When I first came to London shortly after my marriage, I needed an immediate job and found myself in occupations that, at the time, felt entirely ordinary. Yet looking back now, they seem almost like relics of another information age — roles that have largely been absorbed, streamlined, or replaced by the rise of digital systems and, more recently, AI.
At the time, AI was still something abstract, something being developed in research laboratories rather than anything that touched daily life. We certainly did not imagine that, within a few decades, it would reshape the very kinds of jobs I was doing.
One of my earliest employments was with the London Tourist Board. The work had two main elements: answering public enquiries by phone and helping with hotel bookings at a front desk in Victoria station. (Cheap flights were not quite there yet although Laker would shortly establish his airline office at the same place demolishing a historic station pub which had seen young men go to the slaughter in World War One after their last drink before boarding the train for the front).

The office itself was very near Belgrave Square, which gave the whole routine a particular geographical intimacy. My wife had been brought up in that area, as the daughter of the Secretary General of the Italian Institute nearby, so there was already a sense of familiarity with the streets and buildings. I used to go to her parents’ house for tea and comfort, and then simply walk from there to the London Tourist Board office. It was a short walk through that particular London atmosphere — moving quietly from domestic life into work routine.
We worked in a shared room with perhaps ten other people. Around us were shelves of reference books covering every aspect of London — museums, hotels, transport, places of interest. Each of us also had folders filled with carefully assembled information. When someone rang, the process was simple in structure but very human in execution: listen, search, interpret, respond.
Information was not retrieved in any modern sense; it was consulted. Pages were turned, details checked, judgments made on the fly, and then translated into calm reassurance down the telephone line. In my case, somewhat unexpectedly, I already knew quite a lot of London by instinct and memory, which proved more useful than I had realised at the time.
There was also a strong social texture to the work. The room was full of young people, and there was a constant low current of conversation, humour, and shared problem-solving. It was work, but it was also a small, informal society.
A further part of the job was that, as part of our training as employees of the London Tourist Board, we were required to experience tourism directly ourselves. In particular, we had to take part in organised coach tours. This was not optional; it was considered essential training. The principle was straightforward: you could not properly advise the public unless you had personally experienced the systems you were describing from the inside.
In practice, this turned out to be quite revealing. We discovered that there was considerable room for improvement, even in something as apparently straightforward as coach tourism. Our own experience made clear that there were inefficiencies in organisation, occasional lack of clarity in communication, and a general unevenness in the visitor experience that would not necessarily have been visible from the administrative side. It was an early lesson in how systems often look different from within than they do from the outside.
On one occasion, my wife and I joined a coach tour going towards Salisbury and Stonehenge. The guide was an older man, somewhat retired in manner, with a slightly sergeant-major tone — authoritative, but very much of another era of tourist guiding.
At one point during the excursion, we found ourselves accidentally left behind at a stop — I think it was Salisbury.. The coach departed without us, and for a brief moment there was a disorientating sense of having been simply left outside the system.
Fortunately, we still had the route details, so we worked out the next destination. We took a train ahead of the coach, moved faster than the schedule, and arrived at the next stop before it did. When the coach eventually turned up and we rejoined the group, there was clear surprise — from the guide in particular, who seemed not especially pleased, and from the other tourists, who had assumed we had simply disappeared.
It was a slightly absurd episode, but also revealing. It showed, quite literally, what it was like to experience the system from the receiving end, including its gaps and assumptions. In that sense, it fulfilled exactly what the exercise was meant to achieve.
Another role took me to Harrods, where I again worked answering public enquiries — this time in a more formal, front-facing environment.

Harrods, of course, is a very upper-class sort of store, and there was an expectation that one should look smart and composed at all times. That required a certain adjustment, but I managed it, partly because I had come directly from a very different world.
Before that, I had been working as a labourer on the construction of the Cambridge bypass. That was heavy, muddy, physical work in the open air, with a strong sense of camaraderie among the men. The contrast could hardly have been sharper: from earth and machinery to polished floors and quiet, controlled elegance.

In Harrods I also worked closely with a girl who was training to become an opera singer. I cannot now recall her name, though I have always assumed she must have gone on to do very well. She was practising Songs of the Auvergne.. There was something striking about sitting beside someone so clearly formed by another world entirely — one of discipline, voice, and performance — while we dealt with the ordinary flow of public enquiries. It gave the work an unexpected depth and resonance.
There was a similar role at Victoria Station, where I helped allocate hotel bookings and respond to queues of travellers. Much of the work centred on accommodation in areas like Pimlico, and part of the job involved actually visiting hotels to see what we were sending people into. We were not meant to be distant from what we recommended; we were meant to know it.
Looking back, that feels important. We were not simply information handlers, but intermediaries who added judgement, context, and lived verification to what we passed on.
It is hard to say now, but some of the hotels people were being sent to were rather dingy. We had to inspect them ourselves, so we knew exactly what we were recommending, but standards were uneven. Today, with systems like TripAdvisor and similar platforms, people are far more informed in advance, and far more selective. There is a collective filtering that simply did not exist then.
When I was working at the London Tourist Board I remember thinking I should perhaps have come there earlier, because the girls were very attractive. It was a particular moment in time — everything had that slightly softened, recognisable look of the period, with tweed jackets and leather elbow patches returning in fashion, a kind of understated workplace style that now feels very specific to that era.
I noticed it, as one does when one is young and the world is still full of immediate visual impressions. But at the same time, I was very aware — and quietly reassured — that I had married someone who, to me, was more beautiful in a deeper and more complete sense. That awareness sat underneath everything else, steady and unspoken.
It was the time of Saturday Night Fever. The music, the discos, the fashion, the sense of movement and nightlife — it was simply there in the air. Not something reflected upon, but something lived inside the background noise of everyday life. London itself felt as though it was slightly moving to that rhythm.

If one looks at these roles now, it is clear that much of their function has been absorbed by technology in layers.
First came digitisation: printed guides, folders, and telephone enquiries gave way to websites and booking systems. Then platforms such as Google Maps and TripAdvisor introduced collective review and comparison at scale. Now AI compresses the entire sequence — search, judgement, explanation — into a single exchange.
The difference is not just speed. It is the disappearance of steps: thinking, checking, comparing, translating, responding. All of it collapses into one moment.
In that sense, the jobs I once did have not simply declined; they have been structurally absorbed into something else.
Yet it would be too simple to say that nothing remains. These jobs were never only about information.
They were about reassurance for uncertain travellers, about judgement made in real time, about small human encounters in unfamiliar spaces. At Harrods or Victoria Station, what mattered was not just correctness, but presence — the sense that someone was there who understood, who had seen, who could guide.
That is something digital systems can simulate, but not quite reproduce.
What remains strongest in memory, though, is not the efficiency of it all, but the atmosphere.
The rooms full of conversation, the shared problem-solving, the steady rhythm of enquiries coming in and answers going out, the sense of being in contact with a city through its questions. It was a social world as much as a working one.
And perhaps that is what is most difficult to replace: not the information itself, but the human density around it — the small, continuous presence of other people, thinking, asking, deciding, and talking.

It is rarely about a single appointment. The controversy surrounding Beatrice Venezi—and speculation over her position as music director of Venice’s Teatro La Fenice from which she has now been dismissed —matters less for its particulars than for what it exposes: a persistent belief that, in Italy, merit alone is not decisive.

The speed with which discussion turns to politics is itself revealing. Venezi’s perceived proximity to Giorgia Meloni is cited variously as advantage or liability. Either way, the assumption is immediate: that appointment, advancement, or rejection is mediated by alignment rather than simply ability. In a system confident in its own meritocratic foundations, such speculation would be peripheral. In Italy, it is central. Incidentally, Beatrice Venezi was born in Lucca and her father, a member of Forza Nuova an extreme right wing party, was a candidate in the 2007 mayoral elections of Lucca.

Her case is further complicated by factors that extend beyond politics. As a young, visible woman in a traditionally male-dominated field, she is subject to a level of scrutiny that is unevenly distributed. Her manner in public discourse—direct, often uncompromising—has also proved divisive. Remarks attributed to her concerning institutional practices at La Fenice, including the suggestion that certain positions are effectively passed down through families, have been interpreted by some as candour and by others as provocation. The result is a figure simultaneously politicised, personalised, and contested on multiple fronts.
But it would be a mistake to treat this as an isolated case. In Italy’s public institutions—universities, cultural bodies, opera houses—formal mechanisms of selection exist and are carefully observed. Yet alongside them persists a widely recognised informal layer: networks, affiliations, intellectual factions, and political sensibilities. None of this is uniquely Italian, but in Italy the perception that these forces are decisive has become deeply entrenched.
Nor does the issue stop at the national border. Even abroad, Italian cultural appointments can appear to reflect political currents at home. Institutions such as the Italian Cultural Institute in London have periodically been viewed as reflecting the priorities of the government of the day. Whether or not each individual appointment can be justified on its own terms, the recurrence of the perception is itself corrosive despite the fact that Venezi’s CV is by no means insignificant with her performances including one with Andrea Boccelli for the late Queen’s Platinum jubilee concert at Buckingham Palace, her appearances at the Torre del Lago Puccini festival and an acclaimed production of Mascagni’s ‘L’amico Fritz’ at London’s Holland Park theatre.
Against this stands a clear contradiction. Italian talent is not scarce—it is internationally prized. Figures such as Antonio Pappano, whose leadership at the Royal Opera House brought sustained global acclaim, and Gabriele Finaldi the director of London’s National Gallery are emblematic of a wider reality: Italian professionals often reach their highest recognition abroad. The same pattern is visible across major British and European cultural institutions, where Italian curators, directors, and scholars occupy senior roles with distinction.

This inevitably raises a difficult question: are such figures more readily recognised in systems perceived as more transparent, or are they constrained at home by structural and cultural filters that are harder to see but widely felt? There is no single answer—but the question persists precisely because the pattern appears consistent enough to invite it.
For some, this is not an abstraction but lived experience. My uncle, a poet of genuine distinction and a serious scholar of French literature, produced a substantial and widely published body of work. Yet for much of his career he remained on the margins, held in less prominent academic posts, particularly in the south of Italy, only achieving fuller recognition late in life. The explanation repeatedly offered—sometimes explicitly, often implicitly—was that he did not belong to the “right” current. Whether entirely accurate or not, it was sufficient to shape the trajectory of his professional life.

This is the core problem. Not that influence exists—every system has it—but that belief in its decisiveness has become normalised. It alters how everything is read. Appointments are immediately interrogated for hidden alignments. Success is treated as suspect. Failure is easily rationalised. Even figures like Venezi become proxies in a broader cultural argument, their professional standing inseparable from assumptions about politics, gender, and visibility.
Italy continues to produce excellence, and its leading institutions retain international prestige. But too often that excellence appears to flourish despite the system rather than through it, finding clearer validation abroad than at home.
The consequence is not simply reputational. It is institutional. When merit is no longer believed to be decisive, trust erodes at every level. And once that trust weakens, every appointment—no matter how justified—carries the same lingering doubt: not whether it was deserved, but whether it was arranged.

BTW Beatrice Venezi also appears in a shampoo advert for Bioscalin

There are many ways to get around Italy—but after years of travelling up and down the country, I’ve come to a firm conclusion: nothing compares to the train.
I’ve taken day trips and weekend journeys to cities as varied as Genoa, Turin, Rome, Milan, Trieste, Parma and Florence—all by rail. Every time, I’ve found the experience not just efficient, but genuinely enjoyable. Compared with the UK, there’s simply no contest.
🚄 The “Freccie” — Fast, but Not Always Best
Italy’s famous high-speed trains—the Frecciarossa, Frecciargento and their competitors from Italo—are undeniably impressive. Sleek, fast, and capable of slicing through the country at up to 300 km/h, they connect major cities with remarkable speed.

But speed isn’t everything.
These trains often rush through the landscape, particularly across the Apennine Mountains, via long tunnels. The result is what I’d call a kind of tunnel vision: efficient, yes—but detached from the country you’re travelling through.
🚆 The Case for InterCity and Regional Trains
Personally, I find myself drawn far more to Italy’s slower trains.
The InterCity services strike a perfect balance: comfortable, affordable, and crucially, they stay above ground long enough for you to actually see Italy. The views are often superb.
Then there are the regional trains—my particular favourite. They may be slower, but they offer something the high-speed trains cannot:
🌄 Breathtaking scenery
💬 Opportunities to meet people
💶 Consistently low prices
🎟️ No need to book in advance
Unlike in the UK, regional train fares in Italy don’t fluctuate wildly. A ticket costs the same whether you buy it today or just before departure—a small but significant civilised touch.
🚉 A Practical Example: Lucca to Rome
Take a simple journey: from Lucca to Rome.
Many would instinctively head to Florence and board a high-speed train. But in reality, it often makes more sense to go via Pisa and take an InterCity service directly to Rome.
Why?
No compulsory booking stress
Often cheaper
A more relaxed, scenic journey

🏔️ The Magic of the Apennines
If you really want to experience Italy by rail, take one of the older routes across the Apennines—such as the line from Pistoia to Parma.
Here, the railway winds its way through mountains, valleys and forests, revealing views that the high-speed lines completely bypass. It’s slower, certainly—but infinitely richer.
🌊 Favourite Journeys
Some routes stand out as truly unforgettable:
The coastal line through the Cinque Terre
Almost any regional crossing of the Apennines
The spectacular alpine journey from Sondrio to Tirano joining up with the Swiss Bernina Railway—surely one of the most beautiful railway routes in the world
🚂 Memories of a Different Railway Age
My affection for Italian trains goes back a long way. I still remember the days of the old Ferrovie dello Stato, with their rather drab, two-tone brown compartment-and-corridor carriages and sturdy Breda electric locomotives.
And even earlier memories linger: as a small child at Milano Centrale, startled by the sudden hiss of steam engines. Italy abandoned steam earlier than Britain, but those fleeting impressions remain vivid.

Today, steam survives only in special heritage trains—yet even these are unique in Italy, as they often run on the main national network, rather than on isolated private lines as in the UK.

🌍 The Journey Itself
Perhaps the greatest pleasure of train travel in Italy is something less tangible.
It’s the conversations that strike up naturally in a compartment.
It’s the rhythm of the rails.
It’s the sense of continuity with journeys past.
I often think back to a remarkable trip made as a child: travelling from England to Italy not by plane, but by rail and sea. The journey began on the Golden Arrow from London Victoria to Folkestone, continued by ferry to Calais, and then by overnight train with couchettes through France via Strasbourg, into Switzerland at Basel, across the Alps via the old Gotthard Tunnel route, and finally into Italy at Domodossola.
It was a continuous thread of travel—civilised, memorable, and deeply human.
That route still existed as late as 1977. Today, it has largely disappeared, replaced by the quicker, cheaper, but far less enriching world of low-cost air travel.

🚆 Final Thoughts
High-speed trains have their place, and they are undeniably impressive. But if you want to experience Italy, not just move through it, then slower trains—InterCity and regional—offer something far more valuable.
They remind you that travel is not just about arriving.
It’s about the journey.

It turned into a remarkably colourful day in Lucca, beginning—rather prosaically—with a visit to the dentist, and then opening out into something far more atmospheric.
From there we made our way into the heart of the city, to the great oval of Piazza dell’Anfiteatro—not so much a square as an unmistakable Roman amphitheatre, its ancient form still gently holding the life that now fills it. The cafés were busy, and the flower market was in full and lovely display, the whole space animated by colour and movement, yet still shaped by that quiet, enclosing geometry that makes it unlike anywhere else.

It was also the beginning of the Festival of Saint Zita, a sequence of events that will unfold through to the weekend rather than arriving all at once. At this early stage there was a sense of anticipation rather than completion, as though the city were slowly tuning itself toward what is to come. But how come a flower festival to celebrate Saint Zita? Zita, a maid for a rich family, was generous to the poor and needy and on one occasion was accused of having stolen bread to give to them. She was strip-searched but instead of the stolen goods they found beautiful flowers in her apron pockets hence the appositeness of having that market fair on her day!

Her presence in the basilica was not yet part of the day’s experience; her body had not been brought out for public display, and so there was a small disappointment at missing what is usually one of the most striking elements of the celebrations. That, we understand, will come with the main events on Saturday, when the ritual reaches its fuller expression.
But the day was far from diminished. Sandra was particularly delighted to find a caper plant—something we have long wanted but still do not yet have in our new place. We had capers in our previous home, but not yet here, and as anyone knows, they are not the easiest plants to establish. One can only hope this one will take root and thrive.
What made the day especially memorable, however, were the encounters. We had a wonderful meeting with an art critic and gallery owner in Pacini, a man who had known many of the major figures of the Italian modern art movement of the twentieth century. It was one of those conversations that opens unexpected doors into cultural memory, linking place, history, and personal experience in a very immediate way.
And later we met another lady who had spent much of her youth in England, and who had in fact lived in the same borough we once called home in London. Once again, these coincidences of geography and memory create a kind of quiet continuity between lives that might otherwise never have touched.
It is these encounters, perhaps as much as the festivals and the flowers, that give Lucca its particular richness. The city does not only offer events, but also connections—unexpected, generous, and often lasting in ways that are not immediately visible.

Postscript: We returned on Saint Zita’s closing celebration day after a visit to our favourite hairdresser in Borgo Giannotti and were able to view her mummified body in the beautiful Romanesque church of San Frediano and light a candle for her.

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Some places quietly become part of your life over the years. Not because they are extraordinary in any obvious way, but because they are reliable, familiar, and human. For us, Agraria Menesini, on the road from Lucca towards Ponte a Moriano, is one of those places.
We’ve been going there for years, for all sorts of reasons: plants for the garden, vegetables for the allotment, or simply to look around. It’s the kind of place where you know you’ll get sensible advice when you need it. I remember one visit in particular, when we were looking for a walnut tree—something suitable for the land, something that would last. It wasn’t just a purchase; it was a decision. They took the time to guide us and recommend the right specimen. No rush, no sales pressure—just experience. That kind of straightforward, practical knowledge is becoming rare, but it still exists in places like this.
Each visit feels slightly different, shaped by the season. In spring the place is full of life, flowers, and new growth, and their flower displays are absolutely amazing—colourful, abundant, and carefully arranged. I’ve included a few photos to give a sense of just how striking they are.

In summer you can already sense the strain of the coming heat; in autumn everything feels quieter and more practical. May is perhaps the best moment of all, when the air is balanced and the garden seems full of possibility, before the intensity of the Italian summer sets in.
Looking back, it’s clear how much has changed. There was a time when you would also find animals there—muscovy ducks, geese, rabbits—because this was still closely tied to everyday rural life. That world has mostly disappeared now. The countryside has become more domestic, less productive in the old sense. The animals are gone, and in their place there are cats, moving quietly through gardens and sheds, still doing their work of keeping mice at bay.
What hasn’t changed is the way you’re treated. You’re not just a customer; you arrive with a question and leave with a practical answer. Over time, that creates a kind of trust—something unspoken but real.

In the end, Agraria Menesini is more than a place to buy things. It reflects the slow transformation of the Lucchese countryside, from traditional farming to a more residential, garden-centred way of life. And yet, beneath that change, the connection to the land remains. That is why we keep going back—not just for what we need, but for what the place quietly represents.

We always look forward to the Azalea Festival in our neighbouring town of Borgo a Mozzano, and this year was no exception. It has become something of a tradition for us since moving to the area—one of those events that quietly marks the arrival of spring.
What many people don’t realise is that the festival has been going for over fifty years. Its origins lie back in the 1950s and 60s, when an agricultural research initiative—linked to a Shell Italia study centre based in the town—noticed something rather unusual. Azaleas were thriving everywhere: in gardens, courtyards, even growing spontaneously. It turned out that the climate of the Serchio Valley was perfectly suited to this plant—hardy, yet sensitive to the right conditions.
From there, enterprising locals began cultivating azaleas commercially, and by 1970 the first official Azalea Festival was established. What began as a modest floral market gradually evolved into something much richer: a blend of horticulture, culture, and community life.
And that sense of community remains its greatest strength.
This year, as in most years, we parked near the Penny Market—a reliable spot—and began our visit wandering through the second-hand market. There were some rather nice dresses on offer, and the whole area had that gentle, treasure-hunt charm.
From there, we made our way into the town itself, where one of the real pleasures of the festival revealed itself: its social side. You inevitably run into people you haven’t seen for ages.

We met friends, stopped for conversations, and admired the floral displays created by local schools and villages—each one bringing its own personality and imagination.

One of the highlights for me was inside the town hall: an exhibition of old radios. It was quite captivating.

Among the items on display was a 1940s British utility set (of which we have one too) of the kind used during the Second World War. Seeing it there really brought home just how central such objects once were. For many families, this was not simply a piece of furniture or a source of entertainment—it was their lifeline.
In those years, the radio was often the only way people could keep in touch with what was happening beyond their immediate surroundings. Through it came news of the war, government announcements, and crucial instructions about emergency measures. These utility sets became, in a very real sense, the vital point of communication between the authorities and the civilian population—those who remained at home while others were sent to the front.
There was something deeply moving in imagining a family gathered around such a set, listening through the crackle, aware that what they were hearing might directly shape their lives.

There was a time, too, when the radio—the wireless—was the centre of the home, placed proudly near the fireplace, often on its own table with a cloth. Someone would be asked to warm it up, letting the valves glow before the sound gradually emerged. Whether it was light music or the all-important news bulletins, the radio held the household together in a shared moment of attention.
Today, of course, everything is different. Radio is portable, accessible on our mobile phones, and part of a vast, deregulated world of voices and stations. And yet, it still has its place.
As my father used to say, radio develops the imagination. I remember listening as a child to ‘Journey into Space’, sitting in a darkened room as he liked it, imagining every detail—the spacecraft, the explorers, the unknown. It was like reading a book: you create the world yourself. And often, when you later see a film version, it never quite lives up

The display also included recording machines including the very first one invented and used to record the voices of such celebrities as Tennyson and Florence Nightingale.

Also on display was one of the portable tape recorders of which I had a Philips one.

We also visited the Museo della Memoria, dedicated to the Second World War in this area. It has recently been redesigned and is now beautifully presented—both moving and informative. Here too there was a fascinating display if radio and phone equipment. This reminded Sandra that her father was in charge of such equipment during the last war’s North African campaigns and in particular at El Alamein.

The museum now even has a prehistoric section with some stone age pots. I wonder if we may ever return to that age as a particular world leader would like his enemies to return to.

By then, we were beginning to feel hungry, so we stopped at our favourite stall for a generously filled porchetta roll—rich, aromatic with herbs, and unmistakably Tuscan. Simple food, but exactly right for the occasion.

After that, we continued wandering, meeting more friends, enjoying more flowers, and taking in some excellent photographic exhibitions. The area lends itself naturally to photography, especially in this late spring light, which has a clarity and softness that is hard to match.

Eventually, we made our way home, carrying not just a few carefully chosen plants—azaleas, of course, and a couple of others—but also that particular sense of contentment that comes from a day well spent.
The Azalea Festival may not be as grand or spectacular as some but that is precisely its charm. It remains intimate, rooted in its history, and sustained by the people who take part in it year after year.
And that is why we keep going back.

Last night’s presentation of our collaborative novel in the Sala Rosa felt, in retrospect, like the visible culmination of something that had been quietly growing over a long stretch of time — not just a writing project, but a shared process of learning, shaping, and discovery unfolding over months, and in fact years.
The book itself, which had already been published around Christmas, can be thought of as a kind of modern Decameron: a group of hikers and mountain trekkers find themselves taking refuge in a mountain shelter after being caught out by bad weather, and, in that shared enforced pause from the world, they begin to exchange stories. These are stories rooted in “magic” as it is understood in this landscape — not as fantasy or escape, but as perception: a way of noticing how history, folklore, memory, and lived experience accumulate in place and give it resonance.
The stories are set within the Val di Lima and the wider Garfagnana region of Tuscany, where mountains, villages, river valleys, and old paths form not just a backdrop but an active presence. Each contributor engages with this shared world differently, yet always within the same atmosphere. What emerges is not a single narrative, but a constellation of voices held together by geography, imagination, and a shared attentiveness to place.
Last night was the moment when this written world was brought fully into public space. In the Sala Rosa, each writer read a passage from their work, and the effect was quietly transformative: texts that had been composed in solitude were reshaped by voice, silence, timing, and the presence of an audience. One voice followed another, and gradually what had been separate pieces began to feel like parts of a larger whole.

The evening was also marked by Irene Ghilardi from the University of the Third Age who acted as a marvellous presenter, Priscilla Valentino. cultural councillor of our Comune and the Co-op that helped support and finance the project. The book itself is distributed on a freewill offering basis, with all proceeds going to Auser charity supporting people in difficulty within our commune, giving the project a further sense of shared purpose beyond the literary one.
It is impossible not to acknowledge the extraordinary contribution of Francesca Tatina Mengozzi whose devotion to the project was fundamental at every stage. As our teacher and guiding presence throughout this process, she not only encouraged us to write, but also sustained the discipline and coherence needed to bring the work into being. Her energy, patience, and sheer industry in assembling, editing, and shaping the book were remarkable, and the final result bears the imprint of her care and commitment throughout.
Thanks are also due to all those who supported the project in more practical but essential ways — those who provided us with spaces in which to meet and work, and those who encouraged the process along the way, often quietly and without public recognition. No project of this kind can ever be fully or properly acknowledged, because so many hands, seen and unseen, contribute to its making.
What we can say is that this book is the outcome of a collective effort in the fullest sense: not only of the writers whose voices appear within it, but of all those who made it possible for those voices to be heard.
Afterwards, our team gathered informally at the Circolo dei Forestieri e restaurant, where the evening continued in a warm and convivial atmosphere. Over dinner — for some of us wild boar among the dishes, for others a pizza— the sense of completion and shared achievement lingered, not as an ending, but as a continuation of the same spirit that had carried the project from its beginnings.

Near where we live in Bagni di Lucca, on the road to Lucca, near Diecimo, in the beautiful Val di Serchio, there’s a place I love to visit: the Ti Riuso Mercatino. The ground floor has been turned into a very nice vegetable and fruit shop, with fresh produce coming all the way from Sicily—it’s really lovely.

But it’s around the basement where the magic really happens. In that area you can find literally everything: clothes, household items, books, CDs, knickknacks—you name it, it’s there. It’s a really good collection, and while the wife may be looking around that part of the mercatino, the men can go off and explore the amazing set of cars that are displayed nearby.

On one of my visits, I saw something that absolutely filled me with nostalgia: a 1961 Ford Anglia 105E with that amazing raked-back rear window. Seeing it there was just magical. I didn’t know who the designer was at first, but after checking, I found out that the car was designed under Ford of Britain, with significant input from Elwood Paul Engel, an American designer who influenced its distinctive styling. That backwards-slanted rear window wasn’t just for looks—it was practical too, helping rain run off the glass—but it gives the car a charm all its own.
This Anglia is now nearly 70 years old, and while it’s a bit rusty on the outside, the interior is in surprisingly good condition. It really feels like stepping back in time. For anyone interested in classic cars, I think it’s basically a historic car, and it could even be an interesting investment for someone wanting to restore it.

The 1961 Anglia was made in both right-hand drive for the UK and left-hand drive for continental Europe, including Italy, with a 997 cc 4-cylinder engine. It was a popular, economical car back then, but it also had a unique personality—something you don’t see much in cars today.
Walking around that basement and seeing that Anglia reminded me of the magic of classic cars—how even a simple car could have charm, style, and character. It was one of those rare moments where history really feels alive.
So, if you ever find yourself in the Val di Serchio, I’d really recommend visiting the Mercatino di Riuso—not just for the Sicilian fruit and vegetables, or the huge selection of household goods and knickknacks downstairs, but to explore the hidden automotive treasures tucked away by the basement. You never know what might catch your eye, and who knows, you might even stumble upon a little piece of automotive history like I did.

London possesses some of the most beautiful oases of peace one could encounter within any great metropolis. In these quiet enclaves, one finds pristine flora and fauna; one loses oneself in reflections on the mutability of life, on the fragility of the thread that binds us to those we love, on the futility of our ambitions, and on the little time we allow ourselves to contemplate those great themes which ought to envelop us—like ivy climbing ancient trees—with that sense of infinity which is true love: given freely, without price or earthly reward, in all its candid purity.
Where, then, are these oases of supreme joy and transcendental melancholy to be found?
In London’s cemeteries.
I do not mean those elaborate constructions—those small palaces for the dead so often found in Italy, veritable cities of stone for the departed. Rather, I speak of genuine “holy fields,” where nature reclaims its quiet dominion: places filled with trees, birdsong, stray cats, foxes and badgers, and rosebushes that breathe life among moss-covered tombs rising through wildflowers and tall grasses.
I have already written about London’s seven great Victorian cemeteries—the so-called “Magnificent Seven.” With their catacombs, chapels, triumphal arches, and tree-lined avenues, they are undeniably grand. Yet beyond them lie smaller, lesser-known cemeteries, scattered across the city, each with its own quieter dignity.
One such place is Brockley and Ladywell Cemetery, in the southeast of London—a part of the city deeply familiar to me, where I was born, raised, and educated. I found myself there again recently, though not for the first time. My original visit dates back to the summer of 2019, and the reflections I wrote then were in Italian. Returning now, I experienced that curious sensation of retracing one’s steps not only through space, but through time; and so I have brought back those earlier impressions, translating them into English, as memory itself seems to translate the past into the present.

Opened in 1858 and covering some 150,000 square metres, the cemetery holds, among many others, the graves of Sir George Grove, the distinguished editor of the famous dictionary of music, and the tragic poet Ernest Dowson. There are also memorials to the war dead, and more recently, to civilians killed in bombing raids. It is sobering to recall that even the First World War reached into these quiet streets, in the form of Zeppelin attacks.
Of all those who rest here, it is perhaps Ernest Dowson who most perfectly embodies the spirit of the place. The Italian poet who most closely resembles him in temperament and fate may be Guido Gozzano. Both died young—Gozzano in 1916, Dowson in 1900, each at the age of thirty-two. Both were marked by fragile health, a vein of pessimism, and unfulfilled love: Gozzano with Amalia Guglielminetti, Dowson with Adelaide Foltinowicz.
On hearing of his death in poverty in Catford, Oscar Wilde is said to have remarked:
“Poor, wounded, wonderful poet. He was the embodiment of all tragic poetry, a symbol of it. For he truly knew what love was.”
Even those unfamiliar with his work will have unknowingly carried his words: “gone with the wind”—a phrase drawn from his poem Cynara, later chosen by Margaret Mitchell as the title of her celebrated novel Gone with the Wind.
Let us recall a few lines from this delicate poet:
“They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.”

And yet, as so often in London, the contemplative and the everyday coexist in the most unexpected ways.
For my return to Brockley was not motivated solely by remembrance. The immediate purpose—more prosaic, though no less revealing—was to try a fish and chips establishment much praised locally: Brockley’s Rock.
Having grown accustomed to the notably high standard of The Golden Chippy, comparisons were perhaps inevitable—and not entirely favourable. The fish, though certainly cod (despite some speculation that it might be rock salmon), lacked the delicacy we had hoped for. The chips were adequate, if unremarkable. The mushy peas, however, were genuinely excellent.

The setting, too, does not quite invite one to linger. The interior is somewhat drab, and the atmosphere lacks the easy conviviality one finds in Greenwich. There, one is served a complete plate, generously accompanied by sauces of all kinds; here, everything is itemised—fish, chips, even a small sachet of mayonnaise. In the end, the cost is not significantly lower, and the experience does not quite measure up.
This is not to say that the establishment is without merit. It is clearly popular with the local community, and the welcome is friendly. But it does not, for us, reach the standard to which we have become accustomed.
Brockley itself, however, remains rich in personal resonance. Along the main road stands my old primary school, a place inseparable from early memories. Not far away lived for many years the distinguished harpsichordist Gilbert Rowland, who remains a friend of ours and continues to give concerts at an arts centre in Beckenham. His recordings—particularly of Domenico Scarlatti, George Frideric Handel, and Antonio Soler—remain, to my mind, among the finest of their kind.
As for Brockley itself, it occupies a curious middle ground: neither overly gentrified nor untouched by change. There are pockets of character—small works of local art, a handful of interesting shops, even a bookshop or two—that lend the area its quiet individuality.
And so, this second visit comes to rest somewhere between recollection and rediscovery. Among graves and memories, poetry and fish and chips, one is reminded that life itself moves in just such a way: emerging briefly from the mist, only to return again—like a dream—into silence.

“I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion”.

Although I do not adhere to any particular religious sect, I have always felt a deep respect for the right of others to hold and express their spiritual beliefs, provided they are not imposed on others. Respect for belief, in all its forms, seems to me one of the basic foundations of human empathy and shared humanity.
Recently, we visited the Spiritualist Association of Great Britain, the country’s principal Spiritualist centre. It was not our first encounter with Spiritualism, and in our case there is also a more personal thread running through it—particularly through Sandra, who first introduced me to this world of ideas and practices.

Sandra grew up around Belgrave Square in London, where she lived at the Italian Institute at 39 Belgrave Square. Just across the road were the former headquarters of the Spiritualist Association. Spiritualism was therefore quite literally part of the landscape of her early life, and she encountered it before I did, giving her an early familiarity with its atmosphere and ideas.

It is important to distinguish Spiritualism (with a capital S) from the broader idea of being “spiritual.” Spiritualism is a specific movement based on the belief that personality survives physical death and that communication with the so-called spirit world is possible, most often through mediumship. Alongside this, it includes practices described as spiritual healing and education.
The SAGB is not a conventional church, although it may use religious language that can feel familiar to Christian traditions. Some individuals interpret their experiences in explicitly Christian terms, but institutionally it is a non-denominational Spiritualist organisation.
Historically, Spiritualism developed in nineteenth-century Britain during a period of intense interest in life after death, psychical research, and communication with the dead. The Association became established in London and eventually occupied a prominent building in Belgrave Square, which gave it a strong sense of visibility and prestige. That building has since been sold, and the organisation later moved to Battersea, where it continues its work today.
There is, in our experience, a curious sense of continuity in this story. After the move from Belgrave Square, the Spiritualist Association in Battersea again became indirectly connected to Sandra’s life—not through where she had lived, but through where she later studied. Her secondary school years placed her once more near the organisation’s new home, as though these places reappear across different stages of life with an almost symbolic continuity.
Over the years, our engagement with Spiritualist centres has extended beyond the main Association to a number of local churches and meeting places, including Charlton, Abbey Wood, Eltham, and more recently Ealing. Each has its own character—often more informal and community-based than the central London headquarters—but all share the same framework of mediumship, healing, and spiritual teaching.
One of the most striking aspects of Spiritualism is its wider cultural and historical resonance. Figures such as the writer Arthur Conan Doyle became prominent supporters of Spiritualism later in life, particularly after personal bereavement during the First World War. Another figure associated with Spiritualist interest was Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding, architect of victory in the last war’s Battle of Britain.

These associations place Spiritualism within a broader landscape of enduring human questions about mortality, meaning, and continuity.
To understand why Spiritualism gained such traction in Victorian Britain, it is important to consider the wider context. Although medical science advanced rapidly during the nineteenth century, death remained far more present and often far less predictable than today. Many conditions now treatable were then frequently fatal, and infant and maternal mortality rates were significantly higher.
Victorian society consequently developed a strong cultural preoccupation with death. This is visible in the monumental cemeteries around London, such as Highgate Cemetery, as well as in elaborate mourning customs, jewellery, and highly structured public expressions of grief. Death was more visible, more communal, and in many ways more theatrically embedded in daily life.
In this context, Spiritualism offered something compelling: the possibility of continued contact with the dead at a time when loss was both frequent and deeply felt. It also developed alongside emerging interest in psychical research and the boundaries between science and religion.
Today, improved medicine and public health have made many once-fatal conditions treatable, and death has become more medicalised and less publicly visible. In some respects, this has reduced the everyday sense of mystery surrounding dying, though it has not diminished the deeper questions it raises.
At the current headquarters of the Spiritualist Association in Battersea, although the setting is less grand than the former Belgrave Square premises, many elements of continuity remain. Among them are references to its earlier history, including the well-known chair associated with Arthur Conan Doyle, which symbolically links the present centre with its past and with its historical supporters.
Looking beyond Britain, it is also striking how widespread forms of spiritual mediumship are across cultures. In Mongolia, I personally witnessed shamanic practice, where the shaman acts as a medium between the human and spirit worlds within a deeply embedded ceremonial tradition. In this sense, Spiritualism in Britain echoes practices found in many other cultural contexts.
Similarly, in the ancient Roman world there were established systems of divination and oracle consultation, including priestesses and ritual specialists believed to interpret divine messages or the will of the gods. In addition ancestor worship continues strong in many parts of the world especially among the New Guinea headhunters and Mexico’s cult of the Dead.

These examples suggest that mediation between the human and unseen world is a recurring feature of human societies.
A particularly powerful parallel came earlier that same day, during a visit to the Ramses exhibition. Ancient Egypt offers perhaps one of the most striking examples of continuity between life and the afterlife. Pharaohs were understood to become divine after death, entering a transformed state in which communication with the divine was structured through ritual, prayer, and priestly mediation. In this sense, practices resembling communication with the unseen world appear not as anomalies, but as part of a long and continuous human pattern: the desire to bridge life, death, and what may lie beyond.
One question that arises from this broader perspective is how far Spiritualism continues to exist and evolve in countries such as Italy. Given the enduring influence of the Catholic Church, it is not part of mainstream religious practice in the same way as in Britain, yet forms of folk belief, mediumship, and alternative spirituality continue to exist in various cultural forms.

Over the years, our engagement with Spiritualist practice has been wide-ranging, from formal organisations to smaller local churches. In some cases, people—including ourselves—have experienced what is described as spiritual healing, and while interpretations differ, the sense of calm, attention, and reassurance is often central.
In reflecting on all of this, it is difficult not to see how deeply rooted the idea of survival after death is in human culture: from ancient Egyptian beliefs, to classical traditions, to Christian ideas of resurrection and eternal life. Across many indigenous traditions as well, communication with spirits forms part of a broader worldview.
Seen in this wider context, Spiritualism becomes one expression of a much older and more universal human impulse: the desire to find continuity beyond death and to give meaning to loss.
Ultimately, the question remains open. Spiritualism offers one framework, science offers another, and many people remain somewhere between the two—open to mystery while grounded in lived experience.
For us, these visits are less about reaching conclusions than about observing a living tradition that continues to offer comfort, structure, and meaning. And for Sandra in particular, it is also a thread running quietly through different stages of life, linking places, memories, and encounters in a way that feels unexpectedly continuous.