One of the highlights of the summer season in our parts is the series of interviews with notable people at Borgo a Mozzano’s Teatro del Verzura. Literally meaning ‘Green Theatre’ the venue is precisely that: a series of hedgerows and topiaries defining a place in a garden where events can take place in a semi-staged setting. The idea of the Teatro della Verzura in Italy goes back to at least the eighteenth century when pastoral plays were acted in these verdurous surrounding. Every aristocratic villa would have one in their gardens. For example, the Villa Reale near us at Marlia has this fine example;
Borgo’s Teatro della Verzura is built (or rather planted…) in the grounds of a former convent. Now in its seventeenth year the teatro continues to host a varied series of encounters with people from show business, politics and sport. It is essentially an open-air talk show conducted by the mayor of Borgo.
Patrizio Andreucetti has been mayor since 2014 and was re-elected for a second mandate of five years in 2019. (Mayors cannot have more than two consecutive terms in Italy). His background is sociological and political and his most recent book is titled ‘A Blue Butterfly. Il summit di Lucca per la pace tra Russia e Ucraina’ and deals with the Lucca summit’s attempt to find a peace settlement in this horrifically protracted war.
The first evening of the series at Verzura was inaugurated with a tasty reception
This was followed by our.speaker Paolo Del Debbio. Born in Lucca in 1958, Del Debbio is an essayist, journalist, television host, television writer, professor and former Italian politician.
Paolo’s father was deported to the Nazi prison camp of Luckenwalde and luckily survived: the experience. This turned his son into a confirmed anti-fascist. Del Debbio obtained a bachelor’s degree in philosophy at the Pontifical University of the Holy Cross in Rome and a licentiate in philosophy at the Pontifical Urbaniana University. From 1988 to 1993, he worked at Fininvest Comunicazioni, an external and institutional relations company of the Fininvest group, first as “coordinator of the study centre”, then also as assistant to the managing director. He is a contract professor of ethics and economics at the University of Milan. Together with Berlusconi he is a founder of ‘Forza Italia’ political party which has a share in Giorgia Meloni’s government.
Programmes which feature Del Debbio are normally on canale cinque.
The evening, however,did not deal with Del Debbio’s political past but with his recently published first novel: “Il filo dell’aquilone” (the kite’s line). This is a bildungsroman combining philosophical and theological reflections with a plot centering on the fragility that unites all human beings.As yet no English translation exists. From the excerpts read by a colleague and actor I sensed that the novel is quite special and I shall attempt to get my own copy of it to read.
An evening which started at 9 pm finished shortly before midnight and every minute of it was worth listening to. I shall look forward to attending the other evenings at La Verzura and in particular the one featuring a leading member of the women’s freedom struggle in Iran.
A full list of future encounters can be found here
Yesterday’s helicopter flight of solidarity over the flood-affected areas of northern Italy by prime minister Giorgia Meloni and president of the European commission Ursula Von Der Leyen points again to the strengths of the EU. From the COVID pandemic to the Russian invasion of Ukraine to natural calamities of individual members the EU has proved to be a very effective force in assisting member states in quasi-apocalyptic situations. (Not surprising when it was founded to help reconstruct Europe after WW2).
Indeed, those factions in the EU opposed to it have greatly diminished in number. There are few today who would clamour for a frexit, an austrix or even an italexit. I do find it somewhat weird, however, that the prime minister of a country which voted to leave the EU has been militarily generous toward a country desperate to join the EU. This may perhaps be a sign of attitude change. Who knows?
One thing is certain, however, that a no-mow May has changed my attitude when I see the breath-taking flower re-wilding taking place in my little orchard.
Many rush to its seaside lido namesake without stopping at Camaiore which is a very pleasant town with good shopping, fine cafes, historic palaces and churches, two interesting museums and, yesterday, some excellent street musicians performing Amy Winehouse, Fats Waller and Duke Ellington on the town’s jazz day as part of the Calendimaggio celebration for the month of May.
Here is a quick photographic survey of some of the sights Camaiore offers:
The gateway by Camaiore San Pietro abbey on the Via Francigena pilgrim route from Canterbury to Rome.
Francesco Anguilla (14th cent). Madonna and saints
Piazza Diaz: Looking towards the sacred arts museum
The local bank
Maria Teresa of Savoia, Duchess of Lucca: her crown
Apse of St Michael Archangel Romanesque church
Australopithecus reconstructed from local remains found in a cave
The descent of man as seen through his skulls: anthropology section of archaeology museum
Sandra pondering on cave life
Neolithic pottery and fertility statuettes
Ancient Roman temple items including cymbals
Hot chocolate break..
Chiesa Collegiata di Santa Maria Assunta: Camaiore’s main church
This trio (‘Hot violin trio’) entertained us with some great hot jazz including Django
Some excellent renditions of Amy Winehouse songs from Mazy & friend.
Getting ready for the morrow’s feast of Saint Eustorgius
The palace housing the archaeological museum
A town square: piazza Diaz
A cherubic lute player in the museum of sacred art
In a truly tragic situation where Italy’s industrial and agricultural powerhouse has been smothered by floodwater and rapidly concretising mud I admire the way the other members of the union, of which Italy forms part and was one of the six original founding members, are clubbing together to help this beautiful country which had been my main home for almost twenty years.
Meanwhile the UK media, and particularly the BBC, avoid talking about what’s happened in Emilia-Romagna and prefer to concentrate on what someone may find in a remote Portuguese reservoir.
It’s clear to most politically aware people that there are many tangible Brexit benefits to be had. The problem for the United Kingdom, however, is that these benefits are all for member states of the EU with none for Brexitania!
The majority of the EU are very glad that a truculent and demanding nation has left it. No more extra negotiations to deal with all those niggly amendments that Britain wanted, for instance. More than that, however, are the great economic advantages that Brexit is giving to the EU. Industries and commerce are massively moving to the European mainland to avoid the complex bureaucracy that the UK’s divorce has involved, especially with regard to imports and exports. Ever more commerce and finance are transferring across the Channel and already Frankfurt and Amsterdam have overtaken the City of London as a major financial hub.
Regarding the initial issue of why brexit happened – uncontrolled immigration, – the fact is that the number of those entering the UK (even illegally) is higher than it ever had been. At least when the UK was part of the EU the majority of immigrants came from countries with a European cultural and historical tradition well-connected with the UK. Indeed during WW2 London hosted European governments exiled because of the Nazi invasion. Racists might also like to note that these immigrants were white and of Christian upbringing.
Now UK rules for immigrant control have gone by the wayside due to labour shortages in so many of its sectors, especially farming. (PS If anyone continues to think Brexit is the best thing to have happened to the UK since Wonderloaf bakeries invented sliced bread just get up early enough to listen to BBC Radio One’s farming programme – perhaps containing the most persuasive evidence to condemn brexitism).
The new waves of immigrants may lack the European background of their predecessors but at least they speak English having come from those parts of the world which a formerly imperialist nation exploited to the last manacle on a slave’s legs. For of course, too many brexiteers could no longer judge a person using the colour of their skin since recent laws would now punish them so they picked on the next best thing which is whether they could speak English or not…
And that’s the crux of the matter. The UK has never considered itself part of Europe. That clichéd news headline ‘fog envelops the English channel: the continent cut off from Britain still holds true among many anglo-saxons. Meanwhile all I can see is that the EU will think twice – or even three times – about allowing rejoining negotiations with the Brexit nation if a more enlightened government should occupy Westminster.
Unless the UK can create a miracle by forging trade deals as comprehensive as it used to have when it was a member of the world’s largest trade community, it will sadly sink into further oblivion and destitution and become ever more incapable of ‘taking back control ‘ of its rightful destiny as an an essential part of the European continent.
Today, amid the continuing disastrous flood situation in Emilia-Romagna, Italy commemorates the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of a magisterial compatriot, Alessandro Manzoni, author of a historical novel which defined the modern Italian language: ‘I Promessi Sposi’:(‘The Betrothed’).
Manzoni’s aim was to provide a basis for a resurgent, unified Italy with a written language that could be understood and used by anyone born in the peninsula. In a country where the majority used local dialect s to communicate it cannot be emphasised how seminal Manzoni’s achievement was in.writing the first novel in what may immediately be recognise as a modern Italian language purged of archaic latinisms and convoluted phraseology. Manzoni, together with those other greats, Mazzini and Garibaldi, can, therefore, be equally regarded as a unifier of Italy.
I have visited Manzoni’s house in Milan, the city which more than any other embraces his literary creations, and several of the places where the novel’s action takes place. This includes the former Milanese leper hospital or lazaretto where plague victims were isolated, the stunning lake Como, the monastery of Monza where that famous nun was immured, the area around Lecco and, of course, his tomb in Milan’s monumental cemetery.
Among previous posts I have also found one describing a local place of idyllic beauty and inspiring concerts. Here Manzoni loved to stay in the house where his eighth daughter, Vittoria who married Giambattista Giorgini an academic and politician from nearby Massarosa, spent her summers and her last days dying of tuberculosis. Manzoni also found refuge here during 1848, that turbulent ‘year of revolutions ‘.
It can, therefore, come as no surprise that another great Italian’s creation, Verdi’s Requiem, is dedicated to Manzoni.
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(Below: Giambattista and Vittoria)
.To read this post describing the villages around Pieve a Elici click on the link below.
I rarely write to the BBC but felt impelled to do so this time:
“Virtually the first Radio 4 news item yesterday was regarding Harry and Megan’s paparazzie experience. This item went on for far too long and needed drastic editing. Well down the list of news items came the catastrophic flooding affecting Italy’s Emilia-Romagna region (incidentally the word Romagna was incorrectly pronounced on BBC TV world news by Yalda Hakim who pronounced the ‘gn’ as if was just an ‘n’ making it seem as if she was referring to a Roman woman) in which hundreds of thousand of people have been displaced, irreplaceable art works damaged, deaths increasing and communications cut. This lack of item priority in my opinion and in that of all those who love or live in this area is quite unacceptable especially regarding a tragic situation.”
Didn’t go in person because of the pestiferous rain even though the peleton passed quite near us at Borgo di Mozzano.
But TV coverage was great. Fun to see all those places so familiar to us on the screen and from a helicopter too!
Just thought about how cold those fingers must be getting as they sped and skidded and sometimes crashed from the 5000 feet high Passo delle Radici descent to sea-level finish at Viareggio on stage ten of the fabulous Giro d’Italia (going strong since 1909). These cyclists are all heroes.
But why is the Giro d’Italia called ‘la corsa rosa’, (the pink race)?
It’s because a pink jersey is given to the cyclist with the best cumulative time (leader of the general classification).
Jerseys of other colours are given as follows:
The cyclamen jersey is for the rider who scores the most points in the intermediate and finish lines (leader of the points classification).
The blue jersey is for the runner who wins the most points and bonuses on the peaks (leader of the mountain classification).
The white jersey is for the rider who has not yet turned twenty-five on 1 January of the current year with the cumulative best time (leader of the junior classification).
But why pink????? – a colour with feminine association and which in Italy is usually given to ribbons and balloons bedecking doorways of households who have just given birth to a baby girl?
Answer is simple. It’s because the founder of the event and main sponsor is the sports rag ‘la gazzetta dello sport’ which printed on pink paper!
In 2015 the Giro d’Italia passed through Bagni di Lucca and the Lima valley. We were there to witness it and you can read our account at:
Today is Dam Busters day. Otherwise known as ‘Operation Chastise’ it was a major contribution from the RAF in helping to win WW2 with an attack on German dams carried out on the night of 16 to 17 May 1943 by 617 Squadron RAF Bomber Command, using special “bouncing bombs” developed by Barnes Wallis. The Möhne and Edersee dams were breached, causing catastrophic flooding of the Ruhr valley and halting German war materiel production.
In 2011 Sandra performed on the kazoo in the Royal Albert Hall for Comic Relief’s Red Nose Day.
She played the famous March from the 1955 Dam Busters feature film with 3909 other kazoo players and entered the Guinness Book of Records as part of the largest ensemble of kazoo players.
PS What a glorious tune Eric Coates wrote! I’m adding the hymn derived from it and dedicating it to Ukraine.
For over a week the weather has been so unpredictable. Hot, almost summery, intervals have been interrupted by violent thunderstorms sometimes lashing the earth with hail. North of us, in Emilia Romagna, severe flooding has ruined many crops. In Florence a recent hail storm turned the city white and almost drowned motorists attempting the ring road underpasses.
Despite all this we did not want to miss out lunch, a book presentation and a nature walk given last Sunday at the agritourism village of Pian di Fiume.
Originally a small settlement a little way up the Lima valley Pian di Fiume was abandoned after the last war until it was bought and restored as an attractive holiday resort and events centre by Massimo Betti, Bagni di Lucca’s chief chemist and former mayor. It’s in demand too as a wedding centre and boasts an excellent restaurant.
A fete champetre had originally been planned for the events but because of the changeable forecast we had our meal in the restaurant’s main hall. For ‘primo’ I chose a plate of large-cut ravioli savoured with herbs.
I followed this with capocollo (seasoned, cured, and thinly-sliced cold cut of pork taken from the neck or shoulder) and roast potatoes. Both dishes were totally scrumptious!
We were thus well-prepared to pass an afternoon strolling in the company of plant expert, local historian, anthropologist, novelist, shaman and TV personality Marco Pardini. We were first introduced to this universal naturalist at a local event and have since become devoted acolytes. Marco has an extraordinary way of talking about his pet ethnobotanical subject; he not only describes plants in Linnaean terms but also explains their curative qualities, symbolic and mythological significance. Magic!
We read Marco’s second book ‘Erbario Poetico’ where he describes meeting local country people who tell him about their family’s farming traditions and where he weaves an enjoyable pilgrimage through some of the plant families inhabiting our amazingly diverse part of the world. With his third book Marco has turned novelist. ‘La casa delle parole ritrovate’ (The house of rediscovered words) combines two eras: the present with the first half of the seventeenth century. It is a partly historical novel whose themes involve the Thirty Years War which tore Central Europe apart from 1618 to 1648, the sack of Magdeburg, the plague which spread through Italy around 1630, the dreadful Roman Inquisition, ethnobotany and a beautiful love story.
(Massimo Betti (left) and Marco Pardini).
It’s really two books in one. The “modern” character is Fabio, an antique dealer of Lucca and the seventeenth-century one is Samuel, a German soldier who, shocked by what he saw and did during the siege of Magdeburg, decides to atone by making a pilgrimage to Rome. The novel’s modern narrative is printed on white and the seventeenth century one is on a grey background. The graphics are particularly lovely with period prints of flowers, plants and animals for the ancient chronicle.
There are many similarities between the two male characters. They are both pharmacists but also practice restoration. Above all a psychological thread binds them together: they are tormented men who have lived through dramatic events that change the course of their lives.
Of the two women involved in the narrative Marta is a rather secluded character, while Agnese is more central. She is a healer and herbal expert able to save Samuel who, during his long pilgrimage, gets infected by the plague near Camaiore.
The flower on the book’s cover has an important meaning both within the novel and for the author who told us that the main theme of the book is really the healing power of women. Marco mentioned his considerable research in Lucca’s archives and stated that the publisher Maria Pacini Fazzi gave him complete freedom to write whatever what he wanted.
We did manage in part to do our stroll among the plants surrounding Pian di Fiume. But the rain came with some insistence.
Perhaps another day we’ll be able to learn further about the curative power of plants thanks to Pardini’s amazing knowledge. In the meanwhile we have started reading out aloud to each other Marco’s extraordinary novel.
In this respect I realised that I too have mentioned the horrible massacre of Magdeburg in one of my writings. Looking at the date 1631 carved into a corner stone of the little chapel in Longoio where I once lived I was stimulated to write the following:
CRONACA BREVE PER L’ANNO DEL NOSTRO SIGNORE 1631
Il primo giorno dell’anno 1631 fu un mercoledì.
All’inizio di quell’anno si sentirono le urla disperate di più di venti mila abitanti, uomini, donne e bambini, massacrati a punta di spada nella città tedesca di Magdeburgo, già saccheggiata da un esercito imperiale.
Era l’anno quando, nel Massachusetts del nuovo mondo, John Winthrop fu eletto il primo governatore, quando “la gazzette”, il primo giornale francese, fu fondato, quando il trattato di Cherasco terminò la guerra della successione Mantovana, e quando i pirati algerini saccheggiarono il porto di Cork nell’Irlanda.
Era l’anno quando la città di Wurzburg fu catturata dal re della Svezia, Gustavo Adolphus, ma non prima che circa novecento persone furono messe al rogo per il reato di stregoneria. Guai a quelli che giocano con le forze delle tenebri. Le streghe si convocano ogni notte sul prato fiorito, dove risiedono in un fosso profondo vicino alle rovine di un antico monastero. Sentite i loro gemiti cupi durante i crepuscoli tempestosi, non entrate nei castelli fantastici che costruiscono sulle vette dei monti, abbiate paura e tenetevi lontani dalle forze di negromanzia e dalle lusinghe del demonio.
Era un altr’anno nella guerra più spietata di tutti i tempi – la guerra dei trent’anni. L’elettore di Sassonia – fino ad’ ora neutrale – si schiera con il re della Svezia per cacciar fuori l’esercito imperiale dalla Sassonia. Una flotta spagnola è intercettata e quasi interamente distrutta da una flotta olandese nella battaglia dello Slaak. Il sangue cola senza fine, e nell’autunno dello stesso anno, nella battaglia di Breitenfeld, l’esercito imperiale è sconfitto dal re della Svezia, segnando la prima vittoria per i protestanti nell’infame guerra.
Era l’anno quando, all’oriente, nella città di Agra, nell’impero dei Moghul, cominciano a costruire gli architetti Ustad Ahmad Lahauri, Indiano, e Geronimo Veroneo, Italiano, il Taj Mahal, segno supremo di amore di un uomo per una donna, e una delle nuove sette meraviglie del mondo.
In quest’anno nacquero tra tanti ricordati e dimenticati:
La poetessa gallese, Katherine Philips
Il poeta inglese, John Dryden
Il giudice ai processi di stregoneria di Salem, William Stoughton
La filosofa inglese, Lady Anne Finch Conway.
Muoiono in quest’anno: Michelagnolo Galilei, compositore e liutaio fratello minore di Galileo Galilei
In quest’anno, come si legge sulla pietra angolare, costruiscono degli architetti ignoti e dei muratori obliati, tra la selva e la mulattiera che conduce alla torre della roccaforte, nella Controneria della val di Lima, nel villaggio di Longoio, la chiesina, dedicata alla Madonna dei dolori, dove vi trovate tutt’ora.
Glória in excélsis Deo et in terra pax homínibus bonæ voluntátis.
Laus Deo anno 1631.
***
Enlish translation follows:
SHORT CHRONICLE FOR THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1631
The first day of the year 1631 was a Wednesday.
At the beginning of that year, the desperate cries of more than twenty thousand inhabitants, men, women and children, were heard massacred at the point of the sword in the German city of Magdeburg, already sacked by an imperial army.
It was the year when, in New World Massachusetts, John Winthrop was elected its first governor, when “la gazzette”, the first French newspaper, was founded, when the Treaty of Cherasco ended the War of the Mantuan Succession, and when the pirates Algerians sacked the port of Cork in Ireland.
It was the year when the city of Wurzburg was captured by the king of Sweden, Gustavus Adolphus, but not before some nine hundred people were burned at the stake for the crime of witchcraft. Woe to those who play with the forces of darkness. The witches convene each night to the flowery meadow, where they reside in a deep ditch near the ruins of an ancient monastery. Hear their dark moans during the stormy twilights, do not enter the fantastic castles they build on the mountain tops, be afraid and keep away from the forces of necromancy and the allurements of the devil.
It was another year in the most ruthless war of all time – the Thirty Years War. The elector of Saxony – hitherto neutral – sides with the king of Sweden to drive the imperial army out of Saxony. A Spanish fleet is intercepted and almost entirely destroyed by a Dutch fleet at the Battle of the Slaak. Blood flows without end, and in the autumn of the same year, at the battle of Breitenfeld, the imperial army is defeated by the king of Sweden, marking the first victory for the Protestants in the infamous war.
It was the year when, in the east, in the city of Agra, in the Mughal empire, the architects Ustad Ahmad Lahauri, from India, and Geronimo Veroneo, from Italy, began to build the Taj Mahal, the supreme sign of a man’s love for a woman, and one of the New Seven Wonders of the World.
In this year among many remembered and forgotten were born:
Welsh poet, Katherine Philips
The English poet, John Dryden
The judge at the Salem witchcraft trials, William Stoughton
The English philosopher, Lady Anne Finch Conway.
Die in this year: Michelagnolo Galilei, composer and luthier younger brother of Galileo Galilei
The English poet and prelate, John Donne.
Mumtaz Mahal, the dainty wife of Shah Jahan, creator of the Taj Mahal
Cesare Cremonini, Italian philosopher.
Guillén de Castro y Bellvis, the Spanish playwright
The Queen of Denmark, Sophie of Mecklenburg-Güstrow,
Michael Drayton, the English poet, friend of Shakespeare
In this year, as we read on the cornerstone, between the forest and the mule track that leads to the tower of the stronghold, in the Controneria of the Val di Lima, in the village of Longoio, the little church dedicated to Our Lady of Sorrows, where you are may be today.
Glória in excélsis Deo et in terra pax homínibus bonæ voluntátis.
It was a truly handsome cat. Whether it was a tom or a queen we couldn’t quite make out as it was somewhat loth to be approached let alone be picked up. That’s why for the time being the moggy remained an ‘it’. Otherwise, the first thing our cats get, sometimes even before a name, is an indication of their gender. Tom or queen? Anyway this one was truly handsome. A little on the chubby side perhaps, but with a resilient physique covered with longish hairs and a colouring which almost made it out to be a Siamese.
The cat remained as yet unnamed. For naming a cat – although a certain poet affirmed that every cat has it secret, primordial name which none but the elect have knowledge of – domesticates it – or rather those who name it – and intimates friendship of a special kind, eventually turning it into a pet. Anyway, the nameless one very soon with the pluck and piquancy of born leaders weaved its way into our house and in particular to our own cats’ dining area just in front of the former, now blocked kitchen fire.
‘Don’t give it anything,’ I pleaded with my wife. ‘I am just not ready to feed another feline mouth!’
But with a questioning look from its dark green eyes and an assuredness of purpose I just couldn’t refuse to give the slinky one something from a supermarket tin.
Having enjoyed its elevenses the cat left our house and, finding a path leading to the woods surrounding us, soon disappeared from view.
‘I wonder if it’s going to return’ queried my wife. ‘I also wonder if it belongs to anyone,’ I added.
Sure enough the large and furry pseudo-siamese returned a couple of days later expecting a mid-morning repast before returning to its arcane home in the chestnuts woods.
‘I’m sure it must belong to someone. Or rather someone belongs to it,’ we concurred.
The radiance of autumn harvest-laden colours led to a surprisingly mild winter with little trace of bleakness as yet. ‘Our’ cat would return at indeterminate intervals to our house. He/she would have a little feed and then set off again.
Our own trio of cats sat silent in Egyptian Bastet awe of the visitor. He was certainly fatter and larger than any of them and his fur coat to us seemed as luxurious and warm as those once purchased in expensive department stores in Kensington or charity shops in Hackney. He was also clearly stronger and more domineering than any of the domestic trio as the youngest found out when he was chased down the very steep slope fronting our garden.
Every year when Christmas approaches one of our surrounding villages hosts a living crib where locals dress up as characters in the Nativity scene. Some may be shepherds, others will be crafts people weaving baskets, smelting scythes, embroidering festal dresses, turning lathes, or making toys. A young family will be specially chosen, especially if it has a new-born, to represent the raison d’etre of Christmas: the humble birth of the Saviour in a stable’s manger.
The village presented a most picturesque scene. So much preparation had gone into making the place look like a scene out a mythical Bethlehem. The old stone houses, the smell of wood-smoke, the mists arising from the river, the church bells, added to the enticing atmosphere. The artisans were out in force in all their traditional finery. The village, decked with holly and ferns, had its denizens showing off their family heirlooms and bringing out their grandmothers’ dresses and their grandfathers’ tools for display. Even the old village school, shut down so many years previously, was opened up for business with its scholars dressed in pinafores and smocks.
The winter sun at midday was surprisingly warm and welcoming as we approached a girl sitting at a small table and holding a pen in her hand. Was she another one representing traditional crafts? Was it writing letters for some illiterate love-lorn youth? Perhaps a transcription of a legal document? They might have had Christmas cards in a previous century. For most of these villages, however, the sending of the season’s greetings had to wait until this Second World War when Allied invading forces of American soldiers spread the custom. Unless, of course, they had a rich uncle in ‘Nuova York’ who would send them one complete with a cover displaying a Coca-Cola Santa.
We approached the girl who was wearing a fine white linen dress dazzled silvery by the midwinter sun’s rays to see what she was doing.
Christmas cards, indeed they were! Each one individually designed and beautifully painted with images so familiar to those celebrating the Season: pert red robins, the purest snowdrops and the greenest of fir trees among them.
The girl showed us what she’d created so far.
‘All the proceeds from the sale go to our village fund to make our little community more amenable and attractive and to help those in need.’ she explained. I looked through the selection.
Yes, skilfully produced. But what do we have here? What now familiar sight meets my eyes I pondered?
A cat? Why the cat! The fat Siamese-like cat befriending us, or at least our pantry.
‘Why that’s the cat that comes to our house.’ I told her.
‘I’m not surprised,’ the girl answered. That’s Furia my cat and he loves to go wandering down from our village all the way to the bottom of the valley a few miles away. People tell me they have seen him by the river there. They too feed him. I think his favourite place, however, is the local restaurant.’
Somewhat astonished at seeing this furry explorer on one of the Christmas cards produced by her owner we complimented the lass on her attractive art work.
‘Thank you! I love making my own Christmas cards and knowing that they will sell well and provide some funds for our village makes me rather happy’ she responded-
The Christmas card we bought from her will not be sent to anyone but ourselves. But at least we now know Furia’s ‘public’ name and his village. Most significantly, we have discovered who he owns and has immortalised him in a Christmas card and perhaps may even know his secret name.
