mine and I do believe that as time goes by, I think of her more, not less.

Well, well, well

Sometimes we are so busy rushing off on tourism expeditions in other places that we fail to explore our own stamping ground.

For eighteen years, I have walked up and down Holywell Hill in St Albans without showing the proper curiosity.

Last weekend, following a Ver Valley Walk leaflet with Trisha and Duncan, I was gobsmacked to discover that the eponymous holy well still exists.

In the incongruous depths of a housing estate, there it was. Now all neatly block paved, first appearances were disappointing. But peering into its depths, there was a magical glimpse of worn brick clothed in harts-tongue fern and emerald moss. Yes, this was old.

At least three legends are associated with the well.

St Alban, Britain’s first Christian martyr in the 3^rd century AD may have gasped for a drink there on his way to be executed higher up the hill. God miraculously brought the well into being to answer Alban’s prayers.

Or it may be that following his execution, his severed head rolled down the hill and came to rest here, and the spring flowed miraculously from the ground in response.

Later, King Uther Pendragon, (father of King Arthur) had a great battle with the Saxons in the ruins of the Roman city of Verulamium and healed his wounds here by bathing them in water from this well.

Or, as the Ver Valley leaflet pointed out, maybe the well was just a feature of an eighteenth century garden which once covered this spot.

Pah! I choose to believe the myths and miracles.

And I resolve to keep an eye open for what else I have missed while living in this historic city for eighteen years.

Try a new thing

At this time of year, part of me wants to stay in and hibernate, but part of me is ready to greet the new year with new adventures, and that is what happened last weekend.

On Friday, walking near local lakes with Carol and Diane I suggested we take a path that was new to us. We did. We gained views of a sunlit lake and got really close up to watch a goldcrest and redpolls foraging among the alders.  However, the end of the path was so flooded it looked more like a river than the nearby river did, and we had to retreat and go round the long way.

Saturday with Nigel, and again we diverted from our usual route, this time to explore an Iron Age settlement surrounded by a massive earthwork known picturesquely as The Devil's Dyke. We marvelled at the scale of the earthen banks, and read aged (and probably erroneous) signs declaring that Julius Caesar had fought there. Then Nigel managed to create a new circular walk from the settlement.  It ended up being a couple of miles longer than the amble we'd planned and we were both a bit weary and hungry by the time we regained our car.

So there are two alternative learnings I could glean from last weekend:-

• Don't try anything new - it'll cause you inconvenience.
• OR Take a chance on a new adventure and see where you end up.

I would say our experiences support both equally, but what I will say is - it felt GREAT to be trying something new.

Cosy Crime Debacle

 

It was very January today, when I went out for my morning walk - grey and spitting with drizzle.

UNTIL I saw on the pavement a short trail of Scrabble tiles.  

Perhaps I had stumbled into the pages of a cosy crime novel - somebody had left me a clue!

If I were to turn them all rightside up, and anagram them mercilessly, they would tell me what my next move should be.  Or perhaps the name of the murderer. 

This grey day was about to become much more exciting.

I stood looking at them.

On the other hand, lying there on the sludgy grey pavement, the grubby tiles were pretty unappealing.

And did I really want to get my hands dirty?

I sighed and started walking again.

Only another two weeks of January left to go.

Photo at top by Clarissa Watson on Unsplash

Second photo by Clare