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. 🌿📚

The London Underground, affectionately known as the Tube, is much more than a means of getting from A to B. It is a rich institution steeped in tradition, not just of engineering brilliance, but of social courtesy. There are certain unspoken rules—mind the gap, stand on the right on escalators, let people off the train before boarding—that are expected of every passenger. These rules are not merely practical; they are part of a larger culture of respect, a way of being considerate to those around you.

In many ways, these traditions of the Underground are reflective of manners that are valued throughout England, and indeed, could serve as a model anywhere in the world. Standing aside, giving way, keeping noise low, offering seats to those who need them—these are small gestures that make the collective experience of shared spaces far more pleasant.

During my recent visit to London, I was delighted to see these customs alive and well. Being one of the older passengers myself, I never had to wait long for someone to offer space. Of course, there are always a few discourteous individuals here and there, but on the whole, it was heartening to witness the quiet generosity and respect shown by the majority. Londoners, for all their urban haste, remain courteous and thoughtful.

A Brief History of the Underground and Tube

The London Underground holds the distinction of being the oldest underground railway in the world, officially opening on 9 January 1863. It was the vision of Charles Pearson (1793–1862), a solicitor who campaigned tirelessly for a railway beneath the streets to relieve congestion. The first line ran between Paddington (Bishop’s Road) and Farringdon Street, covering 3.75 miles (6 km), using steam-powered trains in shallow “cut-and-cover” tunnels.

The first true “tube” lines, the deep-level circular tunnels we now associate with the classic London Tube, came later. The City and South London Railway, opened in 1890, was the first electric underground railway in the world, running in fully cylindrical tunnels. These tunnels were narrower than the original cut-and-cover lines, so the trains had to be smaller and more streamlined. This combination of electric traction with deep-level tunneling was a technological marvel of the Victorian era and laid the foundation for the extensive network London enjoys today.

If you ever wonder how to tell a London Underground train from a London Tube train, one simple clue is size: the original Underground lines, such as the District or Metropolitan lines, run larger trains compared to the deep-level tube lines, which are narrower and longer to fit the tunnels.

The Elizabeth line adds a remarkable modern chapter to this story. Technically a tube line, it operates on a scale closer to the larger Underground trains, combining deep-level sections with spacious, state-of-the-art carriages. It demonstrates how London continues to innovate while honoring the legacy of the city’s transit traditions.

Shaping London: Connectivity and Architecture

The London Underground has not only connected existing places, it has actively created new places in London. Several lines, particularly in the 1930s—the Piccadilly and Northern lines—had stations built before the surrounding residential areas were developed, guiding the growth of new communities. In other cases, homes predated the stations, creating a dialogue between urban settlement and transit.

The variety of stations is extraordinary. Compare the quiet, rural charm of Chesham with the futuristic, almost space-age design of Arnos Grove, or the grand Victorian architecture of Baker Street and Paddington. From high Victorian piles to pioneering modernist designs by Charles Holden, the Underground has shaped modern English architecture in a way unmatched anywhere else. The system is a canvas for innovation, artistry, and functional design, demonstrating that transit can inspire beauty as well as utility.

In short, the London Underground is a force of nature: a societal, architectural, and cultural engine that has helped define London and, by extension, Great Britain itself. It is not just about transportation; it is about urban creation, architectural progress, and the art of living in a city.

The Charm of Modern Tube Travel

Part of the charm of taking the Tube is in the details. There are the familiar copies of Metro, of course, but also the little whiteboards at the front of each station that display travel information. What makes them truly remarkable is that someone at the station writes them by hand, often adding witty, pithy sayings alongside the practical updates. These small nuggets of wisdom—such as “Hurry slowly. All will be well”, “Give a smile. It might be the only one someone sees today”, or “Today is a good day for a good day”—bring warmth, humour, and humanity to the daily commute. They are tiny reminders that life, even in a busy city, can be observed with thoughtfulness and delight.

Then there is the Tube’s aroma, one of its most subtle yet unforgettable features. It is a distinctive mix of warm metal, the scent of dust and old stone, a hint of grease from the trains, and the faint presence of commuters’ coats and umbrellas. It’s not unpleasant—more like a signature of the place itself. That smell tells you immediately that you are in London, underground, part of a moving city. For many, it is a comforting, almost tactile reminder of the rhythm and energy of urban life.

A Global Perspective

Having now travelled to enough cities around the world to experience different types of underground systems, I can truly appreciate the diversity of urban transit. My first encounter with another system was the Paris Métro, whose tunnels and stations left an indelible impression—not least because of its distinctive aroma of Gauloises cigarettes and the faint smell of mechanical oil, a scent that somehow captured the elegance and character of the system. I don’t think smoking is allowed on the Paris Métro anymore, but the memory of that olfactory experience remains vivid.

Italy, for a long time, had no metro systems at all, but I have since explored both Rome and Milan. Visits to Eastern Europe have added further layers: Budapest and Krakow last year revealed modern systems with their own efficiencies and charms. We have also travelled on the Kiev metro before the Russian invasion. Sadly it’s now also used as a refuge for those seeking safety from enemy drones and, in this respect. echoes the London Underground, used as an air-raid shelter during the Blitz. These networks, while often more modern, clearly benefit from the long history and accumulated wisdom of the London Underground—its operational lessons, its etiquette, and its carefully honed passenger experience.

Yet for all their merits, the London Underground remains uniquely special to me. It is not just a functional or aesthetic experience; it is almost an anchoring part of life itself. Riding the Tube brings a reassuring rhythm to existence, a sense that order, civility, and human ingenuity continue to endure. Among all the wonders of modern cities, it is one of the few constants that makes life feel meaningful and gives confidence in one’s place in the world.

Sunday, international women’s day. was a wonderful day spent over lunch with two very dear friends, Piero Nissim and his wife, Claudia who have an ancient house deep in the Pisan hills. Piero is one of those rare all-rounders—poet, writer, guitarist, songwriter, puppeteer—you name it, he’s done it. His latest book, a collection of war memoirs he had collected from people who were children during the conflict, is absolutely gripping. I’ve even done an English translation myself, which makes me feel even closer to the stories.

Piero’s Jewish heritage runs deep, and he’s understandably passionate about current events, strongly opposing what is happening in Israel today. On top of that, he has a fascinating family connection: he’s a descendant cousin of my wife’s father’s friend, Elio Nissim, who ran free Italian radio ‘Radio Londra’ during the Second World War and later built a remarkable career as a lawyer. Among Elio’s cases was assisting Peter Ustinov in his divorce.
Our day was filled with more than just conversation—it was a meeting of friends, family friends, and connections stretching across generations. Despite starting our journey early in the rain, the day cleared up beautifully, and the sun shone warmly on us. And today, the sunlight feels even brighter, carrying the memory of a truly lovely Sunday.

At the beginning of March, in parts of Europe, the landscape briefly turns yellow. Market stalls brighten, florists overflow, and small branches of blossom change hands almost casually. The flower is commonly called mimosa, though botanically it is Acacia dealbata, an evergreen tree with feathery silver-green leaves and clusters of soft, spherical yellow flowers. Native to south-eastern Australia and Tasmania, it arrived in Europe in the nineteenth century and adapted easily to Mediterranean climates, where it blooms precisely at the threshold between winter and spring. That timing matters. Mimosa flowers when little else does, advancing into the year with quiet confidence, light, and resilience.
In Italy, this plant became inseparable from 8 March, International Women’s Day. The association dates to 1946, when members of the Unione Donne Italiane sought a symbol that could belong to everyone in a country emerging from war. Mimosa was abundant, inexpensive, and seasonally perfect. Unlike more luxurious flowers, it did not suggest exclusivity. It was accessible, informal, and strong beneath its delicate appearance. From that moment on, the flower entered everyday life. Men give small bunches to women — not only partners, but colleagues, mothers, friends. Women gather together, often for dinner. The colour yellow becomes briefly ubiquitous, a shared visual language that needs no explanation.
Alongside the exchanges of flowers, however, there are marches, debates, and strikes addressing violence against women, economic inequality, and political representation. Movements such as Non Una di Meno have reasserted the political roots of the date, reminding participants that celebration and protest coexist. In Italy, Women’s Day is layered: a moment of warmth and recognition, but also of unfinished work. The mimosa softens the message, but does not erase it.
Across the Channel, the atmosphere changes. In the United Kingdom, International Women’s Day is marked far more quietly in daily life. There is no equivalent flower tradition, no shared gesture that spills into streets and workplaces. Instead, the day takes shape through organised events: panel discussions, university lectures, institutional campaigns, demonstrations. Participation is deliberate rather than ambient. One does not accidentally observe the day; one chooses to. The emphasis is on language, policy, and debate rather than symbolic exchange.
Further east and south, the meaning of 8 March becomes more precarious still. In Afghanistan, International Women’s Day has existed under radically different conditions. During the two decades following 2001, it was officially recognised by the state. In cities such as Kabul, the day was marked with conferences, speeches, awards, and public discussions. Activists used it to press for education, legal reform, and protection from violence. It was political, certainly, but it was also visible.
Since the return to power of the Taliban in 2021, that space has narrowed dramatically. Public celebrations have largely disappeared. Women’s organisations have been restricted or closed. Education beyond primary school has been denied to many girls. Demonstrations are often dispersed quickly. Yet the day has not vanished entirely. Some women still mark it privately, through online statements, quiet gatherings, or brief acts of protest. In Afghanistan, Women’s Day is no longer about flowers or ceremony. It has become a reminder of access — to education, to work, to public presence itself.
All of this gives a particular poignancy to having a mimosa tree of one’s own. We planted ours when we bought the house in 2022 — Sandra chose it, and in every sense it is her plant. At the time it was modest, hopeful, slightly tentative. Now it is enormous, exuberant, entirely at home. It has become genuinely happy here, throwing out vast sprays of yellow that catch the light and refuse to be ignored. There is something extraordinary about returning from a journey — even something as mundane as a trip to the shops — and seeing that blaze of gold waiting at the gate. It feels theatrical and generous, as if spring itself had arranged a welcome. Well done, Sandra. That is your plant, in all senses of the word.

Seen together, these different observances reveal how a single date can carry profoundly different weights. In Italy, a sprig of mimosa may be given lightly, almost absent-mindedly, yet it carries with it a history of solidarity and renewal. In Britain, the day demands attention through discussion and argument. In Afghanistan, it can require courage simply to acknowledge it at all. A yellow blossom flowering at the edge of winter may seem fragile, even decorative. But its journey across cultures — and its flourishing in one particular garden — suggests something more enduring. Symbols survive not because they are fixed, but because they take root where they are planted, and grow.

People sometimes ask me a simple question: which place do you prefer — Italy or England?
The answer once seemed obvious. Italy, of course.
In earlier times Italy meant holidays. England meant work.
Italy meant freedom — long lunches, warm evenings, the sea, the mountains, skiing in winter, the easy pleasures of food and wine. It was the place we escaped to, the place where responsibility dissolved and life slowed down.
England was home, certainly, but Italy was the dream.
But something curious happened when I retired and began spending much more time in Italy. The balance quietly shifted.
Italy gradually became ordinary life — dealing with the house, arranging practicalities, sorting things out. England, meanwhile, began to look different. Our visits there slowly turned into something rather like holidays.
Now when we return to England, we plan the trips almost the way we once planned trips to Italy.
We go to London, of course, but not only London. We also make pilgrimages to those wonderfully characteristic English cathedral cities, set in their green landscapes and ancient streets.
In the past few years we have visited several.
Peterborough — a magnificent cathedral rising unexpectedly out of the flat countryside, with one of the most extraordinary Gothic façades anywhere in England.
Salisbury — the perfect cathedral close, straight out of a painting by John Constable.

Winchester — ancient royal capital of England, resting place of Jane Austen, and one of the most charming towns imaginable.
These journeys have become small celebrations of England.
And this year there is a special reason to return: Easter in England, something I have not experienced for years.
That means one particular tradition must be revived attending a Bach Passion at St George’s Hanover Square, the church where my dad was baptised. We used to go whenever we could when we lived full-time in England. Sometimes the St Matthew Passion, sometimes the St John Passion.

The St Matthew is the grander work, certainly. But I confess I have a particular affection for the St John Passion. It is shorter, sharper, and its opening chorus is simply electrifying — one of the most thrilling beginnings in all Bach.
But that is not the only pleasure awaiting us.
There will also be the “Silver Pharaohs” exhibition at Battersea Power Station — a dazzling glimpse into ancient Egypt that sold out quickly, though I managed to secure tickets.
And no visit to London feels complete without opera or ballet at Covent Garden. This time it will be Mayerling, the dark and tragic story of the Austrian crown prince and his heart throb — a ballet we have seen before and will gladly see again.

We have even arranged something rather unusual: a visit to the Mansion House, the official residence of the Lord Mayor of London.

And somewhere in between all that, we will choose another cathedral city. Perhaps Norwich — though that decision may wait until the last moment.
All of this requires careful planning and booking, because there are still a few practical matters to attend to. But the pleasures are unmistakable.
So the question returns:
Are we escaping from England to Italy — or escaping from Italy to England?
The answer is not entirely straightforward.
Italy still wins in many ways. The climate, the food, the wine, the landscapes — the beaches, mountains, hills and walks — the people are simply magnificent. And life there has become unexpectedly easy. Even services that were once slow or uncertain have improved enormously. The postal service, for example, now works with remarkable efficiency.
Most importantly of all, the Italian health service has treated me with extraordinary care and speed. For that alone I remain deeply grateful.
And socially, too, Italy has become home. We know people there. One can walk into a bar and almost inevitably meet a familiar face.

Yet England has its own charm.
You walk into a pub, knowing nobody — and within minutes you are talking with people as if they were friends. There is a warmth there that still surprises me.

So which country do we prefer?
In truth, we are probably retiring in Italy.
But the curious thing is this: the place we once escaped from has now become the place we sometimes escape to.
And that, perhaps, is the best of both worlds.

Yesterday I had a small lesson about preconceptions — the kind that arrive quietly and then leave you smiling at yourself.
I had gone to the post office because I needed some help with my account. I had just received a new card and I needed to recover the original login number that had been given to me long ago. Like many such numbers, it had disappeared somewhere into the fog of memory.
When I arrived, the door of the post office was closed and a handful of people had gathered outside near the cash machine.
“The system’s down,” someone said. “There’s a technical problem.”
“Can you still use the ATM?” I asked.
“That should work,” someone replied, “depending on what you need.”
Among the small group standing there was a young woman with long black hair, dressed casually, talking easily with the others. She looked like someone who had simply come by, like the rest of us, and was waiting to see whether the post office would reopen.
She turned to me kindly and said, “If there’s something you need, I might be able to help.”
I hesitated at first but then decided to explain my problem: I told her I had a new card, but in order to use it properly I needed to recover the original login number that had been given to me when the account was first set up — a number I could no longer remember.
“Oh, I can help you with that,” she said. ‘You want the Codice Conto.
I wondered for a moment how she could possibly know something so specific.
Then she added, quite simply, “Because I’m the postmistress.”
That explained everything!
She walked with me to the ATM and calmly told me which options to choose.
“Choose that one… now option five… and then option two,” she said, looking politely away so that I could enter the information privately.
And just like that, the problem was solved.
We looked at each other and exchanged a small smile — almost a silent giggle. I had assumed she was simply another person waiting outside the post office like the rest of us. In fact, she was the one who knew exactly how everything worked. I thanked her for her help.
Later I realised that this small moment illustrated something psychologists call “thin-slicing.” Thin-slicing is the mind’s habit of making very quick judgments about people or situations from only a small amount of information — a few seconds of observation, a person’s clothes, their age, or the way they are standing.
Our brains do this constantly. It helps us navigate the world quickly. But sometimes those quick judgments turn out to be wrong.
In this case, I had taken a very thin slice of the situation — a young woman standing outside chatting with others — and I had immediately assumed she was simply another customer waiting around.
It was only a tiny moment, but it reminded me how easily we form pictures in our minds about people we don’t yet know and quietly place them into a category.
Sometimes we are right. Sometimes we are not.
Yesterday I was not.
It was a pleasant reminder that the world is more interesting when we try, as much as possible, to see things freshly — to look again before deciding who people are or what role they play.

Indifference
There was nothing to do.
At least, that’s what I thought.
A strange, almost dangerous similarity came to my mind: that between sloth and indifference. Sloth says: there’s nothing to be done. Indifference, however, is subtler, more deliberate, almost like a slow acid that corrodes the lives of others: there is something to do, but I choose not to.
It’s not incapacity. It’s a moral calculation.
An acid that eats away at society with the precision of someone who knows that silence is powerful.
I had seen the word Indifference engraved at Platform 21 of Milan’s Central Station. That platform was not just any place: it was the point from which thousands of poor Jews had been deported, sent to concentration camps and finally to the ovens of Auschwitz. A word carved as a warning. Only later did I understand that it spoke of me as well, of my silence, of my refusal to act, of my personal sloth.
Back in London, the elections were approaching. Conservatives, Labour, Greens, Reformists. The Reformists promised isolation, expulsions, restrictions, moral discipline. They said they wanted to defend England, purify it, make it strong again.
I could not vote for them.
At least, that much.
I voted for the Greens.
But the electoral system was what it was: closed districts, first-past-the-post. If one candidate got 110 votes and another 109, those 109 disappeared. They didn’t count. No proportionality. No compensation. A minority could become an absolute majority.
And that’s exactly what happened.
With an enormous parliamentary majority — 78% of seats — the Reformists took control.
Their leader reminded me of something. He wasn’t just a familiar face: he was someone from my school. I had known him as a child. I had watched him grow among desks and corridors, among books and songs of the young scouts. Yet now he was singing nationalist anthems, as if it were normal.
The first law abolished communist parties. All of them. Maoists, reformists, old, new.
I was not a communist. I said nothing.
The next month they abolished social democrats, center Labour members.
I was not a social democrat. I said nothing.
Then they banned the unions.
I felt uneasy. My grandfather had been a unionist. In fact, a mayor. But I was not a unionist.
I said nothing.
They began with illegal immigrants. Camps. Fences. Expulsions. Then sudden disappearances. Smoke. Chimneys.
I was not an immigrant.
I said nothing.
Then it was the legal immigrants’ turn. “They steal our jobs,” they said. “They are not real English.”
I had an English passport.
I said nothing.
My indifference was no longer mere laziness. It was organized sloth, deliberate. The demon of the midday hour spoken of by monks: it doesn’t command you to do evil, it convinces you that good is useless, and it does so with precision, like a slow acid dissolving the foundations of society.
Until one day, they came for me.
Eight men, dressed in black. “Come with us. We need to ask you some questions.”
In the interrogation room I kept repeating:
“I am not a communist.”
“I am not a social democrat.”
“I am not a unionist.”
“I am not an immigrant.”
They looked at me coldly.
“Exactly,” they said. “You think. Your mind is too liberal. You must learn discipline. If we say something, you must believe it.”
An old slogan came to mind: believe, obey, fight.
I understood that the Reformist Party was not new. It was a reincarnation. Fascism does not die: it changes name. It changes flag. It changes language. But it keeps the same desire: to replace thought with obedience.
Then the world exploded.
A missile. The war that had until then been in the news entered the room. Iran had responded to American missiles. The Third World War, they said.
The ceiling shook. The lights went out. Some of my interrogators died. Others were injured.
I ran.
Outside I found a desert.
Black smoke. Burning houses. Shattered cars. Blood on the streets. Children screaming. A mother searching for her child.
It seemed like the end of the world.
But in that apocalyptic scene — apocalypse meaning revelation — I saw something I had never seen before: people running toward the pain.
Red Cross. Volunteers. Hands lifting rubble. No one asked who I had voted for.
“Can I do something?” I asked.
They gave me boxes to carry, bandages to cut.
And then I saw her.
Dust in her blonde hair. Blue eyes steady. A calm force.
“You have been close to indifference,” she said, as if she had known me forever. “To sloth. You believed there was nothing to be done.”
I asked, almost shyly: “Who did you vote for?”
She smiled, not with irony but with gentleness.
“For the Greens. Green like a sprout. Green like rebirth.”
She was one of the few left in Parliament. The government had collapsed. They spoke of a new strong man, a new Churchill.
She shook her head.

“A strong man is not what is needed. What is needed is careful diligence. People acting with care, with attention, with love. It is not time to promise. It is time to save. The difference between promising and saving is everything. Care, attention, vigilance: this is how a new world is built.”
In that moment I remembered Platform 21. The word Indifference.
I understood it was not just memory. It was a permanent warning.

The old world was over. The one built on fear, blind obedience, the illusion that silence protects.
But it was not the end of the world.
It was the beginning.
A new strength filled my lungs. Not enthusiasm. Not anger.
Care.
I realized that hope is not a feeling. It is a discipline. It is the repeated act of refusing to remain silent. It is careful, attentive, deliberate action toward those who suffer.
I did not become a hero. I became useful.
And when, years later, someone asked me when it all began, I did not speak of the war.
I said:
“It began the day I stopped saying: it’s not my business.”
And since then, when someone is taken, when a voice is silenced, when a minority is isolated, I no longer wait.
I speak.
Because I have understood that civilization is not saved by force.
It is saved when indifference ends, and care becomes attentive, deliberate, and vigilant.

In 1967, like so many of my contemporaries, in my ‘gap’ year before entering university, I set off on what was then called the hippie trail. I wasn’t even 19 at the time. My parents, surprisingly relaxed, simply said: stick together with your friend from school, send us regular postcards and don’t do anything too reckless. Beyond that, they offered no objections.
This was a world before mobile phones, before the internet, before instant communication of any kind. If we wanted to contact our parents, it was by writing airmail letters. Of course, phones existed, but international calls were unreliable, expensive, and rare. By the time we reached Delhi, my friend and I went to the embassy to check for letters from home. The lady at the counter reminded us not to worry our parents, but reassured us that frequent letters would suffice.
From the very beginning, the journey felt extraordinary. Every country we visited outside of Europe—Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan—was, in 1967, remarkably stable and accessible. Wars, international crises, bombings, and the humanitarian catastrophes that we now associate with these places were mostly absent. We took trains, crossed deserts, and explored cities without fear.
We started in Turkey, traveling from Istanbul to Beirut by train. It was a simple, elegant journey—something that seems impossible today. From Beirut, we visited Syria and Lebanon, still calm at the time. Jordan, too, was stable, though the political realities of Jerusalem reminded us that the world was never entirely free of tension. A warning about a divided Jerusalem, with Israelis on one side of the wall, was our only hint of real danger.

Traveling across the desert from Amman to Baghdad, we were met with courtesy and smooth border crossings. Iraq, now associated with ISIS and decades of conflict, was then peaceful. Kuwait followed, another oasis of calm. From there, we entered Iran, which left a profound impression with its vibrant culture and rich history. Though border formalities reminded us of political tensions, the people were welcoming and generous.

Afghanistan was another highlight—a country of extraordinary beauty and friendship. Women in burqas and women in miniskirts existed side by side, illustrating a fascinating cultural diversity. Pakistan followed, and though the border formalities were stricter due to tensions with India, there was nothing resembling the violence we see today.
We took risks, of course. In Iran, we even entered the great mosque of Qom by disguising ourselves—a daring act that might be unthinkable now. Yet, despite these adventures, we never felt the sense of fear that dominates travel in many of these regions today. We were young, perhaps naïve, perhaps just reckless—but also free in a way that seems almost unimaginable today.
Looking back now, almost sixty years later, the contrast is striking. Many of the countries we visited have been cast into turmoil: wars, insurgencies, foreign interventions, poverty, and humanitarian crises have changed the landscape irrevocably. Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, and parts of Pakistan are no longer places for ordinary tourists to explore. Even when travel is technically possible, the risk and political complexity make such journeys unthinkable for the average young traveler.
It saddens me to see that the world has become split in this way. Today, a traveler can easily visit Thailand, the Maldives, or Peru—but Afghanistan? Not for leisure. Iran? Only under careful planning. Many of these brilliant, proud countries now exist under clouds of conflict or political interference.
In the end, my reflection is simple: 1967 offered a freedom, an innocence, and a sense of adventure that is largely lost today. It’s not that travel itself has become impossible—the world is more connected than ever—but that geopolitical realities have reshaped the very nature of possibility. I look back on that journey with gratitude, wonder, and a tinge of sadness.
The world changed. We didn’t. And yet, in those letters, trains, and border crossings, in the laughter and daring of youth, there was a glimpse of a world that seems almost impossible to imagine today.

Growing up in Lewisham Park in the early 1950s was a tapestry of wonder, curiosity, small adventures, and the rhythms of post-war London. Among my clearest memories are two enduring images that remain vivid decades later: Royston House School, where I spent those formative years, and the magnificent Italian tall ship, the Amerigo Vespucci, which somehow touched both my imagination and my real life. Royston House School stood near Lewisham Park, nearly opposite Lewisham Hospital, the very place where I had been born. It was a private school housed in two large Victorian semi-detached houses, with classrooms in the main buildings and additional huts containing dining room and hall behind them. Beyond those, there was a playground, a garden, and open spaces where we ran, played, and explored, and where every small discovery felt monumental in the lives of children.

I remember the classes, particularly the “I have discovered” one led by a teacher who encouraged us to investigate the world around us. We observed insects like dragonflies and butterflies, drew them, and learned by our own research. Friendships were formed, including one with my first heart throb. Leslie Hayes, a beautiful girl with blue eyes and dark curly hair, and there was Adrian, a boy with learning difficulties, whose mother once met mine for a quiet discussion over tea in Blackheath. After lunch we spent an hour sleeping on camp beds, a routine that felt both restful and indulgent. The meals themselves were modest but memorable; I especially delighted in corned beef, which was a highlight whenever it appeared. We participated in Christmas plays, like The Magic Pudding, and my mother helped create costumes, layering warm sweaters underneath to keep me comfortable in the cold British winter. The school community also engaged in appeals for post-war refugees, mostly Polish and other European families displaced by the Second World War.
One aspect of school life stands out sharply because I was deliberately kept apart from it: religious education. My mother, who had been brought up as a Catholic, was adamant that I not attend these classes. I never did, and for a long time I did not understand why. I had no exposure to Anglican teachings or the dogmas presented in the school’s religious classes, and I was guided instead toward Catholic practices like first communion and confirmation. At the time, I was too young to comprehend the reasons, but looking back, it was the first time I realized how religion, particularly at that time, could divide people. Even in the innocence of childhood, differences of belief could separate people in ways that felt real and, on some level, inevitable.
Other incidents at the school are etched into my memory. I remember a girl falling from a rope swing in the playground, hitting her knee on a stone, which required stitches and a trip to Lewisham Hospital. I recall my own minor rebellions, like possibly throwing a shoe at the headmistress, though the details are hazy now. The school environment was largely English, but my presence as a child of Italian heritage added a personal cultural layer to my experience. It was at Royston House that I really learned to speak and write English in a structured environment, grappling with new words, subtle differences in spelling and pronunciation, and gradually becoming part of the language. These early experiences shaped my understanding of words, meaning, and communication for the rest of my life.
Amid all of this, the Amerigo Vespucci shines in memory with extraordinary clarity. My mother, proud of her Italian heritage, brought a pamphlet illustrating the ship to the school, and I remember sharing it with my classmates. The ship itself, a tall Italian Navy training vessel launched in 1931 with gleaming wood and burnished gold detailing on its stern, visited British waters in the 1950s, including at Portsmouth in 1953. While the exact date it may have appeared on the Thames is uncertain, the ship’s presence in UK ports was well documented, and it is entirely plausible that we saw it from London. The image of that gilded ship, the tall masts against the sky, combined with my mother’s pride, made it a formative and vivid experience, one that bridged my two worlds — the England I was growing up in and the Italian heritage that shaped me.
But the Amerigo Vespucci did not remain only a memory of childhood. It became a lifelong presence, recurring at key moments in my life. When Sandra and I married, we visited the ship with her parents and even had lunch with the captain, a moment that made the ship a shared part of our family story. Later, when I was in Italy, I attended an open day at La Spezia and saw the ship in dry dock, marveling at her structure and history. More recently, I visited the Vespucci again with friends in Livorno, and each time the ship seemed to anchor a sequence of memories that stretched across decades — a symbol of heritage, adventure, and enduring connection. In every sense, the Amerigo Vespucci has become a metaphorical anchor, tying together the early days of childhood, the joys and learning of youth, and the richness of adult experience.

Eventually, Lewisham Park and the school underwent dramatic change. By the mid-1960s, the Victorian houses of Royston House School were demolished as part of council redevelopment, replaced by three tower blocks.

I remember returning once after my family had moved to Forest Hill to find the school abandoned. The buildings were empty, the garden overgrown, and my secret clearing in the hedge, where I had spent hours in quiet reflection, was fenced off. The playground and garden that had shaped so many daily adventures disappeared, yet the memories of learning, discovery, and imagination remain vivid, echoing the voices, laughter, and little triumphs of those years.
Royston House was more than a school. It was a place where language and culture intersected, where curiosity was nurtured, and where friendships, minor dramas, and tiny adventures left lasting impressions. In particular the expectation for our classes, specially lined up in front of the War memorial, of seeing Her Late Majesty’s Coronation convoy drive past us and the excitement of the Amerigo Vespucci all became intertwined with my understanding of the world. Those moments, the smells, the sounds, the textures of the school are inseparable from the city, the park, the hospital and the streets of Lewisham — a place and a time that continue to resonate deeply in memory, decades later, with the warmth, complexity, and sometimes bittersweet quality of childhood remembered.

Some political questions begin not in parliaments or newspapers, but in classrooms.
For me, it began during O-level English, studying Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. We analysed rhetoric and motive, learned Antony’s speech, weighed Brutus against Cassius. But beneath the literary discussion lay a troubling question:
Was the assassination justified?

Caesar is killed not by foreigners, not by invaders, but by fellow Romans. Senators. Citizens. Men who believe — or convince themselves — that they are acting to save their Republic. Brutus frames it as an act of civic duty: not hatred of Caesar, but love of Rome.
That detail matters.
Caesar is struck down by members of his own political community. The act, however violent, emerges from within Rome itself. It is Romans deciding Rome’s fate.
And yet the result is catastrophic. Civil war. Bloodshed. The end of the Republic. Shakespeare offers no reassurance that internal action guarantees internal salvation. Even when a people act against a perceived tyrant, they may unleash forces they cannot control.
That lesson has echoed through history.
When thinking about Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, it is hard not to imagine that earlier removal might have spared millions. If Germans had succeeded in eliminating Hitler in the 1930s, might Europe have been saved some horror? If Soviet insiders had removed Stalin earlier, might the purges have been curtailed? If Italians had ended Mussolini’s rule sooner, might the damage have been lessened?

These are agonising counterfactuals.
But even here, the Julius Caesar warning remains: removing the individual does not automatically dismantle the structure beneath him. Rome’s instability predated Caesar’s murder. Likewise, Nazism was not only Hitler; Stalinism was not only Stalin.
Still, there is an additional moral layer when we move to modern examples such as Iraq or the ongoing tragedy of Syria.

There, the removal — or attempted removal — of rulers has involved external powers. Other nations deciding that a regime must fall. Other governments determining the political future of a people not their own.
And here the moral terrain becomes even more fraught.
One might argue that a people possess some moral right to resist — even violently — a tyrant who is destroying their nation. That argument has ancient roots. It rests on the idea of political self-determination: that sovereignty ultimately resides in the people themselves.
But when another nation intervenes to remove a ruler, the equation changes. However oppressive the regime, the act is no longer purely one of internal civic decision. It becomes entangled with geopolitics, strategic interest, power projection, unintended consequences.
In Iraq, the removal of Saddam Hussein did not lead to stable democracy. It created a vacuum. Sectarian violence surged. Institutions collapsed. The decision was not made by Iraqis alone; it was shaped and executed by external actors.
In Syria, foreign involvement has deepened and prolonged conflict rather than resolving it.
This is not to romanticise tyranny or deny suffering. It is to recognise that legitimacy matters. Who decides? On what authority? With what mandate? Violence undertaken “for” a people is not the same as violence undertaken “by” that people.
And even then — even if internal — the Roman example stands as warning. Brutus and his fellow conspirators believed they were acting for the Republic. They believed they were preventing tyranny. Instead, they accelerated its transformation into empire.
The moral question, then, is double-edged:
Does a people have the right to remove a tyrant ruining their nation?
Does another nation have that right on their behalf?
And even if the answer to the first is sometimes yes, does it follow that the outcome will be better?
History rarely rewards simple answers.
When I think of Iran — a country with deep intellectual traditions, a young population, internal political currents — I find myself hoping that any change that comes will emerge from within its own civic life. Change rooted internally may still be turbulent. But it carries a legitimacy that externally imposed transformation often lacks.

The schoolboy reading Julius Caesar sensed that something was morally unstable about the conspirators’ certainty. The adult observing modern geopolitics senses something equally unstable about nations deciding the fate of others in the name of liberation.
Brutus killed Caesar to save Rome.
Rome lost its Republic anyway.
That is the enduring caution: violence, even when clothed in civic virtue, does not guarantee freedom. And when violence crosses borders, the moral ground becomes even more uncertain.
It remains a real question. A difficult one. Perhaps one that resists final resolution.
But it is one worth continuing to ask.