ITALY TRIP - How Heaven Works

At the Duomo in Siena we got the ticket that included the tour that would take us into the roof of the fabulous Gothic/Romanesque Cathedral.  Even the name of the tour was thrilling - "The Gates of Heaven".

To enter the cathedral, I wrapped a scarf around my shoulders. Others in vest tops were being stopped and forced to velcro themselves into a sort of human dust sheet to preserve their modesty in front of Jesus and his mum and Dad.

Carenza was wearing a shortish skirt and Pascoe and Perran shorts, but the focus of the cover-up operation was definitely shoulders - the custodians were not so bothered about legs.

Once inside, we barely had time to utter our over-awed Oohs and Aaahs when it was time to start our Gates of Heaven Tour. 

We marched up the spiral stair, then tip-toed along stone-bounded balconies both inside and outside the cathedral building. Outside, we spotted that the stone angels' wings were fastened to their backs with strips of bronze.  We saw how the high lantern window above the Chapel of St John the Baptist looked from outside.  And for once, we were on eye-level with the thrill-seeking swifts who patrol the architecture.

Inside the interior of the Cathedral, unremarked by those below, we traversed high, dusty marble walkways.  Nobody looked up at us.  We stared into the well of the pulpit, onto the top of the high altar.  We watched the the ant-like tourists below. 

And that was when I realised that the custodians on duty at the entrance knew exactly what they were doing. 

The reason they weren't covering up people's legs was because all God could see from above was their heads and shoulders.

ITALY TRIP The beautiful town that made me a morning person

We had been having  lie-ins and turning up sloppily late to the Tuscan towns we visited.  The car parks were full, the streets crowded and the attractions shutting for the midday break.

But the rising temperatures made us put our house in order.

We got up early and went straight to Colle di Val d' Elsa.

We drifted up the empty street, paved in limestone and bordered by towering Renaissance palaces. It felt like being in a film.

The churches were empty too - just the five of us admiring frescoes and altarpieces. We could discuss without disturbing anybody else.

I puzzled for so long over the cryptic Latin inscription on a pulpit that I broke out into a sweat and the twins laughed at me.

When we went to a cafe we were able to take the best seats under a fragrant-flowered lime tree, with a view across the valley to the duomo, patrolled by shrieking swifts.

When finally we met another couple (Dutch), I asked them to take a pic of us all together in front of the ancient city gate, and nobody got in our way.

I'm an evening person, but I think I'll be getting up early again tomorrow.

ITALY TRIP – Just the Ticket

Monteriggioni was the ideal bite-size Tuscan outing for Nigel, Pascoe and I - a small village contained within a large fortress.  We would get a ticket to walk along the top of the walls.

We calculated that for Nigel and I the ticket price would total eight euros.  We had Pascoe with us too, student card in hand.  But we couldn't tell if there would be a discount.

But in the end we were charged only 7 euros and 50 cents for all of us.

I wondered whether it was because any parents in charge of a student were assumed to need all the help they could get, financial and otherwise.

This ticket would also get us into the nearby Museum of Weaponry.

I confess that I find the topic of mediaeval weaponry seductive.  The splendid and recondite vocabulary attracts me - bombard, arquebus, enfilading ricochets.  However, I will not give in to temptation.  There are other things I need to know about more.

Also included in the ticket price was the monastery at the Abbadia Isola.  Google told us of an ancient Romanesque monastery, whose purpose had been to shelter pilgrims on their way to Rome.

After walking the walls, we drove there and entered the ancient church.

Blocking the back of the church was a wrought iron banister. Next to a gap in the barrier was a very old man.

I presented him with the Monteriggioni ticket.

He pondered it for a long time, turned it over to look at the blank reverse, shook his head and finally muttered something in Italian which sounded …sad.

Frenzied sideways glances between the three of us communicated that we realised this man was not the ticket guy.  Only thing was, he seemed not to concur and continued to grip our ticket and regard it searchingly.  The moment drew out so long that it felt like an entire performance of Waiting for Godot.

Finally, Nigel reached over and firmly reclaimed the ticket. "Grazzie" we chorused and smiled in what we hoped was a reassuring manner, but probably just looked manic.

It was only as we were leaving the monastery that we noticed, in a corner of the courtyard, a small sign to an exhibition about the area's Etruscan past.  I climbed a tight staircase and discovered that it opened out into a large, well-displayed gallery.  This was where our ticket was called for.

The exhibition was fascinating, and whereas I have resisted the arquebus, I am definitely charmed by the Etruscans.

ITALY TRIP - Hoopoe

The natural world is the key to interpreting the metaphors and similes of the past.   

The images through which our ancestors understood the world were often from nature.

Around the Tuscan house we are renting, wildlife is plentiful. 

A highlight has been the hoopoe, a fabulous peach-coloured bird with full Pride crest.  From childhood they have fascinated me.  My bird book tantalised by saying they were a rare visitor to the UK. But I never saw one.

Then, on the first day of our Tuscan holiday, as Nigel, Pascoe and I entered the drive, there was one on the lawn.  It would hop to a new spot and use its long, curved beak to probe for insects.  Industriously and systematically, it did so over and again.

Good looking AND hard working.  What’s not to like?

However, the following story about a hoopoe is recorded by Ovid in Metamorphoses. King Tereus of Thrace rapes Philomela, the sister of his wife Procne.  He then cuts out her tongue so she cannot accuse him. But Procne finds out, and in revenge kills Itys (her son with Tereus), and serves him up to his father for dinner.  When Tereus recognises his son’s head on a platter, he attempts to kill Philomena and Procne.   

But the gods take pity and transform Philomela into a nightingale, Procne into a swallow and Tereus into a hoopoe – perhaps because the bird’s crest looks like a crown.

Although I am a Latin teacher, this is one time when I prefer the Persian story to the Roman.  In Persia, apparently, hoopoes were seen as a symbol of virtue and as a leader of the birds.

Now that’s the hoopoe I recognise.