A seemingly simple decision by a swimming pool in Salorno, northern Italy, has ignited a national debate. The pool has introduced an additional women-only evening session outside its normal opening hours. Although the management stresses that the session is open to all women, many believe it has been created primarily to accommodate Muslim women who wish to swim wearing burkinis and away from the gaze of men

.

At first sight, this may seem a minor local issue. In reality, it touches on some of the deepest questions facing modern Europe: religious freedom, women’s rights, integration, and the identity of a nation

Italy has long prided itself on welcoming visitors and immigrants while expecting them to become part of Italian society. Critics of the Salorno decision argue that creating special sessions for particular religious or cultural needs risks encouraging separation rather than integration. Supporters reply that the sessions are voluntary, open to every woman, and simply enable women who might otherwise never swim to enjoy the facilities.

What fascinates me most is the extraordinary historical irony.

Only seventy years ago, it was not burkinis that caused controversy in Italy, but bikinis. During the 1950s, many beaches and seaside resorts discouraged or even banned the bikini. Local authorities sometimes imposed fines, and members of the Catholic clergy denounced it as immoral. Women who wore what is now considered perfectly ordinary swimwear were regarded by some as scandalous. My wife can bear witness to this.

How different Italy is today.

The country has undergone a remarkable social transformation. Italian women gained the vote in 1946. Over the following decades they challenged traditional expectations, won greater legal rights, entered professions in increasing numbers and asserted their independence. The bikini gradually became not a symbol of immorality but of personal freedom.

It is therefore understandable that some Italian women ask a difficult question: if previous generations struggled to free themselves from rules about how women should dress, why should public institutions now make special arrangements because another tradition asks women to cover themselves?

Others see the matter very differently. They argue that true freedom means allowing women to choose modest clothing if they wish. If a women-only swimming session enables more women to participate in public life, they see that as inclusion rather than exclusion.

Neither position is entirely without merit.

The United Kingdom offers an interesting comparison. Women-only swimming sessions have existed for years in a number of leisure centres. They are generally open to all women and are used not only by Muslim women but also by Orthodox Jewish women, older women, women recovering from illness and those who simply prefer a female-only environment. They have attracted far less national controversy than similar proposals in Italy.

This debate also reminds us that not all religious practices are the same, nor do all women within any religion think alike. Some Muslim women wear the burkini by personal conviction, others because of family or community expectations, and others reject it altogether. The same diversity of opinion exists among Jewish women, Christian women and women with no religious faith.

Looking beyond Europe, the contrast with Afghanistan is particularly striking. I remember a country where women could once be seen dressed in many different ways. Today, under Taliban rule, severe restrictions are imposed by the state. Italy, by contrast, is debating how to balance individual liberty with social integration. The two situations are fundamentally different, yet they remind us how profoundly religion can shape everyday life.

Perhaps that is what troubles me most.

The controversy over the bikini in the 1950s was driven largely by religious objections. Today’s arguments over the burkini are also deeply influenced by religious beliefs, albeit from a different tradition. Once again, women find themselves at the centre of arguments about what they should or should not wear.

Surely the goal of a free society should not be to tell women how to dress, whether that means covering almost everything or revealing more skin. The principle should be simple: women should be free to decide for themselves.

The Salorno swimming pool has become a symbol of a much larger debate. It forces us to ask whether equality means treating everyone identically or making reasonable accommodations for different beliefs and traditions. It asks whether integration means everyone adapting to one culture or society adapting to many.

There are no easy answers.

What is certain is that this discussion is not really about swimming pools. It is about the kind of society Italy—and indeed Europe—wants to become. It is a debate about freedom, equality, identity and mutual respect. Those values deserve careful thought rather than angry slogans.

Perhaps, in the end, the real challenge is not choosing between bikinis and burkinis. It is learning how a democratic society can protect both individual freedom and social cohesion without sacrificing either.

Sometimes the most ordinary events can open a door into the past.
Recently we went to our local health centre in Fornoli to sort out a problem with my left foot. There is a strange pain around my ankle — almost as if someone had kicked it — although, of course, that never happened. Something is clearly wrong, and so I was given an impegnativa, the Italian medical request, for an X-ray.
This simple medical appointment suddenly brought back memories of other X-ray departments I have known throughout my life, especially those in England.
It was another hot, humid night, and sleep was difficult. As often happens when I cannot sleep, I came downstairs and began looking through old photographs. Among them I found something that immediately caught my attention: pictures from a visit we made to one of the most extraordinary medical buildings I have ever encountered — the underground X-ray department at Bexley, in south-east London.

The photographs were taken with an early Kodak EZ200 digital camera one of the first to be easily affordable to the general public. With a resolution of only 640 × 480 pixels (about 0.3 megapixels) and no screen for viewing images, it produced soft, slightly blurred photographs typical of the first digital era. There was no memory card and certainly no smartphones features capable of taking thousands of photographs instantly. You just pressed the button and hoped for the best.
Afterwards, the photographs had to be transferred to a computer — in those days always a desktop machine — using the early forms of USB digital connection. Looking back, it almost seems like another technological age.
The original photographs were understandably not of acceptable quality. However, using modern digital technology, I have been able to improve them, bringing back more detail and clarity from those old images. In doing so, I have rediscovered not only the photographs themselves, but also the atmosphere of the remarkable place they recorded.
In 2001 the underground hospital was not a museum or a forgotten relic. It was still a working X-ray department. And that was what made it so extraordinary.
The hospital had originally been built in 1938, during the tense years before the Second World War, as a bomb-proof underground casualty hospital. It was designed as a place where civilians could receive treatment safely beneath the ground if London and the surrounding areas suffered devastating bombing.
After the war, in 1950, the facility was converted into an X-ray department and continued to serve the local community for many decades. Eventually, because of its historical importance, the building was given Grade II listed status.
To enter that hospital was almost like stepping into another world. Patients did not simply walk into a bright, modern radiology suite. They descended underground, into a place created from the fears of another age. The concrete walls, enclosed corridors, artificial lighting and the knowledge that this had once been designed as a refuge from war gave the building a unique atmosphere.

One could almost imagine the uncertainty of the late 1930s: the preparations for a war that had not yet begun, the expectation that ordinary people might one day need protection from the skies above. For patients arriving there over the decades — from the post-war years right through to the beginning of the 21st century — there must have been something mysterious about the experience. An X-ray appointment became a journey beneath the surface, into a hidden part of history.
The medical staff, of course, knew it simply as their workplace and I am told they loved working there. But for patients it must have felt like entering a time capsule.
When we visited we were fortunate enough to see it while it was still alive and functioning as part of everyday healthcare. I have since discovered that this chapter has now ended. In 2024 a new modern digital X-ray suite opened in the main hospital building replacing the underground department. The NHS has expressed the hope that the historic bunker can be preserved and given a new purpose.
One small sadness is that the old X-ray equipment which helped create the atmosphere of a working hospital from another era has probably been removed. Without those machines, some of the feeling of stepping back in time may inevitably be lost. Yet the building itself remains a remarkable survivor.
It is one of the very few surviving examples of an underground civilian wartime hospital in Britain and reminds me of another extraordinary underground medical site we have visited — the enormous German-built underground hospital in Guernsey, constructed during the occupation of the Channel Islands. That was on a much larger scale, but both places tell the same story: the attempt to protect human life in times of conflict.
And yet there is a sad question. If hospitals are protected places under the Geneva convention why build them underground? The answer is that history has shown there is no absolute guarantee that any hospital will be safe during war. We have seen in recent conflicts, including Gaza, that even medical facilities can be caught up in violence despite the protections that should exist.
The underground hospital at Bexley therefore represents far more than an unusual medical building. It is a reminder of the anxieties of the 1930s, the determination of wartime Britain, and the countless ordinary people who passed through those corridors seeking help. Let us hope that this remarkable place survives, because buildings like this do not merely tell us about medicine. They tell us about people.

***

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

Every year the same conversations return with the seasons.
“Oh my God, isn’t it cold today?” people say in winter. Then, a few months later: “Oh my God, isn’t it hot today?”
Of course, in Italy the seasons are very clearly marked. This is one of the first things you notice if you spend a year here. Winter feels like winter, summer feels like summer, and spring and autumn have their own unmistakable character.This is very different from England, where the maritime climate can sometimes give the impression of experiencing four seasons in one day. Italians often smile when they arrive in Britain and discover that sunshine, rain, wind and cold can all appear within a few hours.

But this summer in Italy is different. This is not simply the usual complaint that summer is hot. The heat has become something much more serious.
The evidence is everywhere: the retreat of glaciers in the Alps, the problems of the Po river, falling water levels in lakes, drought, and the terrible forest fires that have affected many parts of the country, indeed Europe. This is no longer just a matter of saying, “What a hot day!” This is a changing climate that is affecting everyday life.

Fortunately, Italy has always known how to escape the heat.
The obvious solution is altitude. Italy is a mountainous country, and even in central Italy the Apennines rise high enough to provide a welcome refuge. I remember when I first came here on my motorbike — a Honda Transalp — and Florence felt almost unbearable in summer. I would simply get on the bike and climb higher and higher into the mountains, finding a village in the Apennines where the air was fresh and the temperature completely different.
Then there are the houses themselves. Older Italian houses were built for the climate: thick stone walls, shutters, and rooms designed to remain cool. At the moment I am writing this from my own cantina, the cellar of the house. In winter it is a place where you would not dream of spending time — cold and damp. But in the middle of summer it is a wonderful refuge, naturally cool without the need for air conditioning.
Italy has adapted to heat over centuries. Life moves differently. People work earlier, rest during the hottest hours, and come alive again in the evening. Walk into an Italian supermarket in summer and you understand immediately what air conditioning means — it feels almost like entering Iceland! Not forgetting ample doses of gelato Italian ice cream!

Britain faces a different challenge. For generations it prepared itself for cold weather. Central heating, insulation and systems to deal with winter are normal parts of life. But extreme heat is different. Many buildings and workplaces were never designed for long periods of high temperatures.
The question now is whether Britain will have to rethink its approach. Perhaps future generations will need support not only for heating homes in winter but also for protecting people from excessive heat in summer, especially the elderly and vulnerable.
Even here in Italy, many people say that air conditioning is not always the perfect answer. A simple fan uses far less energy and can often make a remarkable difference.
Personally, I have had to change my own routine. I now wake at five in the morning. As soon as there is daylight, I try to do the heavier jobs — cutting the grass, cleaning the car, anything that requires effort — before the heat becomes too intense.
After ten o’clock the day changes. We eat earlier, breakfast is lighter, and there is plenty of water, fruit and vegetable salads. Then comes the traditional siesta. There is no point behaving like the famous “mad dogs and Englishmen” and going out in the midday sun.
So here I am, in my little cantina, enjoying the coolness and waiting for the evening. Later, when the sun has lost its power, life begins again. Perhaps there will be a visit to the Teatro della Verzura in Borgo Mozzano, where discussions and performances take place late in the evening — at a time when in many northern countries the day would already be ending.
Of course, Italy has other escapes too. There are the mountains, the sea, and for us here in the Serchio valley, the beautiful clear waters of the Lima river — our own little “Miami Beach”, as people jokingly call it.

And talking of heat, there was also plenty of heat in another sense recently: football. It was sixty years since England won the World Cup in 1966, a moment I remember well, listening to that unforgettable commentary. Since then England has reached the later stages several times, but never managed to repeat that success. At least it got its third place medal, the first time ever.
Perhaps one day.
So, whether it is the weather, football, or life itself, there always seems to be something to heat us up. But here in Italy, at least, there are still ways to escape: climb higher, find shade, retreat to the cantina, or wait for the third place medal, evening breeze.
And when the temperatures finally fall, I know what will happen.
We will all start complaining that it is too cold again.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

Losing a pet must never be underestimated among the sorrows that come into our lives.
We all understand the pain of losing people who are close to us. The death of one’s parents, one’s brother, one’s sister, or a very dear friend can leave a wound that never truly disappears. And perhaps someone might say, “Surely losing a pet cannot be placed on the same level as losing a human being.”
Yet, in many ways, it can. Not because a pet replaces a parent, a relative, or a friend—it does not. The relationship is different. Rather, it is because love itself has many forms, and the depth of grief is often measured by the depth of that love.
The love between a person and an animal is something extraordinary. It exists beyond words, beyond explanation. It is instinctive, pure, almost transcendent. It is not based on what the animal can give us in practical terms. It exists simply because that creature is there, sharing our life.
Some people might argue that the bond depends upon the type of animal. Surely, they might say, a dog is different because it is openly affectionate, always eager to greet its owner, always seeking human companionship. A cat, by contrast, is often described as independent, distant, even mysterious.
But that misses the point entirely.
The love we have for an animal is not determined by its behaviour alone. It is determined by the relationship we build together. A cat, a dog, a rabbit a muscovy duck, or even the smallest creature like a goldfish that shares our home can become deeply important because it becomes part of our existence.
The animal is there.
That simple fact means everything.
A cat becomes part of the landscape of a home. It is there in the garden, stretched out on the lawn, sitting quietly in a favourite corner, wandering through the rooms as though it owns the place. In winter it finds the warmest spot in the house—perhaps on the bed, perhaps even beside us beneath the blankets. Slowly, almost unnoticed, it becomes woven into the rhythm of everyday life.

Then one day that rhythm changes.
The house seems strangely silent. There is an emptiness where there was once movement; a space where there was once a familiar figure; a routine that has quietly vanished.
Perhaps the most poignant thing of all is that animals do not simply share our lives—they share our timeline.
A pet who has been with us for twelve years has not merely existed alongside us for twelve years. It has travelled through twelve years of our personal history. It has been there through moments of joy and sadness, through achievements and disappointments, through seasons of change that we ourselves scarcely noticed at the time.
Take Carlotta, one of our cats.
We found her in 2012 at a beer festival stand in Borgo a Mozzano, where she was being cared for by a local charity that rescues abandoned cats. Neither she nor we could possibly have imagined what the years ahead would bring.
When Carlotta entered our lives, she entered a particular chapter of them.
In 2012 I was fourteen years younger. Fourteen years is not simply a number. Entire lives can change in that time.
During those years I began writing blogs. I travelled more. I became involved in creative writing courses and new projects. I discovered interests that I had never expected to pursue.
But those years also brought losses.
There were things I gradually stopped doing—not because I no longer loved them, but because confidence changes as we grow older. There comes a time when we begin to wonder whether we can still do the things that once seemed effortless.
One of the hardest moments was giving up my scooter.
For much of my adult life, two wheels had represented freedom. The scooter was never merely a means of transport. It was independence itself—the ability to set off whenever I pleased, with the wind around me and the open road stretching ahead.

Gradually, that chapter came to an end.
But Carlotta remained.
She remained when other beloved cat companions did not. Corneglia left us in 2021. Napoleone in 2017. During those same years we also lost aunts, cousins and even brothers. Human lives and animal lives became interwoven in the tapestry of memory.
That is one of the extraordinary things about animals. They never measure us by what we can no longer do. They do not care whether we are younger or older, stronger or weaker.
They do not judge.
To them, we are simply ourselves.
We are the person who feeds them, who speaks gently to them, who strokes them, who offers affection, comfort and security. They know us in a way that is entirely different from human relationships. They care nothing for our achievements, our failures, our worries or our regrets.
They simply love our presence.
Perhaps that is why losing a pet is so painful.
We are not only losing an animal. We are losing a companion who has walked beside us through an important chapter of our own existence. We are losing a silent witness to our lives.
When we look back, we remember far more than events. We remember where the cat was sleeping. We remember the soft sound of paws across the floor. We remember the look in their eyes, their little habits, their favourite places, their quiet companionship.
They become woven into the fabric of our memories.
They become part of who we are.
And when they leave us, they take with them a small part of the world that existed while they were here.
Yet there is something even harder than saying goodbye through death.
It is not knowing.
As I write these words, we are living through that uncertainty with Archie.

We last saw him on the evening of Saturday, 18 July. We were leaving home to attend a concert, and as always we said goodbye to him. There was nothing unusual about his behaviour. Everything seemed perfectly normal.
When we returned later that evening, Archie was nowhere to be seen. We assumed, as cats often do, that he had simply gone wandering and would return during the night.
But morning came.
Breakfast time arrived.
Archie did not.
Only then did we realise that something was wrong.
It was completely out of character. Archie has always come home. He has always appeared when food was served or when he heard our voices. This time there was only silence.
Of course, we cling to hope. Perhaps he has become trapped in a shed or a garage. Perhaps someone has taken him in, believing him to be a stray. Perhaps he is frightened and hiding somewhere close by.
We pray that it is nothing worse.
For the moment, all we can do is wait, search, call his name and hope that one day, perhaps sooner than we dare imagine, we shall hear those familiar footsteps again.
If that day comes, no sound in the world will be more welcome.
Because those who share our homes do far more than share our houses.
They share our lives.
And, whether they walk on two legs or four, are fur, fin or feather they become part of our story forever.

***

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

Two more concerts followed as part of our San Cassiano festival.. The opening concert, which I described in an earlier post, was a heartfelt tribute to the legendary jazz trumpeter Chet Baker.
The second was an astonishing organ recital by the 23-year-old organist Francesco Paina from Vicenza. Organ recitals can, indeed, be truly exciting, and this gifted young musician proved exactly that. His programme ranged from little-known but fascinating works of the Renaissance through to the nineteenth century, before culminating in the world premiere of his own composition, inspired by the medieval lauda Sia Laudato San Francesco. It was a work of remarkable maturity and imagination. Francesco Paina is now preparing to record his first CD, and, judging by this performance, even greater things surely lie ahead. Thanks are due to the local parish priest Don Franco for giving permission for his beautiful church to be used for these brilliant occasions.

The festival concluded with La cetra di Francesco, an enchanting recital by Patrizia Bovi, who combined her expressive singing with the harp, and Crawford Young, one of today’s leading interpreters of medieval music, performing on the lute and the medieval cetra. Together they transported the audience on a captivating musical journey through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, exploring the songs and laude associated with St Francis of Assisi whose 800th death anniversary is celebrated this year.

Both performers reminded us that St Francis is often misunderstood. He is frequently portrayed simply as an ascetic who rejected wealth and worldly pleasures, living a life of absolute poverty and deprivation. Yet there was another, equally important side to his character. His very name, Francesco, reflects the French Provençal connections of his family, and throughout his life he possessed a profound love of music. Towards the end of his life he is said to have returned to playing a simple stringed instrument, rediscovering a pleasure that had accompanied him in his youth.
The programme itself was immaculate: a musical journey through beautiful medieval and Renaissance songs and ballads. Along the way we discovered something fascinating. Many well-known popular melodies were later given sacred texts—not out of irreverence, but as a means of bringing spiritual ideas closer to ordinary people through familiar music. It was a wonderful reminder that faith and culture have often developed hand in hand.
The audience, though warmly appreciative, was disappointingly small. I would estimate that the beautiful Romanesque church was less than one-fifth full. That was a great pity, for concerts of this quality deserve far larger audiences. I have often wondered whether festivals such as this also provide musicians with an opportunity to refine programmes that later appear on the major concert circuit. If so, they could hardly wish for a more inspiring setting. Our churches are places of extraordinary beauty, and the acoustics are simply perfect for this repertoire.
It is sad that so many visitors to Italy during the summer, and indeed many local residents, miss occasions like these. The concerts were well publicised, and it was encouraging to meet a few local friends among the audience, but events of this quality deserve to be heard by many more people.
Yet if the audience was small, its enthusiasm more than compensated. The warmth and sincerity of the applause left no doubt that the performers knew how deeply their artistry had been appreciated.
And so the festival came to an end: another memorable celebration marking the eight-hundredth anniversary of the death of St Francis of Assisi. Over the course of its concerts, exhibitions and encounters, the festival demonstrated that great music, thoughtful scholarship and magnificent surroundings can combine to create something truly unforgettable. It was a fitting tribute to one of history’s most endearing—and at times most misunderstood—saints, and a reminder that even in the quietest corners of Tuscany, artistic excellence continues to flourish.

***

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

Some musical discoveries come early in life. Others wait patiently for decades.
For me, Chet Baker has been one of the great musical revelations of this year.
Last night, as part of the San Cassiano Festival in the hills above Bagni di Lucca, we attended a concert dedicated to the memory of Chet Baker. It turned out to be one of those magical evenings that remain in the memory long after the final applause has faded.
We arrived early and found ourselves sitting in the front row. Before us rose the magnificent Romanesque façade of the ancient church, its extraordinary medieval carvings softly illuminated by thousands of tiny fairy lights as twilight settled over the mountains. The evening air was cool, the setting almost dreamlike. It was difficult to imagine a more beautiful venue for music.
Then the quartet came on stage.

Giuseppe Nannini – trumpet
Damiano Calloni – piano
Federico Paoli – double bass
Vittorio Conti – drums

The musicians—devotees of Baker in every sense—understood exactly what made his music unique. Their programme alternated wonderfully between intimate ballads and lively, swinging jazz. The slow pieces seemed almost to suspend time; the faster numbers sparkled with wit, elegance and joy.
Naturally, they ended with My Funny Valentine. They also performed Almost Blue, Let’s Get Lost and other pieces forever associated with Baker. Every arrangement had been lovingly prepared.
One of the delights of living in Italy is that evenings of this quality are often offered almost as gifts to the community. Elsewhere, one might pay a substantial ticket price and find oneself somewhere in the back rows of a crowded concert hall. Here, we sat close to the musicians in a half-filled square before an ancient church, surrounded by mountains and silence. The musicians themselves seemed delighted—not by the size of the audience, but by its warmth and attentiveness. They had already enjoyed the famous tortelli from Santina’s bar next door, another reminder that music, friendship and good food belong naturally together in Tuscany.
I have never considered myself a great jazz expert. Some jazz leaves me completely cold, while other works have stayed with me throughout my life. I have long admired Miles Davis, Wayne Shorter’s The All Seeing Eye, McCoy Tyner’s magnificent piano playing, and many other great recordings.
But somehow Chet Baker had largely passed me by.
What a mistake that was.
Listening to him now, one understands immediately why, in the 1950s, people even suggested to Miles Davis that a young trumpeter named Chet Baker might become serious competition. Of course, history has room for both of them.
Miles Davis often seems to transport us into another universe, his playing visionary, mysterious and almost supernatural.
Chet Baker speaks directly to the heart.
His trumpet is lyrical, intimate and profoundly human. Every note seems to carry both beauty and vulnerability.
And then there is his singing.
I had never fully appreciated what an extraordinary vocalist he was. There is a recording of My Funny Valentine in which he sings with astonishing tenderness before seamlessly taking up the trumpet to complete the performance. It is one of the most moving musical experiences I have heard in years.
The concert also included film footage and interviews with Baker himself. That, perhaps, was the greatest revelation of all.
Here was no tortured genius wrapped in pretension.
Instead, he came across as gentle, modest, almost shy—a remarkably simple and likeable man whose entire life seemed centred on making beautiful music.
Knowing what happened to him makes the story all the more heartbreaking.
Heroin addiction nearly destroyed his career. It brought arrests, imprisonment and years of personal struggle. For us here in Lucca, his story has a special significance. In 1960 he was arrested in the city and spent around sixteen months in the old San Giorgio prison. Those were dark days but thanks to the local priest Chet was allowed to bring and play his trumpet in the prison. Local people still remember gathering outside the prison enclosure to hear the sound of his trumpet floating from his cell window over the ancient walls of Lucca.
Today we would probably regard him as someone in desperate need of medical help rather than punishment.
Yet the remarkable thing about Chet Baker is that he refused to surrender.

After his release from prison he recorded Chet Is Back!, one of the finest albums of his entire career. He rebuilt his life as a musician and, despite continuing struggles, spent many of his finest later years performing throughout Europe—and especially in Italy, the country that gradually became his second home.
His relationship with Italy was far deeper than that of a visiting American jazz star. From his first performances here in the late 1950s, Italian audiences instinctively understood the lyricism and melancholy that lay at the heart of his music. He worked with outstanding Italian musicians, recorded in Milan and Rome, collaborated with Ennio Morricone, and returned again and again to Italian concert halls, jazz clubs and festivals. He learned to speak some Italian, formed lasting friendships, and found in Italy an audience that loved him not only for his genius but also for his humanity.
There is, perhaps, an affinity between Baker’s music and the Italian temperament. His playing possesses the qualities Italians have always cherished in music: melody, lyricism, tenderness and emotional honesty. Even after his death, that affection has never faded. Across Italy, concerts, festivals and exhibitions continue to celebrate his life and music, and nowhere is that remembrance more poignant than in Lucca, where the city has come to embrace not simply the troubled prisoner of 1960, but the great artist whose trumpet once drifted over its ancient walls.
It is one of history’s beautiful ironies that the country in which he endured one of the darkest chapters of his life also became the country that loved him perhaps more faithfully than any other.
Towards the end of his career Baker once remarked, with characteristic modesty, that there was not much he could really do except sing and play the trumpet.
What an understatement.
He did those two things with a beauty that very few musicians in any genre have ever achieved.
Some discoveries arrive late.
But perhaps they arrive precisely when we are ready for them.
Better late than never.
Thank you, Chet Baker.
And thank you to the San Cassiano Festival for introducing me—at last—to one of the greatest jazz musicians I never knew.

***

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

I have often argued that one of the most important steps towards integrating into another country is learning its principal language. Every nation may have regional dialects and minority languages, but each also has a standard language that allows people to communicate and participate fully in society.

In Britain, many people complain that newly arrived immigrants do not speak English well enough. Yet the same criticism can sometimes be directed at British people who settle abroad, whether permanently or for long periods, without making much effort to learn Italian, Spanish, French or the language of the country in which they live. Integration, if we believe in it, should apply to everyone.

Among those most frequently accused of failing to integrate are Muslims. Anyone who spends time on social media will quickly notice a great deal of anti-Muslim rhetoric. Some reports may be based on genuine concerns, others may exaggerate or distort reality. Every case deserves to be judged on its own merits rather than through prejudice.

When I was a university student, more than fifty years ago, attitudes were very different. We attended lectures on Islamic civilisation, studied Arabic, read great poets such as Iqbal and Hafiz, and learned about the rich traditions of Sufism. Some students travelled to Egypt and other Middle Eastern countries to deepen their understanding. There was curiosity rather than suspicion.

Today, however, many people feel that something has changed. Alongside the long-established differences between Sunni and Shia Islam, there has been renewed attention to stricter interpretations associated with movements such as Wahhabism. What has particularly puzzled me is seeing some young Muslim women adopting forms of dress that are considerably more conservative than those worn by their mothers or grandmothers. Women whose mothers never wore a veil may themselves choose to wear the niqab or even more complete forms of covering.

Personally, I find the full-face veil deeply troubling. To me it represents anonymity and raises difficult questions about the place of women in society. I recognise that many Muslims would disagree with this interpretation and would argue that modest dress is a matter of religious conviction and personal dignity. Others maintain that the Qur’an does not require such extreme forms of covering. It is clearly a subject on which sincere believers themselves hold very different opinions.

My own views were influenced by an experience while teaching English to a class consisting mainly of Somali Muslim women. They were intelligent, friendly students, and many conversations were enriched by the fact that we could also speak Italian together, reflecting Somalia’s historical links with Italy. Although they wore traditional clothing, their faces were uncovered and communication presented no difficulty.

Then, one day, one of the students arrived completely veiled, with only a narrow slit through which her eyes could be seen. I was genuinely shocked. I said nothing to embarrass her, but another student explained that she was dressing that way for religious reasons.

Later I spoke privately to my vice-principal. I explained that I felt unable to teach effectively when I could not see a student’s face. A teacher depends upon facial expressions, eye contact and visual communication. There are also practical issues of identification, attendance and safeguarding. I asked whether the college had a dress policy that addressed such situations.

The vice-principal, himself originally from Iraq, replied calmly that if I felt uncomfortable, the student could simply be transferred to another class taught by a female teacher. That solution was adopted.

However, the matter did not end there. The teacher who accepted the student later criticised my decision, arguing that I had discriminated against her because of what she chose to wear. Her argument was that every woman has the right to dress as she wishes.

That experience has remained with me ever since because it raises a question that I still cannot answer with certainty. Was this young woman exercising her own free choice, or was she under pressure from her family or community? Unless we know the answer to that question, discussions about freedom become far more complicated than they first appear.

The more I reflect on these issues, the more I realise that it is impossible to speak of “Muslims” or “Christians” as though they were single, uniform communities. Christianity itself ranges from traditional Roman Catholicism to Orthodox churches, Anglicanism, Protestant denominations, Evangelical movements and countless independent congregations. There is enormous diversity.

The same is true of Islam. There are Sunni and Shia Muslims, together with many schools of thought, reform movements and cultural traditions. Some Muslims are deeply conservative, while others are highly liberal. Their interpretations of religion differ enormously. It is therefore unfair to judge more than a billion people as though they all believed or behaved in exactly the same way.

Nevertheless, certain questions repeatedly arise in public debate. Christians often point out that European countries generally permit the construction of mosques and guarantee freedom of worship, while in some Muslim-majority countries it is difficult—or even impossible—to build churches or practise Christianity openly. Others raise questions about polygamy, the role of Sharia law, freedom of expression and, above all, the equality of women and men. These are serious issues deserving thoughtful discussion rather than slogans or prejudice.

Italy presents an interesting case. Although regular church attendance has declined, Catholicism remains deeply rooted in the country’s history and identity. Rome is, after all, the centre of the Roman Catholic Church. When Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni describes herself as “a woman, an Italian and a Christian”, she is expressing an identity that resonates with many Italians.

For this reason, some Italians react more critically than people in Britain when they encounter practices such as the burqa, the niqab or the burkini. Many Italian women feel that generations struggled to secure equal rights—the vote, divorce, greater personal freedom and equal opportunities—and they see full-face veiling not simply as a cultural difference but as a symbol of women surrendering freedoms that others fought to obtain. Whether that interpretation is always justified is open to debate, but it helps explain why feelings can run so strongly. Certainly the cases of ‘honour killings’ where Muslim girls have rebelled against forced (as distinct from arranged) marriages and murdered in conseque have deeply troubled italians (as all western nations) especially as until recently honour killings received special mitigation under Italian law. As yet, however, there is no evidence that Italy has a widespread phenomenon of “Muslim grooming gangs” on the same scale or with the same characteristics as the UK cases. Italy is also one of the few European countries.that have bern free to-date of Islamic terrorist attacks.

At the same time, attitudes are not identical towards every religion. In several parts of Italy, Buddhist communities have established temples and organise public festivals that local residents attend with genuine interest and goodwill. Likewise, people from different religious backgrounds often participate respectfully in traditional Christian celebrations such as Lucca’s historic Procession of the Holy Face.

These are difficult questions, and I do not pretend to have simple answers. Every society must balance freedom of religion, cultural identity, equality before the law and mutual respect. These principles do not always fit together comfortably.

My conclusion is a modest one. Understanding, tolerance and respect remain indispensable. At the same time, genuine integration requires dialogue, a willingness to understand one another, respect for the laws and language of the country in which we live, and an unwavering commitment to the equal dignity and freedom of every human being, regardless of religion, nationality or background.

***

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

I am the Bargiglio Tower, the ancient Eye of Lucca.
I am not merely stones. I am memory. I am the breath of the mountain, the whisper of the wind through my arrow slits, the scent of the earth after rain, the moss that slowly covers my ancient walls. I have remained still while everything around me has changed.
For centuries I have sat upon the summit of the mountain, my foundations sunk deep into the rock and my gaze open towards the valley. From here I see Lucca, its rooftops, its towers and its Piazza Napoleone; I see villages hidden among the woods, the mountains following one another along the horizon, and the clouds travelling slowly above me.

I have learned the language of the seasons.
In spring the forest awakens. Green returns to my stones, moss grows in the cracks left by the centuries, and small flowers appear at my feet. Rain falls upon my walls and brings with it the smell of wet earth, of mushrooms hidden beneath the leaves, and of the resin of the trees.
In summer the sun caresses me until it warms even my deepest stones. Lizards run across my golden walls, bees search for wild flowers, and the song of birds fills the spaces where once only the footsteps of soldiers echoed. The air smells of freshly cut grass, chestnut trees and mountain air.
In autumn the wind carries the fragrance of fallen leaves and forests full of chestnuts. Mists rise from the valley and wrap my stone body like a cloak.
But it is winter that I know best.
When snow whitens the mountains and frost enters my empty windows, I return to listening to the voices of the past. The wind whistles through my openings, rain beats against the stones and the night seems endless. The sentries who lived here knew this cold. They knew the weight of waiting, the silence of the night hours and the loneliness of those who watch the world from above.
I was born to observe.
My windows were not opened by chance. Each opening looked towards a precise point of the territory. I was the eye of the Republic of Lucca, the centre of a great communication network.
When danger appeared in the mountains, my fire spoke.
A flame in the night, a column of smoke during the day. The message travelled from tower to tower until it reached the city. I had to warn Lucca of the arrival of enemies: the Este family from the north, the Florentines from the east, the Pisans from the west.
I have seen men climb my narrow staircase with the sound of boots upon the stone. I have felt the iron of weapons against my walls. I have seen young soldiers arrive full of courage and leave with eyes full of weariness.
One winter night, a sentry sat beside me. His cloak was wet from the rain and he looked towards the distant lights of the valley.
“Old tower,” he said softly, “you have seen more wars than I could ever imagine. Tell me, will I ever return home?”
I had no voice. But the wind passed through my stones and carried the scent of the valley to him. Perhaps that was my answer.
“Perhaps,” I whispered to him through the wind, “there is still someone waiting for you.”
Because I have not seen only war.
I have seen love.
Among the many stories I have guarded, there is one that time has not erased.
There was a young soldier who every evening looked towards a small village in the valley. There lived a girl he loved. The distance was great, but their eyes could still meet.
Every evening she lit a small lantern.
To others it was only a distant light.
To him it was a promise.
“If you see my light,” she had told him one day, “you will know that I am here.”
And he watched it from the top of the tower.
My cold stones knew then a warmth different from that of the sun. They knew the warmth of hope.
Then war arrived. The young man had to leave. Long months passed. Seasons passed. But every evening that light continued to shine.
I saw it.
I remembered.
One day, after a long time, I heard footsteps on the path. A figure was slowly climbing towards me. It was him. The war had changed his face, but it had not erased the memory of that light.
When he reached the summit, he remained silent.
He looked towards the valley.
And he saw the lantern once again.
At that moment he understood that some things are stronger than time, distance and even war.
My walls had witnessed battles, but that was the greatest victory I had ever known.
Then the world changed.
New means of communication arrived: the telegraph, radio, short waves and long waves. My fires were no longer needed. My sentries departed. The sound of boots disappeared from my stairs.
I remained alone.
But solitude is not always emptiness.
The forest returned to claim me. Moss slowly covered my stones. Birds built their nests in my cracks. The roots of trees searched for the earth around my foundations.
I became part of the mountain.
Some say that a tower represents mankind’s desire to rise above the world, to look upon it without being wounded. It is true. From above, one can see far away. But height can also create distance.
A tower protects the body, but it can isolate the heart.
I have known both things: the strength of walls and the sadness of silence.
Fortunately, my destiny was not to become a stone tomb.
Today the path through the forest still brings men and women to me. A platform allows them to look at the panorama that I have watched for centuries.
Walkers arrive, families, young lovers, people searching for peace.
Some touch my walls.
Perhaps they feel the coldness of the stone.
Perhaps they feel the warmth of the sun that has remained imprisoned within it.
Perhaps, in the silence, they hear all the voices I have preserved.
I have never walked, yet I have watched millions of men walk.
I have never spoken, yet I have listened to all their voices.
I have heard the sound of war.
I have guarded the secret of love.
I have seen generations born and die.
Men pass. Wars pass. Loves pass.
I remain here.
With moss upon my stones.
With the wind in my windows.
With the mountains before my eyes.
I am the Eye of Lucca.
And I continue to watch.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

The other evening my wife drew my attention to an Italian television programme called Overland. This particular episode followed a group of SUV drivers travelling through Africa on their way to Nigeria.. Beautiful scenery, fascinating people—and then suddenly the darker side of humanity.
They encountered the reality of human trafficking.
Poor people are persuaded to leave everything behind by promises of wealth, security and happiness somewhere else. Criminal gangs organise the journey, take their money and often leave them in situations far worse than the ones they escaped. Watching it, I realised that the story was not simply about Africa. It was about all of us.
Migration has always been part of human history.
Only a few miles from where I live lies the deserted village of Bugnano. Once it was full of life. Families lived there for generations before agents persuaded many of them that America offered a better future. They abandoned beautiful stone houses and left for what they believed would be a land of opportunity.

Some undoubtedly prospered.
Others found poverty, loneliness and disappointment.
Today similar houses, once abandoned because they symbolised hardship, are lovingly restored and worth small fortunes. What one generation rejects, another generation treasures.
Exactly the same has happened in England. The picturesque thatched cottages of the Cotswolds, Devon or East Anglia, now admired by tourists from all over the world, were once regarded as poor labourers’ cottages abandoned in the search for work in the newly industrialised towns..

History has an extraordinary habit of changing our values.
All this led me to a rather uncomfortable conclusion.
I am an emigrant.
I dislike the fashionable word “expat”. It always sounds as though some migrants deserve a more respectable title than others. An Englishman retiring to Tuscany is somehow an “expat”, while someone arriving in Britain from Africa or Asia is an “immigrant”.
Rubbish.
I left Britain because I believed I could enjoy a better quality of life in Italy. I am therefore an emigrant from Britain and an immigrant in Italy. I belong to exactly the same great movement of humanity that has seen millions of Italians, Irish, Poles, Greeks and countless others leave their own countries in search of something better.
The reasons differ.
Some flee war.
Some flee poverty.
Some seek education.
Some simply seek happiness.
But the human instinct remains remarkably similar.
Modern migration, however, has become something quite different from that experienced by our grandparents. Cheap travel, instant communication and social media have made moving countries seem easier than ever before. At the same time, organised criminal gangs have turned migration into an immensely profitable business, exploiting vulnerable people at every stage of their journey.
Recently another expression has become fashionable—”remigration”. Depending upon who uses it, it can simply mean people returning voluntarily to their country of origin, or it can describe policies requiring people to leave. Certainly Polish plumbers have become ever rarer in Britain and several brits in our italian part of the world have expressed the wish to spend their last days in their country of origin.. Whatever definition of remigration one prefers, the debate itself reflects something deeper: every country struggles with the question of how to remain itself while welcoming newcomers.

For me, one word stands above all others.
Integration.
Integration begins with language.
Learning the language of the country in which you choose to live is not merely a practical necessity. Language is culture. It carries humour, history, literature, manners and ways of thinking that no dictionary can ever fully translate.
Here I must make a confession.
I know many British people who have lived in Italy for years without ever really learning Italian. They survive perfectly well, often because Italians are generous enough to meet them halfway in English.
But surviving is not integrating.
If we expect newcomers to Britain to learn English, surely those of us who choose Italy should make every effort to learn Italian.
Italy possesses something I greatly admire.
Italians are fiercely proud of where they come from—not simply Italy itself, but their own town, their own valley, their own campanile. Every village has its own traditions, festivals, dialect and identity. That wonderful sense of place is something much of modern Europe has begun to lose.

Of course Italy, like Britain and every other European nation, now debates immigration, identity and religion. These are not easy conversations. They never have been. They stir emotions because they touch upon questions of belonging, history and culture.
Yet perhaps the greatest irony of all emerged during Brexit.
Many British people living happily elsewhere in Europe voted for Britain to leave the European Union while themselves enjoying the freedom of movement that had enabled them to settle abroad.
Migration always seems more acceptable when it is our own.
In the end, perhaps we need rather less shouting and rather more humility.
No country is paradise.
Britain is not.
Italy is not.

Many English people arrive dreaming of la dolce vita only to discover bureaucracy, endless paperwork and the frustrations of daily life. Others find exactly the life they were seeking and would never dream of returning.
Reality usually lies somewhere between dream and disappointment.

Perhaps the answer is neither open borders nor closed minds.
Perhaps the answer lies in honesty, responsibility and mutual respect.
Countries have every right to protect their borders and preserve their culture. Equally, migrants deserve dignity, fairness and protection from those who exploit them. Above all, everyone deserves the opportunity to become part of the society in which they choose to live.
After over twenty years livjng and working ìn Italy’s Bagni di Lucca, I have learned one lesson above all others.
Before judging migrants, I should remember that I am one.
The labels may change—emigrant, immigrant, migrant or the fashionable “expat”—but they all describe the same human story.
We are, every one of us, travellers.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.

Every journey reaches its destination, and so our little creative writing course is coming to an end. Yet, somehow, it feels less like an ending than the beginning of a new adventure.

When we first gathered together, each of us brought our own experiences, our own style and our own voice. Over the months, under the thoughtful guidance of our teacher, Francesca, those voices have become richer, more confident and more distinctive. We have explored plot, pacing, objective correlative, synesthesia, symbolism, characterisation and, above all, the relationship between people and the worlds they inhabit. One of Francesca’s greatest lessons has been that an environment is never merely scenery: it breathes, influences and sometimes even becomes a character in its own right.

What has made this course so rewarding is that every writer has travelled a different path. Renzo has taken us into dangerous places where we almost held our breath, particularly in his unforgettable account of escaping from entrapment in an abyss. Mara and Rosanna who have given us poetry that invites quiet reflection have branched big way into narrative prose, while newly-joined Cecilia has transformed her experiences of difficult working environments into stories of remarkable authenticity and emotional truth.

For me, however, two people have been a constant source of delight and admiration: Maria and my wife, Sandra.

Maria has blossomed into a writer of confidence and sensitivity, producing work that grows stronger with every assignment. Sandra’s development has been equally remarkable. She has never lost the simplicity and freshness that make her writing so appealing, yet she has learned to concentrate it and enrich it with colour, symbolism and imagination. Her reimagining of the Rapunzel story, inspired by the theme of The Tower and the Abyss, was one of the highlights of the course. It was original, moving and beautifully crafted.

Perhaps the greatest compliment either of them could receive came during our final meeting. Their work attracted hardly any criticism at all. It simply stood on its own merits. Sandra’s was described by Francesca as perfect.

People sometimes ask whether the world really needs more books. I think they miss the point. Writing is not only about publishing. It is about discovering ourselves. It exercises the imagination as surely as walking strengthens the body or music nourishes the spirit. It teaches us to observe more carefully, to feel more deeply and to express what might otherwise remain unspoken.

Like every worthwhile discipline, creative writing demands patience, humility and perseverance. None of us found it easy, yet every one of us grew because of it. We accepted criticism with good humour, encouraged one another and celebrated each other’s successes. That spirit of generosity has been as valuable as anything we have learned about writing itself.

I leave this course with gratitude: gratitude to Francesca, whose insight and encouragement have inspired us all; gratitude to my fellow writers, whose friendship has made every lesson a pleasure; and, above all, gratitude for having witnessed Sandra’s extraordinary growth as a writer.

The course may have ended, but the stories are only just beginning.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider clicking the Like button or leaving a comment. It lets me know that my writing is reaching people.