If you are staying near Lucca or exploring the coast of Versilia, a day in Forte dei Marmi offers far more than elegant beaches and fashionable cafés. Even an unexpected journey—prompted, in our case, by a hospital appointment—can turn into a rich and memorable experience of art, history, and atmosphere.

Getting to Forte dei Marmi
Our day began before dawn on a wet and unpromising morning. We had an appointment at San Camillo Hospital in Forte dei Marmi, a little further than we would ideally have chosen, but far sooner than anything available nearer home.
Crossing the Apennines near Monte Magno, we drove through torrential rain. Lorries thundered past, sending sheets of water across the windscreen so dense that visibility vanished for seconds at a time. It was not an encouraging start, and we feared missing the appointment—but a reassuring phone call confirmed all would be well.
At the hospital, the examination brought welcome news: all was clear.

Exploring Forte dei Marmi
Instead of heading straight home, we decided to explore. Forte dei Marmi has a reputation as one of the most refined seaside resorts in Tuscany—stylish, expensive, and long associated with wealthy visitors, including the Agnelli family.
Walking through the town, we discovered the charming Church of Saints Francis and Maria Assunta. Built in the twentieth century and completed around 1948, it contains the tomb of Father Ignazio da Carrara, a Capuchin friar who remained with his people during the war and was tragically killed by an SS soldier just days before liberation.
The church itself is graceful and harmonious—Romanesque in spirit, with hints of Gothic structure—an example of ecclesiastical architecture that still feels rooted in tradition.

The pier and the sea
We then made our way to the pontile, the long pier stretching out into the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Originally used for loading marble from the nearby Apuan Alps, it is now a place for walking and reflection. By this time the rain had passed, but the sea remained wild. Waves crashed beneath us, the wind whipped around, and the sky still threatened.
We had the pier almost entirely to ourselves. Standing at its far end, surrounded by sea and sky, it felt as though the entire journey had already been justified.

Coffee in Piazza Garibaldi
From the pier we returned to the centre, stopping in Piazza Garibaldi at Caffè Soldi, one of the town’s most elegant cafés.
Coffee and cakes were excellent—if not inexpensive—and offered a glimpse into the more refined side of Forte dei Marmi life.

Art at Il Fortino
One of the unexpected highlights of the day was Il Fortino Leopoldo I, the historic fort that once guarded the coast.
Inside, we found an exhibition by Costantino Paolicchi, Antiche solitudini. Percorsi tra memoria e natura (1990–2025).
Paolicchi’s work is deeply rooted in the landscapes of Versilia—forests, coastlines, and mountains rendered with extraordinary sensitivity. His paintings seemed almost alive: bark, moss, and sea air captured with remarkable precision.
Upstairs, the exhibition expanded into dense woodland scenes and mountain vistas. Rarely have I seen trees painted with such understanding—the textures, the atmosphere, the sense of immersion were all striking.
The exhibition, spread over two floors, was a privilege to experience and quite unforgettable.

Where to eat in Forte dei Marmi
By now we were ready for lunch and chose Baracca, a simple restaurant near the pier.
The system is informal: you select dishes, pay at the counter, and then wait at your table. We ordered baccalà alla livornese, along with shrimp and a portion of chips. Once properly heated, the cod was excellent.
The presence of many local diners suggested we had chosen well.

The journey home
After lunch, we began the return journey. Parking had been easy, and the worst of the weather had passed.
Crossing back over the Apennines, we stopped for coffee at a small café, where we spoke with a young Polish woman about her country’s rapid development—another unexpected moment in an already varied day.
We returned via Gombitelli and down towards Diecimo, with a brief moment of concern over low fuel before reaching safety.

Is Forte dei Marmi worth visiting?
Absolutely—though perhaps not for the reasons one might expect.
Forte dei Marmi is often seen as exclusive and fashionable, but it also offers:
a striking coastline
moments of real tranquillity
unexpected cultural experiences
and access to the landscapes of Versilia
Even a practical errand can become something richer.

Final reflections
We returned home exhausted after an early start, ending the day with a simple supper and sleep.
What stayed with me was this: in Italy, even the most ordinary obligation—a hospital visit—can unfold into something layered and memorable. Rain, sea, art, food, conversation—all combine to create a day far greater than its purpose.

It is often said that the way into the heart of a nation is not only through its food, its landscapes, or even its people, but through its music. Nowhere is this more true than in Italy, where music is not simply an art form, but a language of feeling that runs continuously from the sacred to the popular, from the ancient to the modern.

This reflection was brought sharply to mind by the recent news of the death of Gino Paoli at the age of 91. It marked not only the passing of a remarkable artist, but also the quiet fading of a generation that helped define the emotional voice of modern Italy. Paoli lived a long and full life and leaves behind a body of work that continues to speak with rare intimacy and truth.

Italy’s musical tradition is one of the richest in the world. It begins with the austerity and purity of Gregorian chant, rises to the intricate beauty of Renaissance polyphony, and unfolds into the dramatic and emotional power of Baroque and Romantic opera. Composers such as Puccini and Respighi represent the later flowering of this classical tradition, where melody, atmosphere, and emotional immediacy reach extraordinary heights.

Yet this is only one half of the story.

Alongside this “high” tradition runs an equally vital current: Italian popular song. This is not merely folklore, nor is it a lesser form of expression. Rather, it is a continuation of the same melodic and emotional sensibility, distilled into a more intimate and immediate form. If opera is the grand public declaration of feeling, the Italian popular song is its private counterpart—a confession, a memory, a moment suspended in time.

In this context, the figure of Gino Paoli stands as one of the great interpreters of the Italian soul. His songs do not overwhelm; they speak quietly, almost conversationally. Yet within that restraint lies their power. Paoli does not simply write about love—he writes about its fragility: its passing, its ache, its lingering presence. Songs such as Sapore di sale, Senza fine, and La gatta are not dramatic in the operatic sense; instead, they evoke a world of subtle feeling, where a single image or phrase can open an entire emotional landscape.

Sapore di sale, in particular, captures something uniquely Italian: the languor of summer, the melancholy beneath pleasure, the sense that even the most beautiful moment is already slipping away. It has something of the sunlit atmosphere one might associate with American coastal music, yet remains unmistakably Italian in its introspection and poetic restraint.

Paoli belongs to a broader tradition of the cantautori—singer-songwriters for whom lyrics are as important as melody.

This tradition includes figures such as Fabrizio De André, Francesco De Gregori, and Lucio Battisti, each of whom expanded the expressive possibilities of the Italian song, bringing it closer to literature. One of the most beautiful songs of Genoese cantastorie De André is La Ballata dell’Amor Perduto whose tune is actually based on a Telemann trumpet concerto!

But to understand the full emotional range of Italian popular music, two further figures must be considered.

Mia Martini represents the voice of raw, unguarded emotion. If Paoli is intimate and reflective, Martini is elemental. Her singing carries an almost unbearable intensity, as though each note were drawn from lived experience. In songs like Almeno tu nell’universo and Minuetto, one hears not performance but truth—a voice marked by vulnerability, strength, and a deep awareness of suffering. She embodies a dimension of Italian music that is not merely passionate but wounded, where beauty and pain are inseparable.

In contrast, Paolo Conte offers a different kind of depth—one rooted in atmosphere, suggestion, and cultural memory. His music, infused with jazz influences, evokes a world of smoky cafés, distant cities, and half-remembered encounters. Where Paoli confides and Martini reveals, Conte alludes. His songs, such as Via con me and Sotto le stelle del jazz, are less about direct emotion and more about mood, irony, and the passage of time. There is a literary quality to his work, but also a sense of play—of ambiguity, of life glimpsed indirectly.

Taken together, these three artists—Paoli, Martini, and Conte—form a kind of emotional triangle within Italian music. Paoli gives us intimacy, Martini gives us intensity, and Conte gives us atmosphere. Each, in their own way, reveals a different facet of the Italian sensibility.

This understanding is not merely theoretical, but personal. I have been fortunate enough to hear some of these artists live, both in Italy and in Britain. At the Lucca Summer Festival, and in concerts abroad, the vitality of Italian music becomes something immediate and shared. I recall in particular hearing Paolo Conte at the Barbican, where his understated presence and subtle wit created an atmosphere of rare sophistication. Equally memorable was a concert by Mia Martini in Bedford, a town with a strong Italian community, where the emotional intensity of her performance was felt almost collectively, as though the audience shared in every note she sang. I have a particular penchant for Arisa whose songs are especially beautifully crafted and whose voice is very special.

Taken together, these experiences reinforce the idea that Italian popular music is not confined to recordings or history, but lives most fully in performance—in the shared space between artist and audience, where language, memory, and emotion meet.

Italian song, however, does not remain within Italy. Many of its finest creations have travelled far beyond national borders and become part of a shared European and global musical culture. Among the most emblematic examples is Nel blu dipinto di blu (Volare) by Domenico Modugno (1958), often regarded as the first truly global Italian hit—a song whose melody and exuberance carried it across continents and into international popular consciousness.

From that moment on, Italian music repeatedly found a global voice. The work of Lucio Battisti, with songs such as Ancora tu, brought a new melodic sophistication that resonated widely. In the 1980s, Felicità by Al Bano and Romina Power became an international emblem of Italian popular style, instantly recognisable far beyond Italy itself. Then, in the 1990s, Andrea Bocelli’s Con te partirò achieved extraordinary worldwide success, confirming that Italian songs are not only beloved at home but can become true world classics.

Alongside these, artists such as Laura Pausini and Vasco Rossi have helped carry Italian song into a broader international sphere, blending national identity with a more global musical language.

The Sanremo Music Festival, Italy’s most famous popular musical event, plays a central role in this story. For all its quirks, inconsistencies, and changing fashions, it remains the great showcase of Italian song. It is a place where both the strongest and weakest tendencies of Italian popular music are revealed; yet at its best it has introduced songs that go on to achieve lasting national and international significance.

At the same time, one should not forget the earlier popular songs that took on deep emotional meaning during periods such as the Second World War. Songs like Ma l’amore no which my mum loved to sing to herself while doing the housework and which was associated with performers such as Alida Valli, carried a particular resonance—much as the songs of Marlene Dietrich did in other contexts. These pieces, shaped by their historical moment, continue to evoke a powerful sense of memory and identity.

For all these reasons, Italian popular song can no longer be seen as merely national. It has become European, even global—a repertoire of melodies and emotions that cross borders with ease while retaining their distinctive character.

What unites these artists, and indeed the entire tradition of Italian popular song, is the centrality of melody and language. Italian, with its natural musicality, lends itself to song in a way few languages do. Beyond this, there is a cultural commitment to expressing feeling—not abstractly, but concretely, personally, and often poetically.

To listen to Italian music, then, is not merely to enjoy a series of songs. It is to enter a world of emotion, memory, and meaning. It is to hear how a people understand love, loss, time, and beauty—and in doing so, one comes closer to understanding Italy itself. It’s also a particularly enjoyable and fruitful way of learning the world’s most beautiful and ‘cantabile’ language.

For if there is a single thread that runs from the earliest chant to the modern canzone, it is this: the belief that music is not an ornament to life, but one of its deepest expressions.

Twice a year in Italy, a special weekend is dedicated to the FAI—the Fondo Ambiente Italiano, often compared to the English National Trust. One event takes place in spring and another in autumn, opening doors to remarkable historic sites, many of which are not normally accessible. Some are already protected monuments, while others are candidates for future preservation.
This year has offered a particularly rich selection. Among the highlights was the tiny Teatro di Vetriano—possibly the smallest theatre in Italy, if not the world—where tradition dictates that one brings one’s own chair. Despite its size, it is exquisitely decorated. Then there is Villa Bottini in Lucca, a rare example of a villa-style residence enclosed within city walls, along with other intriguing sites such as the castle of Nozzano.
However, today’s visit proved especially memorable: the fortress of Montecarlo, near Lucca. The outing combined two pleasures—a guided visit to the fortress and a concert performance of Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater.
Montecarlo, not to be confused with its namesake in Monaco, is a charming Tuscan hill town enclosed by walls, with a fortress crowning its summit. Founded in 1333 by Charles IV, Holy Roman Emperor, the town takes its name from him—“Monte di Carlo,” or Charles’s Mount. Its position was highly strategic, controlling routes between Lucca and Florence, rival powers in medieval Tuscany. Unsurprisingly, it was fought over many times by Lucca, Florence, Pisa, and others.

The concert took place within the fortress itself. While not a strictly historically informed performance—the piece was accompanied by an upright piano rather than a Baroque ensemble, and the singers leaned more toward a later vocal style—it was nonetheless an enjoyable and commendable effort. In such an intimate and historic setting, with a small and attentive audience, the experience felt special and authentic in its own way.
Following the concert, we were treated to a guided tour

of the fortress. The guide revealed details that might easily have gone unnoticed, from structural features of the keep to the defensive logic of the outer walls. Climbing to the top tower, we were rewarded with breathtaking views across the Tuscan landscape. From this vantage point, one could see as far as San Miniato, Pescia, and of course Lucca—clear evidence of the site’s former strategic importance.

Afterwards, we relaxed in a local bar with a Campari and a Valdostana—a savoury, sandwich-like speciality. Montecarlo today is also known for its excellent DOC wine, and there is a certain refined air about the town, perhaps due to its wine culture and festivals. It feels slightly more elevated than some neighbouring villages, though still warmly welcoming.

All in all, it was a deeply satisfying day: music, history, landscape, and good food combined. More than that, it felt like a small but meaningful contribution to preserving Italy’s extraordinary cultural heritage—surely among the richest in the world. There is still so much to protect and cherish, and days like these remind us just how worthwhile that effort is.

Today I share some thoughts about the proposed reform of the Italian judiciary, and after many comments and discussions that followed, I feel it is worth setting out my position clearly for the English-speaking community living in Italy who are also entitled to vote.

Voting on the Italian Judiciary: Yes or No? 🏛️⚖️
From what I understand, and how the current Italian system differs from the English one:
In Italy, judges and public prosecutors belong to the same professional order, managed by the CSM, with internal factions and a certain degree of political influence. This can create conflicts between those who judge and those who investigate.

In England, on the other hand, judges and prosecutors are separate. Judicial appointments are independent and based on merit, without internal factions. Clear roles and transparency come first.

What would change with a “Yes” in the referendum?
Separate career paths for judges and prosecutors.
Greater transparency and meritocracy in appointments.
A reduction in the influence of internal factions and political pressure.

⚠️ Attention: we would not become exactly like England, but we would move closer to a clearer and more merit-based system.
Yes = reform and separation
No = everything remains as it is today
Understood?
Sunday 22 March polling stations will be open from 7:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m.
Monday 23 March voting will take place from 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.

To begin with, I have serious doubts about the level of transparency in the proposed changes. Under the reform, some members of the Consiglio Superiore della Magistratura (CSM) — the body that governs the judiciary — would be selected by sortition, essentially drawn by lot. In addition, the so-called “lay” members would come from a list provided by the government. For me, this already raises concerns. A system that is supposed to safeguard the independence of the judiciary should be visibly transparent and clearly independent from political influence.

Beyond the technical aspects of the reform — which are often complex and not particularly engaging for the average citizen — the argument that most strongly pushes me toward voting NO concerns the proposed separation of careers between prosecutors and judges.

From what I understand, this change would in practice affect only a handful of magistrates each year, perhaps no more than around ten who move between prosecutorial and judicial roles. This raises an obvious question: is it really necessary to alter the structure of the system for such a small number of cases?

There is also a historical aspect that I personally find troubling. The separation of careers was one of the points mentioned in the well-known P2 programme associated with Licio Gelli, which caused enormous controversy in Italy in the 1980s. Even if the context today is different, that historical association alone makes many people understandably cautious.

For these reasons, and after reflecting on the discussion that followed my post, I remain unconvinced by the reform.

When the time comes, I intend to vote NO.

And I will end with a light but pointed remark: in Europe, one Orbán is enough.

Cheers 🥂

Fathers, Traditions, and Quiet Legacies
Each year, as Father’s Day comes around—whether on 19 March in Italy, today. or a June Sunday in the English-speaking world—we are reminded that while dates and customs may differ, the essence of fatherhood remains strikingly universal.
In Italy, the day is rooted in tradition, tied to Saint Joseph and marked by simple, heartfelt gestures: shared meals, sweet pastries, and quiet family gatherings. Elsewhere, particularly in countries like the United States and the United Kingdom, Father’s Day has taken on a more modern, often commercial character, with gifts and celebrations that mirror those of Mother’s Day. Yet beneath these differences lies the same enduring impulse: to honour the men who shaped us.
For us, this day is not just about tradition, but about remembrance.
My own father, Harvey. with a Welsh ancestry. was a practical, no-nonsense man. In the difficult years following the war, when my mother came to the United Kingdom from Italy, it was his steady, grounded nature that provided the structure and support she needed. Without him, her transition would have been far more uncertain. He was not a man of many words, but of actions—reliable, capable, and always present when it mattered.

My wife’s father, by contrast, was a Florentine through and through: calm, reflective, and quietly elegant. A handsome man with a thoughtful outlook on life, he left a deep impression on his daughter—one that, as is so often the case, perhaps surpassed even that of her mother. There was a gentleness about him, a sense of perspective that gave weight to his presence without ever needing to impose it.

And yet, despite their different backgrounds—one shaped by post-war Britain, the other by the cultural richness of Florence—these two men shared remarkable similarities.
They both embodied a true and steady fatherly love, expressed not in grand gestures but in constancy. They were patient, tolerant, and unshakably reliable. Each approached life practically, preferring solutions to complaints, action to fuss.
They had their quiet passions: my father with his woodwork, crafting with care and precision; Sandra’s father with his photography, capturing moments with an artist’s eye. Both pursuits reflected something deeper—an appreciation for detail, for making and preserving.
They were elegant men, too, in their own understated ways. Always well turned out, always smart, they carried themselves with a natural dignity. There was nothing ostentatious about it—just a sense of self-respect that showed in how they dressed and moved through the world.
They loved animals, especially dogs, and both had faithful companions over the years. They were excellent drivers, confident and mechanically minded—qualities not shared, it must be said with affection, by their wives, who never held driving licences.
Importantly, they were never shouty or aggressive. Their authority came not from volume, but from presence. They were generous in spirit and in action, giving without expectation.
In every sense, they were very special men—men we remember today with deep affection and gratitude.
And perhaps what lingers most is not just who they were, but what they leave behind: a quiet example. The kind that invites reflection. The kind that makes one think—not sentimentally, but sincerely—about the qualities one hopes to nurture more fully in oneself.
On this day, then, we remember them not only with love, but with a certain resolve: to carry forward, however imperfectly, something of what they gave so naturally.

The camellia is one of the most elegant and historically fascinating flowers in the world. Belonging to the genus Camellia, part of the tea family (Theaceae), these evergreen shrubs and small trees originate mainly from East Asia—particularly China, Japan, and Korea. Over the centuries they have spread across the world, captivating gardeners, botanists, poets, and lovers of beauty alike.
Camellias are especially admired for their glossy dark-green leaves and their remarkable flowers, which appear from late autumn through early spring, when most other plants are still dormant. The blossoms range from pure white to delicate pink and deep crimson, sometimes with intricate streaks or variegated patterns.

Among the best-known species is Camellia japonica, the classic ornamental camellia whose large, rose-like flowers became famous in European gardens during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Another species, Camellia sasanqua, flowers earlier in the year and often carries a delicate fragrance. A third, Camellia sinensis, has a special place in global culture as the plant from which all traditional tea—green, black, white, and oolong—is produced.
The history of camellias in Europe is closely tied to the great botanical enthusiasm of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Wealthy families and botanical collectors imported plants from Asia and cultivated them in the gardens of villas and in carefully maintained glasshouses. By the middle of the nineteenth century there were already hundreds of named varieties, and camellias had become a symbol of refinement and aristocratic taste. Their perfect symmetry, velvety petals, and long flowering season made them the aristocrats of the winter garden.
The camellia also entered the imagination of writers and musicians. In 1848 the novel La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas fils told the tragic story of a Parisian courtesan who always wore camellias. According to the story, white camellias signaled that she was available to receive visitors, while red camellias meant she was not. The novel caused a sensation and later inspired Giuseppe Verdi’s famous opera La Traviata, in which the heroine Violetta Valéry carries the same aura of fragile beauty and doomed love. Through literature and opera the camellia became associated with elegance, passion, and romantic tragedy.

In Japan, however, the camellia—known as tsubaki—had a different symbolism. When the flower dies, it falls whole from the plant rather than dropping its petals one by one. To the samurai this sudden fall resembled a severed head, and for that reason the flower was sometimes considered unlucky in warrior culture. Yet even there it remained admired for its beauty and strength.
In Europe the camellia later became a fashion icon thanks to Coco Chanel, who adopted the flower as one of the symbols of her house. She admired its perfect geometry and the fact that it had little fragrance, allowing it to be worn without interfering with perfume. Why does the camellia need to add a perfume anyway? Its intricate natural beauty is enough to attract bees for its pollination although there is a variety that does exhude a delicate scent.

Italy, and particularly Tuscany, offers some of the best conditions in Europe for camellias. The soil is slightly acidic, the climate mild and humid, and the hills protect gardens from harsh winds. For this reason the Lucchesia area became one of the great centers of camellia cultivation in Europe. In the villages of Pieve and Sant’Andrea di Compito many historic varieties planted in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries still survive today, some of them having grown into large trees several metres high. These gardens preserve an extraordinary botanical heritage, with hundreds of different varieties collected and carefully maintained.
Every year this heritage is celebrated during the festival known as the Mostra Antiche Camelie della Lucchesia, when the camellias bloom in all their splendour and the valley opens to visitors from near and far.
Yesterday we had the pleasure of visiting the Camellia Garden in Pieve and Sant’Andrea di Compito, and it was, as always, a wonderful experience. Walking along the avenues lined with camellias is something truly special. Everywhere one turns there are blossoms—pink, white, crimson—some delicate and simple, others richly layered like roses. Many of the flowers grow within the private villas of the valley, beautiful historic houses surrounded by gardens that have been lovingly maintained for generations.
One of the highlights of the visit is always the Camellietum, where an astonishing variety of camellias can be seen together. Each plant seems to offer a new form or colour, and one begins to understand just how rich and diverse this flower truly is.

The festival itself offers much more than botany. There were poetry events and cultural gatherings, as well as delightful re-evocations of nineteenth-century life in the villas, reminding visitors of the era when camellias first became fashionable in Europe. It felt as though history and nature were meeting in the same place.

There was also a convivial gathering of poets and folk singers in the garden of one of the great aristocratic villas. the villa Orsi.

We enjoyed a very decent lunch in the area occupied by the local cultural association before continuing our walk through the valley. The setting itself is enchanting: a little world of villages, gardens, terraces, an ancient watchtower, a noble Pieve, an ancient tea plantation all surrounded by the Pisan hills, with gorgeous streams and torrents rushing down the slopes and small waterfalls glimmering in the sunlight. The entire valley feels like a hidden garden with a long and extraordinary history.

The event was well attended, with many visitors present, yet the atmosphere remained relaxed and joyful. Families with children, older visitors, and everyone in between wandered through the gardens, all enjoying the flowers and the beauty of the day. People were polite, cheerful, and clearly delighted to be there.
For us this visit has become a tradition. We have been coming for years, and it is one of those annual events that we never want to miss. May we never ever miss it. The camellia is truly a beautiful flower—one that carries centuries of history, poetry, and symbolism. It spoke to earlier generations of writers and dreamers, and it speaks to us as well.
And the good news is that there is still time to enjoy this remarkable event. Visitors can still attend the festival on the remaining weekends: 22–23 March, 29–30 March, and 5–6 April, when the gardens and the valley will once again be open for everyone who wishes to experience the beauty of the camellias in bloom. Don’t forget to visit the frantoio (olive oil mill) too where the best local oil can be tasted and bought and where objects made from olive tree wood may be found.

Thank you so much to Pieve and Sant’Andrea di Compito for welcoming us again during this special festival. It was, as always, beautiful—beautiful, beautiful.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Saint Patrick is alive and well in Italy. Not only is his fellow countryman’s church of San Frediano one of the loveliest churches in Lucca but we have found a rare church specifically dedicated to Saint Patrick relatively near us, just north of Florence

San Patrizio in Italia

The Church of Saint Patrick in Tirli, Tuscany is a hidden gem of Italian religious heritage

Tucked away in the rolling hills of Tuscany, in the small hamlet of Tirli within the municipality of Firenzuola (Florence province), stands a unique and historically rich place of worship: the Church of Saint Patrick (Chiesa di San Patrizio). Unlike the many Italian churches dedicated to more widely celebrated Italian saints, this charming church honours Saint Patrick, better known as the patron saint of Ireland — making it one of the rare sanctuaries in Italy bearing his name. 

It has a  long history rooted in local tradition and the origins of this church go back many centuries. A religious building at this site was already documented before the 11th century, although it was originally dedicated to Saint Peter rather than Saint Patrick. Over time, and particularly after the Florentine conquest of the area in the late Middle Ages, this dedication changed — reflecting shifts in local devotion and the evolving role of the church within the community. 

By the early 17th century, the original structure had fallen into serious disrepair. In 1615, a decision was made to construct a new building a short distance from the old one under the guidance of the new parish priest. The construction continued into the early 1620s, including the installation of a baptismal font authorized by the archbishop in 1618. It was at this time that the church was re-dedicated to Saint Patrick.

In 1684, during a pastoral visit by Bishop Jacopo Antonio Morigia, the church was elevated to the status of Prioria, granting it special importance as a focal point of religious life in the region. 

By the early 20th century, the building had once again deteriorated. In 1929, the church underwent a complete reconstruction in a neo‑medieval style and was formally consecrated by Monsignor Giovacchino Bonardi, Auxiliary Bishop of Florence. This restoration gave the church much of its present architectural character. 

Inside the church, visitors can find several remarkable works of art. Notably:

A large canvas by Giovanni d’Angelo Rosi (1597–1675) depicts the Madonna giving the rosary to Saint Dominic, with the Christ Child offering it to Saint Catherine of Siena. Saint Patrick appears in the painting as a bishop, with his mitre and staff placed to the side and the iconic rod associated with his legendary act of tracing a sacred circle at Lough Derg in Ireland. 

Another important painting, by an anonymous artist likely from the same school, shows Saint Patrick distributing communion to his confreres. 

Above the entrance is a glazed ceramic lunette with a scene of the Adoration of the Christ Child, adding a decorative and spiritual welcome to the facade. 

These artworks — with their vivid religious imagery — beautifully reflect both local devotion and broader Christian traditions. 

Each year on March 17th, the feast day of Saint Patrick, the church becomes a focal point for celebration and reflection. In recent years, local authorities have even participated in the Global Greening initiative, illuminating the church in green to honour Saint Patrick and highlight cultural connections that span beyond Italy’s borders. 

Though small and off the typical tourist path, the Church of Saint Patrick in Tirli offers a fascinating glimpse into the layering of local history, religious devotion, and artistic heritage. It stands as a testament to the enduring presence of faith in rural Italy and the surprising ways in which saints from other parts of the Christian world — like the beloved patron of Ireland — find a home in unexpected places. 

Francis Pettitt

Why does Mother’s Day occur on different dates in England and Italy? Mother’s Day is a time to honour mothers, yet the date of celebration differs depending on the country, reflecting history, culture, and tradition.
In England, Mother’s Day, or Mothering Sunday, has its roots in the Christian calendar. It was originally the fourth Sunday of Lent, when people returned to their “mother church” in their area. Over time, the religious observance evolved into a day to honour mothers and maternal care. Because it is tied to Lent, the date changes every year, usually falling in March, like this year, or early April..
In Italy, Mother’s Day (Festa della Mamma) is more modern and secular, inspired by international celebrations, particularly from the United States. It is always observed on the second Sunday of May, a fixed date that allows families and cultural events to celebrate consistently.
But beyond dates and traditions, what matters most is the lives and struggles of the mothers themselves. A mother’s work has always been difficult, yet for our mothers, it was especially challenging. They grew up in the shadow of war, entering adulthood in a world marked by scarcity, rationing, and reconstruction.
Sandra’s Italian mother was invited to England with her cousin to work as a nanny, navigating the challenges of starting a new life far from home.

My mother also came to England from Italy—invited by the man who would become my father—and both mothers eventually married as a result of encounters in this recovering country. In both cases, we were raised in post-war England, a society still facing very considerable shortages, yet thanks to their strength and determination, we not only survived but thrived.

We remain immensely proud of them. Their courage, resilience, and love allowed us to live in moderate plenty today, a stark contrast to the harsh realities they faced. Mother’s Day is, for us, a moment not only to remember and honour their sacrifices but to celebrate the enduring legacy of survival, hope, and love they left behind.

When I think back to how my lifelong love affair with music began, I always return to the moment when I was about fourteen. It was a very different world then. If you wanted to hear a particular piece of music, whether it was classical, pop, or anything in between, you really had to go hunting for it. You couldn’t just click a button and have it instantly. Records were expensive beyond belief. A single LP could cost thirty-seven shillings and sixpence (£1.80) which for a teenager like me was practically a small fortune—weeks of pocket money, in fact, maybe even more than that. So discovering cheaper labels, little treasures hiding in the corners of shops, was like stumbling upon gold.
At my local WHSmith I found the Saga label (so young and already dealing with Saga (!)). And in 1963, with a careful saving of pennies and shillings, I managed to buy my very first two LPs. One was Bartók’s String Quartets Numbers 5 and 6, performed by the Fine Arts Quartet, and the other contained symphonies by Sammartini who I’d never even heard of but the record sleeve blurb describing him as an early symphonist intreagued me – it remains exquisite listening.

To be able to afford them—just over ten shillings each—felt like achieving something incredible. I could hardly believe that these works, the music I so desperately wanted to hear, were finally mine. I carried those records home with a sense of awe, and they opened doors to worlds of sound I had only glimpsed before.
But even before those LPs, my earliest encounters with recorded music came from my father’s old 78-rpm shellac discs. They were weighty things, collected in large, heavy albums, each containing several discs for a single work. I still have the set with Artur Rubinstein playing Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto, another with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and even my mum’s Italian pre-war set of Cortot playing the Chopin Ballades.

Later, I discovered that more 78s could be hunted down in a local junk shop behind Forest Hill station. They were cheap—almost given away—and I would bring them home, carefully clean them, and then record them onto cassette. This way, I could listen to an entire work, say Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, without having to get up every few minutes to change the disc. It was a kind of liberation, a way to immerse myself in music fully, uninterrupted.
Yet the first recording that truly knocked me out, that made me fall in love with classical music as something both alive and magical, was an EP by Dinu Lipatti. On it, he played Bach’s playful Partita No. 1 in B-flat and Mozart’s haunting A minor sonata composed at the time of his Paris trip when his mother who accompanied him suddenly died. The Bach immediately captured me. It was like a patterned tapestry of sound, a musical magic carpet woven from every note and every phrase. I could see the music in my mind—figures, designs, patterns, all interrelated in perfect harmony. It seemed impossible that something so intangible could feel so tangible. And the Mozart? It moved me in a completely different way. More emotional, more delicate, melancholic even, but always balanced within a perfect structure. The combination was intoxicating.

Listening to records in those days was a ritual. My setup included a Garrard SP25 Mark II turntable and two valve amplifiers, one for each stereo channel which needed to be warmed up just right. Every step mattered: sliding the LP from its sleeve, balancing it with both hands, wiping away dust, checking that the stylus was pristine, and then carefully lowering the needle onto the grooves. There was that faint, gentle crackle at the very start—the soft whisper of the world before the music began—and then, suddenly, the full sound blossomed. An LP side lasted roughly twenty to thirty minutes, and that became a measure of time itself. One side might be enough to drink a cup of tea, to cook a meal, or to simply sit in wonder. Music was not just something you listened to; it was something that shaped your hours, your days, your very life.

The Forest Hill Record Library was another revelation. I could borrow two records a week, and I kept a tiny notebook, diligently recording everything I took out. This was my personal catalogue, a way of building a private universe of sound. One of the first recordings I borrowed was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, conducted by Ernest Ansermet. Hearing it for the first time was utterly overwhelming; it left me breathless. I also recall the electrifying performance of Berlioz’s Roman Carnival Overture conducted by Charles Munch—so vibrant, so alive, it practically danced off the record.

Radio was an essential companion as well. If I wanted to hear something rare or new, I had to read the Radio Times carefully, make sure I was in the right place at the right time. I experimented with recording programmes on a small Philips reel-to-reel tape recorder, particularly when the BBC began broadcasting its complete series of Haydn symphonies, the only way one could listen to the entire series before Antal Dorati recorded his pioneer Haydn set. Each recording seemed a triumph, a way to capture music as it lived in the airwaves, fleeting and immediate.
Everything changed again in the early 1970s with the arrival of the compact cassette. Suddenly, I could not only play LPs more conveniently but also record them, record radio broadcasts, build a library of music that travelled with me. I became meticulous in my cassette recordings, helped enormously by my wife, almost as if I were creating miniature archives of musical life. This cassette era lasted for roughly a decade, from 1974 to 1984, a period of intense collecting and recording.

(My Sony TC 146 stereo cassette recorder-player).
Then came the CD revolution. Libraries began discarding LPs to make space, and I rescued as many as I could. Some were quite filthy, and I carefully washed them in lukewarm water, reviving them so that they could sing again. Vinyl seemed obsolete, yet of course it would later make a stunning comeback. Lucky I kept them…

Today, my collection is vast and varied: hundreds of LPs, thousands of cassettes, some treasured 78s, and a large archive of CDs that have mostly been transferred to digital files. All of its contents. also occupying whole shelves and cupboards, can now fit comfortably on a tiny hard drive I could slip into my pocket. Music has never been more portable, more accessible—but even with all this convenience, the essence of pleasure remains unchanged.
I often return to the LP, for the tactile, sensuous joy it brings: the large, intricate artwork on the covers, the liner notes on the back, the careful sliding of the vinyl into place, the gentle lowering of the stylus into the groove, and then the music, living and breathing in the room.
Certain pieces have remained constant companions through the decades. Bach’s great keyboard concerto in D minor has always captivated me, with its driving bass lines, intricate patterns, and inexhaustible depth. Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major, which I once performed as a violinist in the school orchestra. remains for me the most delicate, sensuous, and beautiful of all his piano concerti. Mozart’s piano concerti, in fact, remain some of the greatest achievements of his musical life, each one a world unto itself.

Looking back, it is extraordinary to reflect on how far things have come. I grew up in a time when a single LP was a treasure, a prized possession that one might ask for as a birthday or Christmas gift because it was too expensive to buy otherwise. Now, music flows endlessly, streaming as freely as water from a tap. And thousands of recordings can be carried effortlessly in a device no larger than a wallet. Moreover music available now stretches back beyond the baroque to renaissance polyphony to mediaeval Ars Antiqua and indeed to all countries on the earth, the repertoire now executed in historically informed performances with period instruments and true savoire faire.
And yet, for all the advances in technology, the fundamental pleasure remains exactly the same: sitting down, letting the music unfold, immersing oneself fully, and being transported again and again to that magical world of sound that first opened before me when I heard Bach’s Partita so many years ago, and never left me since.

In the picturesque Tuscan countryside near Cortona, stands the historic Villa Morra di Lavriano, surrounded by centuries-old cypresses, quiet avenues, and gardens that hold memories of culture, freedom, and courage.

The villa was the residence of Count Umberto Morra di Lavriano, a man renowned for his moral independence, refined culture, and extraordinary civic courage.

Morra di Lavriano was known not for wealth or political positions, but for his moral elegance and intellectual integrity. The writer Alberto Moravia called him “the morally most elegant man in Italy”, emphasizing his courage and intellectual freedom during a period of conformity under the fascist regime.

In the 1930s, the villa became a meeting place for artists and intellectuals, including: Renato Guttuso, Alberto Moravia and Aldo Capitini.
Here, European literature, art, modern philosophy, and politics were freely discussed. Some guests described the villa as “a small independent republic in the midst of fascist Italy”, an oasis of cultural freedom.
The Count’s private library held thousands of foreign volumes, many rare or difficult to obtain. Some were carefully stored on internal shelves, turning the villa into a true European cultural salon.

During the 1938 fascist plebiscite, Morra went to the Cortona polling station and voted openly “NO”, a rare act of civic courage symbolizing his moral integrity in a climate of fear where only a ” YES” would have been acceptable, .

During the war, the villa was used by German soldiers, but remained undamaged. The only curious detail was a pile of winter socks left behind. Morra, away for safety during the occupation, returned to find the villa completely intact, amazed by the care left by the soldiers.

The Italian Cultural Institute already existed as the Casa del Fascio in Bucharest, Romania. After the war, much of its cultural material was transferred to London with most of its books integrated into the Institute’s library.
Morra served as the official director of the Institute for three or four years, guiding the preservation and enhancement of Italy’s cultural heritage. Other key figures included:
the Duke Gallarate Scotti
Count Saffi, artistic director of music
Professor Calogero
Donnini, vice-director and later director
Lucia Pallavicini, initially in charge of the library (from New York), later director in Sweden
Morra also contributed special donations and diplomatic support. These included the Murano crystal candelabras, now transferred to the new Casa Italia headquarters at Buckingham Gate.

During visits to the villa, my wife Alexandra Cipriani had access to rare personal spaces, including the Count’s private chapel. A photograph by her father captures her standing in a white dress her mother had made her, aged about 18, surrounded by the villa’s extraordinary frescoes.

Alexandra also recalls special lunches in Rome near the Trevi Fountain with Count Morra, moments of serenity and freedom that remain vivid memories of a precious era

The villa’s park preserves romantic legends: two young lovers, forbidden by their families, are said to have died together among the cypresses, giving the place a melancholic and poetic aura.

The villa and the Italian Cultural Institute in London represent a bridge between past and present, linking freedom of thought and cultural heritage. Alexandra Cipriani recalls with nostalgia the places of her youth for the Institute, now permanently transferred to the new Buckingham Gate location, was once her childhood home.

Today, Villa Morra di Lavriano stands as a symbol of cultural freedom, moral courage, and passion for knowledge, a place where personal and national history intertwine in unforgettable ways. 🌿📚