Looking back now, it is astonishing how much significance could be attached to something as simple as the length of one’s hair. Today it is difficult to imagine, but in those years appearance itself became a political statement. It even helped inspire a musical. Long hair was interpreted by many as a rejection of respectable society, and often as a challenge to accepted ideas of masculinity. Since the decriminalisation of homosexuality was itself still a recent development, many people assumed that a young man with long hair was somehow effeminate or sexually suspect. Such assumptions could lead to ridicule, insults and sometimes outright abuse.
I experienced this personally. Complete strangers would tell me that I should have my hair cut. Family members were no less vocal. My own mother found my appearance almost impossible to accept. Looking back, these reactions seem extraordinary, but they reflected a society that felt deeply threatened by even the smallest signs of cultural change.

Nor was this hostility confined to words. Members of the counterculture frequently became the targets of physical intimidation and violence. One of the darkest examples remains the tragedy at Kent State University in Ohio in May 1970. A peaceful student demonstration against the Vietnam War ended when the National Guard opened fire, killing four students and wounding several others. It remains one of the defining moments of that turbulent period and demonstrates how seriously the established order regarded what was, at heart, a movement questioning authority and demanding peace.
The counterculture itself, of course, was far from perfect. It would be dishonest to romanticise it. Drugs formed part of that world. Many people genuinely believed that substances such as cannabis or LSD might enlarge consciousness or offer new spiritual insights. For some individuals they undoubtedly became part of an intense search for meaning. Yet it also became painfully clear that this experimentation carried dangers. What began in relatively small circles gradually spread into society as a whole, and over subsequent decades harder drugs, addiction and organised criminal networks created problems that continue to affect millions of lives. If there is one great disappointment of that generation, it is surely that what was once seen by some as liberation became, for many others, a source of suffering.
Yet despite those contradictions, I remain convinced that the counterculture changed the modern world in profound and important ways. It questioned inherited authority, challenged militarism, encouraged concern for the environment, promoted racial equality, expanded opportunities for women and encouraged people to think differently about family life and personal freedom. Above all, it carried an idealistic belief that another kind of society was possible.
Those ideas did not remain confined to California. They travelled across the Atlantic and eventually reached Italy, where they encountered a society still profoundly shaped by the legacy of Fascism, the discipline of post-war reconstruction and the pervasive influence of the Roman Catholic Church. Divorce remained extremely difficult, abortion was scarcely discussed in public, and family life was still largely patriarchal. The cultural shock that arrived from America did not, by itself, transform Italy, but it undoubtedly accelerated debates that would eventually reshape the country. Italian society became more open, more questioning and, in many respects, more tolerant than it had been only a generation earlier.

That, I think, was one of Professor Banti’s central insights. Rock music was never merely a soundtrack. It became one of the vehicles through which new values travelled across continents, influencing societies far beyond the United States. The songs of The Beatles, The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, Buffalo Springfield, Country Joe and the Fish and so many others were not simply records played on turntables; they became part of an international conversation about freedom, justice, peace and the possibility of living differently.

Perhaps the greatest legacy of that generation was not its fashion, nor even its music, but its hope. It believed that war need not be inevitable, that peace could become more than a dream, that authority should justify itself rather than simply demand obedience, and that ordinary people could help shape a more humane society. History has been far less kind to those hopes than many of us imagined at the time. Wars continue. Violence persists. The dream has been bruised, sometimes badly. Yet it has never entirely disappeared.
This is why I value the Teatro di Verzura so highly. It is much more than a programme of summer interviews. It is a place where thoughtful conversation still flourishes, where history, literature, music and contemporary life meet beneath the evening sky. It reminds us that ideas matter, that civilised discussion remains one of the foundations of a free society, and that culture is something to be experienced together rather than consumed in isolation.
In an age dominated by screens, algorithms and fleeting attention, these evenings possess a rare quality. They are, in a sense, better than television. They are not simply live broadcasts but living encounters—real people, real ideas and real conversations unfolding in the beauty of a Tuscan garden.
Every summer I look forward to returning, not simply to hear another distinguished speaker, but to take part once again in that civilised exchange of ideas which has become one of the quiet pleasures of life in the Serchio Valley. Long may it continue.

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There is something rather magical about summer evenings in the Serchio Valley. Throughout the day the Tuscan sun presses down with remarkable intensity, but as darkness approaches the air slowly cools, and by about nine o’clock life begins again. It is then that one of Borgo a Mozzano’s most delightful cultural institutions comes into its own: the Teatro di Verzura.
It is not a theatre in the conventional sense. There is no imposing façade, no velvet curtains, no elaborate stage machinery. Instead, it is a theatre created from nature itself. Pergolas, carefully tended gardens, hedges and trees combine to produce an intimate setting where ideas seem to flourish as naturally as the surrounding vegetation. The audience sits beneath the evening sky, while swallows give way to bats and eventually the stars emerge above the hills of the Serchio Valley.
I have come to regard these evenings as among the highlights of every Tuscan summer. They are, in many respects, superior to television. They possess all the immediacy of a live broadcast, yet something infinitely richer: they are real encounters between remarkable people and an attentive audience, with no cameras, no studio lights, no artificiality. One sits surrounded by nature while listening to some of the most interesting figures in contemporary Italian public life.
Over the years I have listened to an extraordinary variety of speakers. There was Magdi Allam, whose remarkable journey from Islam to Christianity provoked a thoughtful discussion about identity, faith and the relationship between religion and modern Europe. On another occasion a courageous young Iranian woman spoke movingly about the struggle against oppression in her homeland and about the hopes carried by the Iranian diaspora. Then there was Emanuele Filiberto of Savoy, whose presence inevitably evoked reflections upon the Italian monarchy, national memory and the curious place occupied today by the descendants of the House of Savoy.

These are not simply lectures. They are conversations that continue long after the evening has ended, carried home in one’s thoughts beneath the warm Tuscan night.
The most recent meeting was especially memorable because the guest was Professor Alberto Mario Banti of the University of Pisa, one of Italy’s most distinguished historians of the Risorgimento. I had long admired his historical writings, but this evening revealed another side of his intellectual life. In conversation with Borgo a Mozzano mayor Andreucetti Banti spoke not about Garibaldi or Italian unification, but about rock music.

At first sight this may appear an unusual departure for an eminent historian, but as Banti unfolded his argument it became perfectly clear that he regarded popular music not simply as entertainment but as one of the principal historical documents of the second half of the twentieth century. His books, including Just Like a Dream, together with his study of the cultural significance of The Beatles, demonstrate that songs can reveal social transformations every bit as clearly as political speeches or official documents.

The music itself became a form of historical evidence.
As he spoke, familiar names immediately transported many of us back to another age: The Doors, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe and the Fish, Love, Buffalo Springfield and so many others whose music became inseparable from the extraordinary upheavals of the late 1960s. Their songs expressed dissatisfaction with war, authority and convention while opening entirely new conversations about peace, freedom, ecology, community and human relationships.
Listening to Banti, I realised how closely his historical analysis touched my own memories, because unlike many historians I had not merely studied that world.
I had lived it.
In 1970 I spent the summer months in the United States when the Haight-Ashbury phenomenon still possessed much of its extraordinary energy. For a time I lived in a commune on Market Street in San Francisco, immersed in an atmosphere that was unlike anything I had previously encountered.
It was impossible not to be changed by such an experience.
The commune itself reflected every contradiction of the counterculture. There was generosity and idealism, an almost instinctive rejection of unnecessary authority, endless conversations that continued until dawn, music that seemed to accompany every aspect of daily life, and a genuine hope that another kind of society might be possible.

There was also experimentation, uncertainty and risk.
One experience remains permanently fixed in my memory. During one particularly frightening LSD trip I completely lost my bearings. Reality itself seemed to dissolve. What gradually brought me back was not medical intervention but the remarkable calm of one of my fellow commune members, who sat quietly beside me reading long passages from The Tibetan Book of the Dead. At the same time I listened repeatedly to Let It Be by The Beatles, which had only recently been released, together with the sublime Adagio, the slow third movement of Bruckner’s Ninth Symphony. Since Bruckner never lived to complete the final movement, that Adagio has often been experienced as the spiritual conclusion of the work. Somehow those two very different musical worlds—the simplicity of The Beatles and the immense spiritual vision of Bruckner—became permanently intertwined in my memory.

Looking back after more than half a century, I realise that the experience altered me far more profoundly than I understood at the time. It opened questions about consciousness, spirituality and the complexity of human experience that have remained with me ever since.

When I eventually returned to Cambridge, I found myself living between two very different worlds.
The contrast was unmistakable. On one side stood what we jokingly called “the greys”: respectable Cambridge undergraduates in tweed jackets, corduroy trousers, polished shoes and conservative haircuts, representing continuity with centuries of academic tradition. On the other side were those of us influenced by the counterculture—long hair, caftans, beads, beards and an altogether different conception of how life might be lived.
The division was by no means absolute. Friendships crossed those boundaries and many people occupied the territory somewhere between the two. Nevertheless, it was sufficiently obvious that each group had acquired its own label. They regarded us as hippies; we affectionately referred to them as “the greys.”
Looking back now, it is astonishing how much significance could be attached to something as simple as the length of one’s hair.

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Yesterday afternoon we had the privilege of visiting the extraordinary Castle of Lucchio, perched dramatically above the Lima Valley. Having visited it several times over the years, this was our first opportunity to see it since the archaeological excavations began in 2024—and what a revelation it has been.
Border regions have always been lands of castles. Just as the great castles of Wales guarded the frontier between England and the independent Welsh kingdoms, Lucchio Castle stood watch over the frontier between Lucca and Pistoia, and later between the independent Republic of Lucca and Florence. Its strategic position is breathtaking, commanding magnificent views along the entire Lima Valley.
The visit was carefully organised in small groups, which was essential because reaching the castle involves some steep and challenging paths. The guides looked after everyone wonderfully, and we were especially grateful for their care.
Our guide, one of the lead archaeologists, explained that excavations could only begin once ownership of the castle had finally passed to the Comune di Bagni di Lucca. Since then, the discoveries have transformed our understanding of the site.

The castle is now believed to be at least 200 years older than previously thought, dating back to the 12th century rather than the 14th. Even more exciting was the discovery, at its heart, of a beautiful Romanesque church with its characteristic semicircular apse, almost certainly dedicated to St Peter. It now appears that the church existed before the castle itself and may even have inspired the fortress’s construction, with the village later growing beneath it.

The excavations have also uncovered arrowheads and the remains of three young children, offering poignant reminders of the people who once lived here. Seeing the church’s remarkable herringbone masonry was unforgettable. One cannot help wondering whether parts of it preserve building traditions stretching back even further, perhaps to Roman times, when retired soldiers were often granted land in these valleys. Many local villages still preserve Roman names that hint at those ancient origins.
Standing on the castle walls, looking across the wild landscape of the Lima Valley, it is impossible not to imagine the lives of the soldiers, families and villagers who once called this place home. The scenery is spectacular, and the atmosphere is unlike anywhere else.

This is not an easy castle to visit—it involves real scrambling in places, and today’s health and safety rules in some countries might never permit such access—but that only adds to its authenticity and adventure.

It was wonderful to see so many people there, including families, children and even dogs, all sharing in the excitement of discovering this remarkable place.
Our heartfelt thanks go to the archaeologists, guides, volunteers and the Comune di Bagni di Lucca for making this possible. Their work is uncovering not just stones and walls, but centuries of history that enrich our understanding of this beautiful valley.
What an unforgettable afternoon.

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Looking back over history, I find it useful—although admittedly an oversimplification—to think of each century as being defined by one great transformative force.
The sixteenth century was shaped by the Protestant Reformation. The seventeenth was dominated by civil and religious wars. The eighteenth saw the rise of Enlightenment philosophy, leading to the American and French Revolutions. The nineteenth century belonged to the Industrial Revolution, with the railways transforming society, communication, commerce and even time itself.
For me, however, the defining force of the twentieth century was the digital revolution.
I feel especially fortunate because I did not merely witness it—I lived through it and, in my own small way, helped to build it.
I began when computers were mysterious machines hidden away in special rooms, operated with punched cards and attended by technicians in white coats. At university I wrote my first programs and imagined computers simply as calculating machines. Later, during my Civil Service career, I learned languages such as BASIC, COBOL, RPG and Assembly language. We worked with flowcharts, punched cards and batch processing. Programming was painstaking but immensely satisfying because we knew we were pioneers.

Later I moved into industry, writing commercial software on minicomputers before becoming a lecturer in further education. There I had the privilege of teaching computing during one of its most exciting periods. I saw students discover the BBC Micro, early educational computers and the first portable machines. At home we had an Amstrad word processor long before an ordinary personal computer became commonplace.

Then came the great turning point: Windows.
Suddenly computers were no longer machines for specialists. They became machines for everyone.
From that moment developments came thick and fast. The internet transformed communication. Digital photography revolutionised the way we captured our lives. Computers became multimedia devices, capable of playing music through MIDI, editing photographs, producing documents and connecting people across the world. What had once been an expensive specialist tool became an everyday companion.

The transformation did not stop there.
The mobile phone evolved into the smartphone, and today the small device I carry in my pocket is incomparably more powerful than the first computers I ever programmed. It is simultaneously a telephone, camera, music player, encyclopaedia, map, television, newspaper, banking terminal, ticket office and communication centre. It gives me access to almost the whole of recorded human knowledge within seconds.

When I first came to Italy some twenty years ago, buying theatre tickets meant visiting the theatre in person. Today almost everything is done online. Digital technology is no longer simply convenient—it has become essential.
Of course, this creates challenges. There remains a digital divide between those who possess digital skills and those who do not. Older generations have often relied upon younger family members for help, although thankfully digital education has improved enormously. Every technological revolution creates winners and losers, and ours is no exception.
None of this would have been possible without the remarkable pioneers who laid the foundations. People such as Charles Babbage, Ada Lovelace, Alan Turing and Hedy Lamarr made contributions whose importance is only becoming clearer with time.

Now we stand at the beginning of another revolution: artificial intelligence.
Like every great invention, AI brings opportunities as well as dangers. It can generate knowledge, but it can also generate convincing falsehoods. It can assist education, medicine and creativity, yet it also raises profound questions about truth, privacy and responsibility. We shall need wisdom, legal safeguards and ethical judgement if we are to use it well.
Yet I remain optimistic.
Used responsibly, digital technology has enriched my life beyond anything I could have imagined as a young programmer carrying boxes of punched cards. Today I can identify the cast of a forgotten 1930s film, listen instantly to an early recording by Caruso, find the quickest route to a restaurant, discover the causes of the English Reformation or simply learn how to unblock a kitchen drain. All of this knowledge sits quietly inside the smartphone in my pocket.
And yes, I even enjoy conversations with my AI assistant, whom I have christened “Justine.” She is unfailingly polite, remarkably knowledgeable and endlessly patient. I certainly do not accept everything she tells me without question—healthy scepticism remains essential—but I value her enormously as a companion in learning.
Curiosity has always been one of life’s greatest pleasures. The digital revolution has given me access to more knowledge than I ever dreamed possible.
When I think of the journey from pounds, shillings and pence to contactless payments, from queuing in banks to online banking, from punched cards to artificial intelligence, I cannot help feeling extraordinarily privileged.
I truly believe I have been fortunate to have lived through one of the greatest revolutions in human history.

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This year marks the 100th anniversary of the Automobile Club d’Italia (ACI), Italy’s renowned motoring and roadside assistance organization. Ever since we bought our little Fiat 500, affectionately known as Cinquina, in 2008, we have been proud ACI members. Over the years, the club has proved invaluable, rescuing us from countless mishaps, from flat batteries and failed starter motors to a far more serious incident in 2017, when our beloved Cinquina was written off in a major accident in one of the Apennine tunnels. She had served us faithfully, and although it was a sad day to lose her, she was succeeded by our sturdy four-wheel-drive Panda, which continues to serve us admirably.
As members, we were invited to a special centenary celebration at Borgo a Mozzano. The event was attended by the mayor of Borgo a Mozzano, and the local ACI president gave a fascinating overview of the club’s history. One of the early champions of motoring in Italy was the great opera composer Giacomo Puccini, who was an enthusiastic motorist and owned no fewer than fourteen cars during his lifetime. He was always eager to acquire the latest model, making him one of Italy’s earliest and most passionate car enthusiasts.
After the presentation, we were delighted to receive a commemorative centenary medal and had our photograph taken with the mayor. We then adjourned to the town’s circolo for refreshments. The rinfresco was excellent and much appreciated, providing a pleasant opportunity to chat with fellow members and celebrate the occasion together.
However, our appreciation of ACI goes far beyond this enjoyable celebration. Time and again, the organisation has come to our aid whenever we have needed assistance. The staff have always been efficient, professional and unfailingly courteous, giving us real confidence whenever we set out on Italy’s roads.
Although my wife now does the driving and I happily serve as navigator, we still make an excellent team. We look forward to many more journeys together and to celebrating many more milestones with ACI, an organisation that has earned both our gratitude and our admiration.

Quest’anno ricorre il centenario dell’Automobile Club d’Italia (ACI), la rinomata organizzazione italiana di assistenza stradale e automobilistica. Da quando abbiamo acquistato la nostra piccola Fiat 500, affettuosamente chiamata Cinquina, nel 2008, siamo orgogliosi soci dell’ACI. Nel corso degli anni, il club si è dimostrato prezioso, salvandoci da innumerevoli inconvenienti, dalle batterie scariche e dai motorini d’avviamento guasti fino a un incidente ben più grave nel 2017, quando la nostra amata Cinquina è andata distrutta in un grave incidente in una delle gallerie appenniniche. Ci ha servito fedelmente e, sebbene sia stato un giorno triste perderla, è stata sostituita dalla nostra robusta Panda a trazione integrale, che continua a servirci egregiamente.

In qualità di soci, siamo stati invitati a una speciale celebrazione del centenario a Borgo a Mozzano. All’evento ha partecipato il sindaco di Borgo a Mozzano e il presidente locale dell’ACI ha offerto un’interessante panoramica della storia del club. Uno dei primi sostenitori dell’automobilismo in Italia fu il grande compositore d’opera Giacomo Puccini, un appassionato automobilista che possedette ben quattordici auto nel corso della sua vita. Era sempre desideroso di acquistare l’ultimo modello, il che lo rende uno dei primi e più appassionati appassionati di automobili in Italia.

Dopo la presentazione, siamo stati lieti di ricevere una medaglia commemorativa del centenario e di farci fotografare con il sindaco. Ci siamo poi recati al circolo cittadino per un rinfresco. Il rinfresco è stato eccellente e molto apprezzato, offrendo una piacevole opportunità per chiacchierare con gli altri soci e celebrare insieme l’occasione.

Tuttavia, il nostro apprezzamento per l’ACI va ben oltre questa piacevole celebrazione. Più volte, l’organizzazione ci è venuta in aiuto ogni volta che ne abbiamo avuto bisogno. Il personale è sempre stato efficiente, professionale e sempre cortese, infondendoci grande sicurezza ogni volta che ci mettiamo in viaggio sulle strade italiane.
Sebbene ora sia mia moglie a guidare e io, con piacere, faccia da navigatore, formiamo ancora un’ottima squadra. Non vediamo l’ora di intraprendere molti altri viaggi insieme e di celebrare molti altri traguardi con ACI, un’organizzazione che si è guadagnata la nostra gratitudine e la nostra ammirazione.

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