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.