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.