Well, what a brilliant evening!
Last night the Teatro Accademico in Bagni di Lucca was packed for the great Trivial Pursuit battle between the four contee— Granchio, Alce, Trota and Vipera — and I had the enormous pleasure of being there not just as a spectator, but as a member of the Granchio team.
And, even better, we won!

It certainly wasn’t obvious that we were going to win at the beginning. After the first round, there were no fewer than three teams sitting on seven points out of ten.
So there was a tie-break to decide who would go forward.
Fortunately, we managed to beat our opponents and secured our place in the finals. And then came our confrontation with the Alce — the Deer.

There were plenty of awkward questions and they were certainly not of the “What is the capital of France?” variety. They had been devised by Patrizio Andreuccetti, the Mayor of Borgo a Mozzano, who had also set the questions last year.
But our team was magnificent.
We worked together brilliantly under the captaincy of Luigi ‘Louis’ Rondina.
And then, finally, it was over.
WE HAD WON!
The Granchio had come first!
There was a great cheer from the team, and I have to say I was absolutely thrilled.

What made the evening particularly enjoyable was that it wasn’t simply a quiz. It really was a show.
The Teatro Accademico was packed, the presentation was excellent, the background music helped create a real atmosphere, and the audience was thoroughly involved with cheering, tension and laughter.
Congratulations to Louis and to all my fellow Granchi. We made a great team, and we certainly deserved our victory.
And congratulations, too, to Priscilla Valentino, who has helped create and develop the Bagni di Lucca Games. It is turning into a wonderful addition to the town’s calendar.

There are still several more competitions to come so do check your Games calendar.

FORZA GRANCHIO!
Long may the Bagni di Lucca Games reign!

***

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IL GRANCHIO CE L’HA FATTA! UNA SERATA DI TRIVIAL DA RICORDARE

Che serata fantastica!

Ieri sera il Teatro Accademico di Bagni di Lucca era gremito per la grande sfida di Trivial tra i quattro contee Granchio, Alce, Trota e Vipera. Ho avuto l’immenso piacere di essere presente non solo come spettatore, ma come membro della squadra Granchio.

E, cosa ancora migliore, abbiamo vinto!
All’inizio non era affatto scontato che avremmo vinto. Dopo il primo round, ben tre squadre si trovavano a quota sette punti su dieci.

Quindi si è reso necessario uno spareggio per decidere chi sarebbe passato al turno successivo.
Fortunatamente, siamo riusciti a battere i nostri avversari e ad assicurarci un posto in finale. E poi è arrivato il nostro scontro con gli Alce, i Cervi.
Non sono mancate le domande imbarazzanti, e di certo non erano del tipo “Qual è la capitale della Francia?”. Le domande erano state ideate da Patrizio Andreuccetti, il sindaco di Borgo a Mozzano, che le aveva formulate anche l’anno scorso.

Ma la nostra squadra è stata magnifica.
Abbiamo lavorato insieme in modo brillante sotto la guida del capitano Luigi ‘Louis’ Rondina.

E poi, finalmente, è finita.
AVEVAMO VINTO!
I Granchi erano arrivati ​​primi!
C’è stato un grande applauso da parte della squadra e devo dire che ero assolutamente entusiasta.

Ciò che ha reso la serata particolarmente piacevole è stato il fatto che non si trattava di un semplice quiz. Era un vero e proprio spettacolo.
Il Teatro Accademico era gremito, la presentazione è stata eccellente, la musica di sottofondo ha contribuito a creare una vera atmosfera e il pubblico è stato completamente coinvolto con applausi, tensione e risate.

Congratulazioni a Louis e a tutti i miei compagni Granchi. Abbiamo formato una grande squadra e ci siamo certamente meritati la vittoria.
E congratulazioni anche a Priscilla Valentino, che ha contribuito a creare e sviluppare i Bagni di Lucca Games. Sta diventando una splendida aggiunta al calendario cittadino.

Ci sono ancora molte altre competizioni in programma, quindi controllate il calendario dei Games.

FORZA GRANCHIO!
Lunga vita ai Bagni di Lucca Games.

Every day social media is filled with images and stories of women living under strict religious rule. Covered from head to toe, denied the freedom to study, to travel alone, to choose their own lives, to enter a public park or even to speak above a whisper. For many in the West, these images are shocking. They appear to represent everything that generations of women struggled to escape.

In Italy, women only gained the vote in 1946 and could only obtain a divorce and remarry in 1970. The freedoms enjoyed today were not handed down as gifts; they were won through decades of political and social change. Yet many people now wonder whether hard-won liberties can ever be taken for granted.

What strikes me is not simply the present, but the past.
Western civilisation has experienced something remarkably similar before.
When Christianity emerged from being a persecuted sect to becoming the official religion of the Roman Empire, it transformed a civilisation whose values had been shaped by Greek philosophy and Roman law. The classical world was far from perfect—it tolerated slavery, political violence and vast inequalities—but it also celebrated intellectual inquiry, public debate, literature, theatre and, in many respects, a far more relaxed approach to private life than would later prevail.

Then came a new certainty: there was one God, one truth, one moral law. Behaviour that had once been considered a matter of personal choice became a matter of sin. Religious authority increasingly reached into every aspect of life.
Nothing illustrates this more dramatically than the murder of the philosopher Hypatia in Alexandria in AD 415. One of the greatest intellectuals of her age she was brutally killed by a Christian mob inflamed by religious fanaticism. Whether her death was driven by politics, religion or both, it remains a warning of what can happen when absolute certainty silences reason.

Today, many critics of Islam point to the oppression of women under the most rigid interpretations of Islamic law. Yet the deeper lesson is not about Islam alone. The impulse to regulate private life in the name of divine authority has appeared, at different times, within all three great monotheistic religions—Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Their histories are rich, diverse and often inspiring, but they also contain episodes in which religious certainty curtailed freedom and dissent.

Margaret Atwood captured this danger brilliantly in The Handmaid’s Tale. Her dystopia is terrifying precisely because it does not invent a new form of oppression. It borrows from patterns that have appeared throughout history whenever ideology or religion claims the right to control every aspect of human life.

None of this is an argument against faith. Millions draw compassion, hope and purpose from their religion. But history should make us wary whenever any belief system—religious or secular—demands unquestioning obedience, dictates how women should live, or insists that morality can only be enforced through law.
Freedom is far easier to lose than to regain.

The debate about women’s rights today is not simply about one religion or one part of the world. It is about a recurring pattern in history. Civilisations often move between periods of openness and periods of control. Progress is not inevitable. Rights are not permanent. They survive only so long as people are prepared to defend them.

History may not repeat itself in exactly the same way. But it has an unsettling habit of returning in familiar forms.

That, perhaps, is the real lesson we should be discussing.

***

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Stiamo forse assistendo al ripetersi della storia?

Ogni giorno i social media sono pieni di immagini e storie di donne che vivono sotto un rigido regime religioso. Coperte dalla testa ai piedi, private della libertà di studiare, di viaggiare da sole, di scegliere la propria vita o persino di entrare in un parco pubblico. Per molti in Occidente, queste immagini sono scioccanti. Sembrano rappresentare tutto ciò da cui generazioni di donne hanno lottato per sfuggire.

In Italia, le donne hanno ottenuto il diritto di voto solo nel 1946 e il divorzio e il nuovo matrimonio solo nel 1970. Le libertà di cui godiamo oggi non ci sono state concesse in dono; sono state conquistate attraverso decenni di cambiamenti politici e sociali. Eppure, molti ora si chiedono se le libertà conquistate a caro prezzo possano mai essere date per scontate.

Ciò che mi colpisce non è solo il presente, ma il passato.
La civiltà occidentale ha già vissuto qualcosa di straordinariamente simile.
Quando il Cristianesimo, da setta perseguitata, divenne la religione ufficiale dell’Impero Romano, trasformò una civiltà i cui valori erano stati plasmati dalla filosofia greca e dal diritto romano. Il mondo classico era tutt’altro che perfetto: tollerava la schiavitù, la violenza politica e profonde disuguaglianze, ma celebrava anche la ricerca intellettuale, il dibattito pubblico, la letteratura, il teatro e, per molti aspetti, un approccio alla vita privata molto più rilassato di quello che si sarebbe poi affermato.

Poi arrivò una nuova certezza: esisteva un solo Dio, un’unica verità, un’unica legge morale. I comportamenti che un tempo erano considerati una questione di libera scelta divennero una questione di peccato. L’autorità religiosa si estese sempre più a ogni aspetto della vita.
Nulla illustra questo concetto in modo più drammatico dell’assassinio della filosofa Ipazia ad Alessandria nel 415 d.C. Una delle più grandi intellettuali della sua epoca, fu brutalmente uccisa da una folla cristiana aizzata dal fanatismo religioso. Che la sua morte sia stata motivata dalla politica, dalla religione o da entrambe, rimane un monito su ciò che può accadere quando la certezza assoluta mette a tacere la ragione.

Oggi, molti critici dell’Islam sottolineano l’oppressione delle donne sotto le interpretazioni più rigide della legge islamica. Eppure, la lezione più profonda non riguarda solo l’Islam. L’impulso a regolamentare la vita privata in nome dell’autorità divina si è manifestato, in momenti diversi, in tutte e tre le grandi religioni monoteiste: ebraismo, cristianesimo e islam. Le loro storie sono ricche, varie e spesso fonte di ispirazione, ma contengono anche episodi in cui la certezza religiosa ha limitato la libertà e il dissenso.

Margaret Atwood ha colto brillantemente questo pericolo ne “Il racconto dell’ancella”. La sua distopia è terrificante proprio perché non inventa una nuova forma di oppressione. Prende spunto da modelli che si sono ripresentati nel corso della storia ogni volta che un’ideologia o una religione ha rivendicato il diritto di controllare ogni aspetto della vita umana.

Nulla di tutto ciò è un argomento contro la fede. Milioni di persone traggono compassione, speranza e un senso alla propria vita dalla religione. Ma la storia dovrebbe renderci cauti ogni volta che un sistema di credenze – religioso o laico – esige obbedienza incondizionata, detta come le donne dovrebbero vivere o insiste sul fatto che la moralità possa essere imposta solo attraverso la legge.
La libertà è molto più facile da perdere che da riconquistare.

Il dibattito odierno sui diritti delle donne non riguarda semplicemente una religione o una parte del mondo. Riguarda uno schema ricorrente nella storia. Le civiltà spesso oscillano tra periodi di apertura e periodi di controllo. Il progresso non è inevitabile. I diritti non sono permanenti. Sopravvivono solo finché le persone sono disposte a difenderli.

La storia potrebbe non ripetersi esattamente nello stesso modo. Ma ha la preoccupante abitudine di ripresentarsi in forme familiari.

Questa, forse, è la vera lezione di cui dovremmo discutere.

This year marks 800 years since the death of St. Francis of Assisi, a man who remains at the same time familiar and elusive. Eight centuries have passed, and yet he continues to speak across generations, inspiring artists, poets, musicians, environmentalists, and anyone searching for a different way of living.

When I think of St. Francis, I think first of Giotto’s fresco in the Basilica of Santa Croce in Florence, where Francis is portrayed surrounded by his brothers as he says farewell to the world. It is a deeply human image: not a distant saint, but a man who was profoundly loved at the end of his journey.

I also think of the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, where his presence still feels extraordinarily close. Francis was not only a religious figure; he became, in a sense, one of the first great influencers in history. Dante dedicated an entire canto of the Divine Comedy to him, countless artists have tried to represent him, and even Zeffirelli brought his story to the screen in Brother Sun, Sister Moon — a beautiful film, but still unable to fully capture his mystery.
Because this is the point: Francis escapes every definition.
Some people, jokingly, have described me as “undefinable” in the same way. I like the comparison, although it does not go very far. Francis transformed the world; I am simply an imperfect human being, a sinner trying to make sense of life.
As part of the anniversary celebrations, a local conference included Professor Fabrizio Nicoli speaking about the Franciscan Rule in a detailed and technical way. Bruno Micheletti then gave an excellent presentation about the Franciscan influence throughout the Valle del Serchio, showing how Francis’s ideas spread through local Franciscans far beyond Assisi, reaching villages and communities throughout Italy and even the Arab world. After all, St. Francis met the Sultan of Egypt and tried, in his own way, to overcome religious barriers. It was, I believe, a lecture worthy of publication.

There was also an unusual but interesting contribution from Dr Betti, brother of our pharmacist, who offered a Jungian interpretation of St. Francis. Some of the ideas may have pushed the interpretation a little too far, but I appreciated the attempt to look at Francis from another perspective. Great figures are never exhausted by a single point of view.

Yet the central question remains: how could a man embrace poverty in such a radical way? How could he renounce comfort, material possessions, and even concern for his own physical well-being?
The story of “perfect joy” offers a key. Francis describes joy not as success or comfort, but as the moment when one is cold, hungry, rejected, and exhausted — and yet remains inwardly at peace. At first this seems like a paradox. Why should suffering be joy?
Perhaps because it is the moment when everything superficial falls away. When there is nothing left to defend and nothing left to prove, another kind of freedom emerges. Perfect joy, for Francis, is the discovery that even when stripped of everything, one continues simply to be.
Francis has accompanied me since my youth, when I first read the Little Flowers of St. Francis. Those stories seemed almost like fairy tales, yet they carried a deeper truth: the story of a man who saw beauty everywhere.
Then there is the Canticle of the Creatures, one of the earliest works of Italian poetry, remarkable for its simplicity and its breadth. A medieval friar praising the sun, the moon, the earth, water, and fire seems almost modern in his ecological sensitivity, yet at the same time completely timeless.
Here in the Valle del Lima, his presence still feels close, especially in the frescoes of the nearby monastery of San Francesco, which have been intelligently interpreted by Christopher Stace, an English scholar living in the neighbouring valley. He has also studied and translated Bartolomeo of Pisa’s Conformity of the Life of St. Francis to the Life of Christ, which draws striking parallels between Francis and Jesus.
Of course, there is only one Christ and only one Francis. They cannot be merged together. But Francis’s desire to imitate Christ is what gives strength to his life.
There are aspects of him that I still struggle to understand: his radical self-denial, his extreme poverty, and his apparent neglect of the needs of the body. I also question his relationship with St. Clare. Spiritual love and human affection do not have to be in contradiction; even the Song of Songs celebrates their unity.
Yet other aspects speak to me deeply.
I admire his courage in rejecting the wealth and expectations of his family. He rejected the logic of money and prestige. A refusal of that kind is rare and profoundly courageous.
Above all, I am moved by his love for nature and animals. The story of the Wolf of Gubbio — whether taken literally or symbolically — reveals a vision in which even fear can be transformed through compassion.
Perhaps this is his greatest lesson: that what we fear can sometimes be healed, and that even we ourselves can be tamed.
Francis was also a poet, a musician, a troubadour, and a man of joy. He was not defined only by renunciation. His vision of simplicity and freedom appears surprisingly modern, almost “hippy” in spirit, as has emerged in recent reflections.
The conference took place in the church of Pieve di Controni, one of the most beautiful churches in the Valle del Lima. It is a Romanesque masterpiece, often overlooked, a place whose bell tower I have climbed, where I have sung, and from where I have looked out over the valley. Places like this remind us how deeply history and spirituality are intertwined with the landscape.
And then there is something more personal.
My name is Francis.
I have often reflected on this. My mother chose well. As the years pass, I feel increasingly close to the saint whose name I carry.
One day, like him, I too will have to leave this world. I do not know when, but I hope to do so with the same peace that he found. I hope I will have no great regrets, and that I will feel that my life had meaning, that it mattered, and that perhaps I left the world a little better than I found it.
I do not want to spoil this world, nor what comes afterwards.
So, after 800 years, St. Francis continues to speak — not because he was perfect, but because he was always searching. He struggled, he doubted, he loved, and he transformed.
And I am grateful that my mother gave me his name.
Francis.

Postscript. On September 4 and 5 there will be a conference on saint Francis. This is the programme.

THE DEATH OF SAINT FRANCIS (Giotto)

He waits for Sister Death: they kiss his feet,
his hands, his arms; they cling and will not leave
the poor one. Yet he lies in winding sheet,
a truth their grieving hearts cannot believe.
The upraised palms and eyes still plead and grieve,
yet his gaze passes beyond his failing beat;
he does not meet their glance, nor can receive
the mystery of Her cold, eternal heat.
But yet the brothers shall resign and meet
the final things that sorrow’s threads shall weave;
and he shall sit beside his Lord and eat,
as swifts and swallows in the summer leave.
The morning hymn begins: “Let us now praise
the bright, ecstatic wonder of His ways.”

***

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“Two women, two centuries, one villa.”
That was the intriguing title behind the second of three Napoleonic events being held at the Complesso di San Micheletto in Lucca, the old convent complex which has become such an important venue for exhibitions and conferences.

But who were these two women? And what exactly was the palace—or, more accurately, the villa—which connected them?
The first was Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi, Napoleon’s sister and the woman who became Princess of Lucca and Piombino.

The second was Mimì Pecci-Blunt, the wealthy and glamorous twentieth-century woman who, more than a century later, bought the same villa and made it the centre of an extraordinary international cultural world.

The villa, of course, is the Villa Reale at Marlia, in the foothills of the Pizzorne, those beautiful hills north of Lucca which form the beginning of the climb towards the Apennines.

And the more I listened to the story of these two women, the more fascinating the parallels between them became.
The person who actually brought this story to life for us was Simonetta Giurlani Pardini, who delivered the conference and whose research lies at the heart of the exhibition. She has been carrying out research in the Grönberg Archive at Villa Reale di Marlia, work which has produced remarkable discoveries and which is still continuing. The archive itself, with its boxes of documents, letters, photographs and personal material, seems to contain layer after layer of history waiting to be rediscovered.

Two strong women
First of all, both Elisa and Mimì were remarkably strong women.
Elisa was ambitious, intelligent and politically formidable. Napoleon himself is said to have described her as “my first minister”, which tells us something about the esteem in which he held her—and also about her ability.
She married Felice Baciocchi, who became Prince of Lucca and Piombino. But there seems little doubt about who was the dominant personality in that marriage. Elisa was the political force. One cannot help thinking that Felice may not always have been quite so felice.
When Elisa came to Lucca, she found a Renaissance estate which she was determined to transform. Two existing houses were joined together and turned into a magnificent residence in the fashionable neoclassical style of the period.
But this was no modest country house.
The new villa was filled with symbols of power and grandeur: Napoleonic eagles, imperial crowns and all the visual language associated with the extraordinary dynasty which, for a brief period, dominated much of Europe.
Elisa was not simply building a house. She was making a statement.
She also transformed the gardens. The old Renaissance idea of strict formality and control gave way, at least in part, to a more naturalistic landscape, influenced by the English garden. The result was something new and spectacular: a place where architecture, landscape and political ambition all came together.
This was to become the Villa Reale—the Royal Villa—which we can still visit today.
And Elisa did something else. She created a salon.
Important musicians, artists and visitors came to her court. Among those associated with her was Niccolò Paganini, whose relationship with Elisa has always been surrounded by gossip and speculation, including rumours of a love affair.
Whether or not all the stories are true, the important point is that Elisa made her villa a centre of cultural as well as political life.
More than a century later, another extraordinary woman would do much the same thing.

Enter Mimì
Mimì Pecci-Blunt came to the Villa Reale in the twentieth century and fell completely in love with it.
Like Elisa, she saw something in the villa that was more than simply a beautiful building. It was a place with a history, a personality and an almost theatrical potential.
She was fascinated by the idea that this had once been the summer residence of Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi. But she did not merely preserve the villa as a monument to the past. She reinvented it for her own age.
Mimì transformed Villa Reale into an international centre of intellectual and artistic life.
Once again, there was a salon.
But this time the atmosphere belonged to the twentieth century. The guests and visitors included some of the most remarkable names of the modern artistic world: Igor Stravinsky, Sergei Diaghilev, Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso, Jean Cocteau and Alberto Moravia, among others.
There were artists, musicians, writers, aristocrats and members of royalty. Even Princess Margaret was among those connected with the extraordinary social life of the villa.

Mimì had recreated something that Elisa would immediately have understood.
A great house can be much more than a place in which to live. It can become a stage.
And the people who come onto that stage can make history.

Cultural flirtation
Perhaps this is what fascinated me most about the whole story.
These women were not necessarily the artists or composers themselves. Their importance lay partly in the fact that they created the environment in which creativity could flourish.
They brought remarkable people together.
They provided a setting in which musicians could perform, artists could meet, writers could talk, intellectuals could argue, friendships could be formed and perhaps a few romances could begin as well.
There is almost a kind of cultural flirtation about it.
That is the phrase which came to me while listening to the conference.
These women flirted culturally with the most imaginative and creative people of their time. They surrounded themselves with talent, encouraged it, enjoyed it and, in doing so, became part of the cultural history of their age.
And Mimì was by no means alone.
The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries saw the emergence of a remarkable number of women who created cultural worlds around themselves. One thinks immediately of Alma Mahler, of Vita Sackville-West, and of the women associated with the Bloomsbury world.
It was as though, after centuries in which women had often been expected to remain discreetly in the background—or metaphorically behind the curtains—they increasingly came into the open and created spaces of their own.
The drawing room, the salon, the country house and the villa became places of cultural power.
And this power could be considerable.
These women were not simply hostesses pouring tea for famous men or playing croquet on the lawns. They were choosing whom to invite, creating networks, encouraging artistic friendships and providing places where important ideas could circulate.
In their own way, they were curators of human creativity.

A third love affair
But the story does not end with Elisa and Mimì.
In fact, there is a third act.
When Mimì died in 1971, the Villa Reale began a long and gradual decline. It remained in the hands of her heirs, but by the early years of the twenty-first century it was desperately in need of care, restoration and investment.
And then, as if history had decided to repeat itself, along came another couple who fell in love with the place.
Jean and Maria Grünberg saw what Elisa had seen and what Mimì had seen before them.
They saw beyond the decay.
They saw the potential.
And, perhaps most importantly, they understood that the villa could not survive simply as a private possession. Restoration on this scale required enormous resources, and those resources had somehow to be found.
So they embarked upon a remarkable programme of restoration and transformation.
The Villa Reale and its gardens were opened more fully to the public. Tourism became an important part of the future of the estate. And, rather than simply creating a museum, the new owners developed a programme of cultural events: conferences, concerts, guided tours, costume occasions, dances, fireworks and other activities.
In this sense, they have done something rather similar to what has happened to many of the great stately homes of England.
A historic house survives not by remaining frozen in time but by finding a new role.
Villa Reale has become a living cultural destination.
The archives come alive
One of the most fascinating things about the current work surrounding the Villa Reale is the exploration of its archives.
Simonetta Giurlani Pardini’s research, carried out as part of the work of the association Napoleone ed Elisa: da Parigi alla Toscana, has helped bring to light an extraordinary collection of material connected particularly with Mimì Pecci-Blunt and the world which she created. The exhibition itself was curated by Roberta Martinelli, with research and texts by Simonetta Giurlani Pardini and an exhibition design by Lucia Maffei.
There are letters, photographs and documents still waiting to be explored.
And among the discoveries have been remarkable letters written by Elisa herself, opening new possibilities for understanding both her life and Napoleonic Lucca.
Before entering the conference room, we passed through the exhibition itself, and I found it quite astonishing.
There, in photographs and documents, was a whole lost world of twentieth-century cultural life.
You could almost imagine the conversations taking place.
Stravinsky discussing music.
Cocteau talking brilliantly about almost anything.
Artists, writers and aristocrats arriving for the weekend.
And Mimì at the centre of it all, not simply watching but orchestrating the whole performance.

And a word for Anna Benedetto

I must also say something about Anna Benedetto, because she too deserves a place in this story.
For me, there is a very personal connection.
Anna was one of my first students of English when I came to Lucca almost twenty years ago.
It is therefore particularly pleasing to see the energy, resilience and flair which she has brought to the organisation and communication of these remarkable Napoleonic events. Anna has also been involved with Lucca Comics & Games and a variety of other major cultural initiatives, and she has a particular talent for communicating complicated and fascinating subjects to the public and making people feel that they are part of an event rather than simply spectators.
She is also part of the association behind these Napoleonic initiatives and has been involved in the communication surrounding the exhibition and the wider programme.
There is something particularly impressive about people who combine scholarship and historical research with the ability to communicate.
Research is one thing.
Finding the stories is another.
But persuading people to come and listen, to visit an exhibition, to become interested in a subject they may previously have known nothing about—that is another skill altogether.
And Anna has that skill.

One villa, three transformations
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that the history of Villa Reale can almost be seen as a sequence of transformations.
First, Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi transformed the physical villa. She took an existing estate and turned it into a neoclassical expression of imperial power and royal magnificence.
Then Mimì Pecci-Blunt transformed its social and cultural life. She made it an international salon and filled it with some of the most interesting people of the twentieth century.
Finally, the Grünbergs transformed its future. They rescued the villa from decline and found a way of making it survive in the modern world.
Three different ages.
Three different visions.
But one recurring theme.
People falling in love with the same place.
Perhaps that is the real secret of Villa Reale.
It has survived because, again and again, somebody has fallen in love with it.
Elisa transformed it.
Mimì reinvented it.
The Grünbergs rescued it.
And each generation has left something of itself behind.
That, perhaps, is what makes a historic building truly alive. Not simply its architecture, however beautiful. Not simply its gardens, however magnificent. But the succession of people who have loved it enough to imagine something new for it.
Villa Reale is therefore not just a monument to the past.
It is a story of ambition, beauty, power, glamour and imagination.
And above all, it is a story of women—and later a couple—who looked at the same extraordinary place and thought:
This could become something wonderful.
Perhaps that is why I found the conference so absorbing.
These events are not simply lectures about history and dead people. They reveal something much more interesting: the way history continues through the people who inherit, reinterpret and fall in love with what has been left behind.
And sometimes, it seems, all it takes to save a palace is another love affair.

***

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It has often been remarked by local historians and conservationists: that Woolwich had the raw ingredients to become the military equivalent of Greenwich, but that much of its heritage was lost, dispersed, or poorly presented.
Its comparison with Greenwich is a powerful one. Greenwich successfully turned its maritime inheritance into a coherent visitor experience: the Old Royal Naval College, Cutty Sark, the National Maritime Museum, the park, the market and the riverside all reinforce the same story. Visitors immediately understand: this is Britain’s naval history.

Woolwich had the equivalent narrative: for more than three centuries it was the centre of British artillery and military engineering. The Royal Arsenal was one of the most important military-industrial sites in the world, producing weapons, ammunition and technology for the British armed forces. The Royal Artillery Barracks, with its enormous Georgian façade, was a monumental symbol of that history.
The tragedy is that the heritage was not treated as a whole. Some important elements survived — the Barracks frontage, the Rotunda, the Royal Arsenal riverside buildings, the former military academy buildings — but the visitor experience is fragmented. Many buildings were demolished or converted without creating a strong sense of place.
The loss of both the Firepower and the he Royal Artillery museums was particularly significant because it provided the obvious interpretation of Woolwich’s story. Without it, a visitor can stand in Woolwich and struggle to understand why the place mattered so much.
The Rotunda is also a sad example. Originally built in 1814 as a circular tent-like structure for military exhibitions, it later became a museum and is one of the few surviving buildings directly connected with Woolwich’s military identity. A building listed in peril its uncertain future has been a long-running concern.

Greenwich and Woolwich together could have offered London an extraordinary “naval and military day out”: the Navy on one side of the river and the Army on the other. Few places in Britain have such a concentrated connection with national history.
Some of Woolwich’s story is beginning to be rediscovered through regeneration of the Royal Arsenal area, but the challenge is that new housing and development often do not communicate the historical importance of the site. The danger is that Woolwich becomes simply another London suburb rather than a place of national significance.
Greenwich tells visitors what happened there. Woolwich still has the evidence, but much less of the story is being told.

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Sometimes you don’t have to go to Florence, Milan or any other great cultural centre to experience something extraordinary. Sometimes you simply have to walk into your local village.
That was certainly my experience yesterday in Benabbio the village perched high to the south of Bagni di Lucca and, with its castle, the former stronghold of the Lupari clan.
The occasion was a concert in the beautiful Romanesque church of Santa Maria Assunta, presented by the Fondazione Michel de Montaigne under its new director, Agnese Benedetti. And it was particularly fitting that Agnese should be presenting the concert, because the magnificent work hanging behind the musicians was the subject of her own doctoral research.

The Benabbio Triptych, painted by Baldassarre di Biagio between 1469 and 1472, is a remarkable work in the history of Luccan art. It stands at a fascinating point between the late Gothic tradition and the emerging Renaissance, and its presence gave the whole concert an extraordinary visual dimension.

For the entire performance, the musicians had this great fifteenth-century masterpiece behind them.
The programme itself was inspired: Mozart, Haydn and Kodály, performed by the violinist Christina Schuetz and cellist Joseph Myer Dawson.

We began in the elegant, balanced world of the Classical style, with Mozart and Haydn. There was the refinement, wit and conversational quality that makes chamber music from this period so endlessly enjoyable.
Then came Kodály, and suddenly the musical landscape changed completely.
His Duo for Violin and Cello, Op. 7, belongs to another world: more angular, earthy and experimental, with Hungarian folk influences, unusual harmonies, fierce rhythmic exchanges and an extraordinary exploration of the possibilities of the two instruments.
What impressed me most was the way Christina and Joseph moved effortlessly between these worlds. They understood what each composer required and handled each style brilliantly. It was almost like watching the development of chamber music before our ears: from the elegance and balance of the Classical tradition to the much more adventurous language of the twentieth century.
I was particularly interested in Joseph’s background because of my own fascination with Kodály’s cello music especially with his sonata for solo cello an extraordinary piece which I first heard played by Janos Starker on a Saga recording. Joseph mentioned that Starker recorded the Sonata four times and had played it to Kodaly when still a teenager.
Before devoting herself to music, Christina Schuetz had worked as a solicitor specialising in international arbitration. To move from such a demanding professional career into serious musical training, and then to become such an accomplished violinist, is an extraordinary achievement.
But there was another, rather unexpected connection for me in this concert.
Christina had previously played at Charlton House in southeast London.
That immediately brought two very different places in my life together. If you read my blog, you will know that I have written quite a few accounts of concerts and musical events at Charlton House. It is a place with which I have long associated music, history and cultural discovery.
And suddenly, here we were in a Romanesque church in Benabbio, high in the Apennines of Italy, listening to the same violinist who had previously played at Charlton House in southeast London.
South London and the Apennines had somehow met in Benabbio.
After the concert we went next door to the Museo di Arte Sacra di Benabbio, where we could see more of the extraordinary artistic heritage of the village.

The violinist at Benabbio’s concert had mentioned to a friend of ours who attended the concert that she had spotted a cat in one of the paintings in the village museum. Our friend subsequently told Sandra, and Sandra told me. She even took a photograph of the painting so that I could have a closer look. I examined it carefully — and discovered that there were actually two cats hiding in the picture! And, being unable to resist a little detective work, I went one step further and discovered who had painted them: Girolamo Scaglia a renowned seventeenth century Luccan painter who was a pupil of Pietro Paolini. What charmingly fluffy cats and here they are!

And this is what made the whole afternoon so special.
Within a few steps of one another we had medieval and Renaissance art, Romanesque architecture and some of the finest chamber music of the eighteenth and twentieth centuries. The Triptych itself, with its mixture of late Gothic and Renaissance elements, seemed almost to provide a visual counterpart to the musical journey from Mozart and Haydn to Kodály.
There is sometimes an assumption that if you want “high culture”, you have to travel to a major city.
Yesterday demonstrated the opposite.
You can find extraordinary art and music in places like Benabbio, provided somebody has the imagination to bring them together — and an audience willing to appreciate them.

Postscript.
The concert in Benabbio, which we attended on 23 August, was included in the programme of Musica sulle Apuane, but it was actually the result of a collaboration between several musical and cultural organisations. Entitled “Young Musicians in Concert”, the event was organised in collaboration with the Felice Palma Music High School in Massa, the Lunigiana International Music Festival, and the Michel de Montaigne Foundation of Bagni di Lucca, with the cooperation of the Parish of Benabbio.
Musica sulle Apuane therefore presented the concert as part of its programme, while the young musicians came from the project organised by the Lunigiana International Music Festival. The concert, held in the Church of Santa Maria Assunta in Benabbio, was a lovely example of the way different musical and cultural organisations in the area can work together.

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The Royal Arsenal was, of course, the beating heart of Woolwich.
For centuries it was far more than a collection of factories and warehouses. It was almost a city within a city. It employed thousands of people and shaped the lives of generations of families. It represented Britain’s military and industrial power—from the age of empire through the two world wars—and its presence dominated every aspect of the town.
Walking through Woolwich, one was constantly reminded of this history. The enormous stores, workshops, gates and industrial buildings created a landscape unlike anywhere else in London. The scale and seriousness of the Arsenal reflected the importance of the work carried out there. Luckily the gateway to the Arsenal still stands. Here are some photos I took dating back to 1984 when it was being isolated from the wall it defended.

Today, parts of the Arsenal have thankfully been preserved. The historic buildings that remain still give some impression of what this extraordinary place once was. However, its character has inevitably changed. The Arsenal is no longer a centre of production and military activity but a residential and commercial development. This has brought investment, new housing and new life, but it has also meant the loss of much of the atmosphere that once made the place unique.
The Arsenal was also much larger than the area now familiar to visitors. To the east lay the vast armaments testing grounds, extending across former marshland towards what would later become Thamesmead. In my early years in Woolwich, I was fascinated by this forgotten landscape. I would explore the area, often entering places that felt like a lost world.
There were still substantial industrial buildings, remnants of the railway system that had once served the Arsenal, mysterious earthworks, ponds and even an island where explosive materials had once been stored: the tumps. I took photographs of this extraordinary landscape, which combined the remains of Britain’s industrial past with some of the richest wildlife to be found anywhere in London. This forgotten side of the Arsenal showed another aspect of Woolwich’s history: not only the grand buildings and official monuments, but also the hidden spaces where nature had reclaimed former industrial land.

I particularly love the photos I took regarding the remains of a local railway system. What locomotives did they use? Was there a fixed timetable?. When did it close down? What an attrative tourist and educational would the railway have made today had it been preserved!

The casements built to protect the Arsenal from attack by the enemy on the river side were also noteworthy. Goodness knows what life must have been like for the forces manning them.

The challenge with regeneration is always the same. A place must adapt if it is to survive, but if too much of its physical memory disappears, the connection with previous generations becomes weaker.
The same applies to ordinary streets and everyday buildings. In the 1970s, Woolwich still contained many glimpses of its older character: Victorian houses, small shops, local businesses and pubs where people knew one another. It was not a perfect world—no historic London neighbourhood ever was—but it possessed a strong identity.
The architectural historian Nikolaus Pevsner, writing in his 1966 guide to London buildings, noted the presence of numerous modest Georgian and early Victorian houses in Woolwich. Many of these ordinary buildings were not grand monuments, but they contributed enormously to the atmosphere of the town. Their loss was therefore just as significant as the demolition of more famous landmarks.
The Victorians generally built with the expectation that their buildings would last for generations. Much twentieth-century redevelopment was designed with a shorter lifespan in mind. Woolwich Swimming Centre, for example, survived for less than thirty years before being demolished and replaced. The college in Woolwich I taught as a lecturer of further education for over twenty years was recently demolished with many of its buildings only erected this century!
This is not to say that every new building is unsuccessful or that towns should remain frozen in time. The issue is one of balance. Good regeneration should add to a place’s history rather than erase it.
The loss of the small details of everyday life was particularly damaging. Corner shops, local pubs, modest terraces and familiar buildings created the character of the streets. They were the places where people met, shopped, talked and built communities.
The pubs deserve special mention because they were much more than places to drink. They were social centres, meeting places and part of the fabric of neighbourhood life. Woolwich once had many small pubs serving local communities. Some have been converted into houses, which at least allows the buildings to survive, but others have disappeared completely. The disappearance of pubs in the UK has been on a large scale; in Woolwich it has been on an even larger scale.
The destruction of places like the Director General near the Town Hall (with the false promise that it would be rebuilt) reminds us that history is not only found in grand churches and famous monuments. Ordinary buildings also tell the story of a place. And there’s a rather extraordinary point here: the building was locally listed, the preservation campaign was active, Historic England was documenting its interior in July 2007, and the council nevertheless proceeded with its demolition after the planning permission was upheld!
Woolwich also had moments of great confidence and optimism. The cinemas of the 1930s are among the best examples. The Granada and Odeon were not simply buildings containing screens; they were entertainment palaces, designed to make an ordinary visit to the cinema feel like a special occasion.
The Granada, in particular, represented an age when architecture was used to inspire the imagination. Its lavish interiors transported audiences into another world. It reminds us that Woolwich was not always regarded as a declining area. It was once a place of ambition, pride and confidence.

This is why Woolwich’s story is so important. It is not simply a story of decline. It is the story of a place that played a major role in Britain’s history but failed, at too many times, to protect the physical evidence of that history.
Woolwich had the potential to become one of London’s great heritage destinations. Greenwich preserves and celebrates Britain’s naval history; Woolwich could have done the same for Britain’s military and industrial past. The Royal Arsenal, the barracks, the churches and the surviving historic buildings together represented a story of national importance.
Some changes were inevitable. The closure of the Arsenal and the withdrawal of the military presence transformed the town. Economic forces affected Woolwich just as they affected many industrial communities. But the loss of so many important buildings was not inevitable. It was the result of decisions made at a time when conservation was not given the importance it receives today and a town council with myopic vision.
When I arrived in the Greenwich area in 1979, much of old Woolwich had already disappeared. Yet enough remained for me to experience something of its character: the military presence, the historic churches, the cinemas, the streets, the pubs and the atmosphere of a town with a remarkable past.
I was fortunate to have at least known that transitional moment—not the complete historic Woolwich that earlier generations experienced, but a place where traces of the old world could still be found.
Today Woolwich is a different place. Some changes have been positive, and new communities have brought new energy. A living town must always evolve. But when too much of the physical memory of a place is removed, something important is lost. Unfortunately it is often the case that the increasing number of new ethnicities entering urban areas may not have the same viewpoint regarding buildings and places reflecting English heritage and culture and will therefore not give the same care to them as previous generations did.
A town is not only made of buildings. It is made of the people who lived there, the sounds and smells of everyday life, the places where memories were created and the stories passed from one generation to another.
Buildings are the visible expression of those memories. Once they disappear, the memories become harder to see.
And sometimes, those memories are all that remain.

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Priscilla Valentino, one of tne two daughters of our local GP is a councillor on the Bagni di Lucca municipal executive, or Giunta. She has responsibilities that include the thermal baths, the environment, renewable energy, transport and local events. It was in this latter role that she decided to organise the games between the different districts of Bagni di Lucca.
The idea, of course, is a very old Italian one. Games, feste and Palios between different parts of the same town have existed in Italy for centuries.
The most famous example is, naturally, the Palio di Siena, in which the different contrade, or districts of Siena, compete against one another in the famous horse race. But there are many other examples throughout Italy: competitions, historical games, tug-of-war contests and all sorts of challenges designed to create a little rivalry between different parts of the same community.
Even locally, similar games had already started in places such as Barga and Fornaci di Barga. So Priscilla decided to divide our Comune into four districts, each with its own colour and emblem: the red Crab, the yellow Trout, the Green Viper and the blue Deer. These represent the following villages in our comune:

Trota (trout)– yellow: Val di Lima, Controneria, Benabbio, Lugliano
Vipera – green: Villa, Corsena and associated areas
Alce (deer or moose) – blue: Fornoli, Cafaggio, Val Fegana
Granchio (crab)– red: Ponte a Serraglio, Granaiola through to Montefegatesi.

We, of course, are in the Crab district. Montefegatesi and the whole valley up here belong to the Red Crab.
They did it for us last year, but we missed it. We were vaguely aware that the games were taking place, but we hadn’t really imagined becoming involved ourselves. This year, however, we thought: no, we can’t miss this one.
So we went along to the meetings. Everything was very nicely organised, and eventually we received the most important thing of all: our T-shirts, complete with a splendid crab on the front. There were also the names of the various sponsors, but naturally the crab was what really mattered.
Then came the opening parade.
We had also raised our own teams. Sandra joined the darts team — she’s a very good shot — while I found myself in the Trivial Pursuit team, which involved answering questions about the local area. Quite appropriate for me, I thought. It was rather like appearing in University Challenge, except that the questions were rather more likely to be about Bagni di Lucca.

Eventually all the different teams assembled in various parts of the centre of town. We gathered at the Giardini Pubblici, and there were quite a few of us. We practised beating the drums, waving the flags and generally making as much noise as possible. Some of us even had glitter applied, and naturally there were photographs.

Then, at about six o’clock, mercifully after the worst of the heat had gone, the parade began.
And what a spectacle it was.
Quite apart from the extraordinary noise produced by the drums, rattles, whistles and everything else we could lay our hands on, red flares were let off for our Crab team. These proved slightly controversial because they produced an enormous amount of smoke, much of which seemed determined to go directly up our nostrils.

Nevertheless, we marched into town to the surprised gaze of people sitting outside the bars.
I think they knew something was happening.
And that was it. We had our parade. We had made our entrance. Now come the time for a big communal supper with the piazza dei forestieri filled with trestle tables and benches.
So now the games can really begin.
It is extraordinary how, with a little noise, a bit of colour, some drums, some friendly rivalry and a few spectacular — if slightly suffocating — flares, you can create such an atmosphere in a small town.
This is the first official edition of these games for Bagni di Lucca, and it has got off to what I would call a really solid, really noisy and really spectacular start.
So I wish all the teams well.
And, of course, may the best team win.
Forza Granchio Rosso!

Here is the programme of events:

Bagni’s Games 2026 — complete programme
Date
Time
Competition
Location

Tuesday 25 August
7:00 pm
Briscola
Bar La Ruota, Fornoli

Wednesday 26 August
7:00 pm
Bowls
Casoli

Thursday 27 August
7:00 pm
Burraco
Sala Rosa, Circolo dei Forestieri

Friday 28 August
6:30 pm
Capture the Flag + Junior
Sports Ground, San Cassiano di Controni

Sack Race + Junior
Sports Ground, San Cassiano di Controni

Darts
Sports Ground, San Cassiano di Controni

Saturday 29 August
3:00 pm
Rafting + Junior
Ponte a Serraglio

Capture the Flag
Ponte a Serraglio

9:00 pm
Trivial Quiz
Teatro Accademico, Bagni di Lucca

Sunday 30 August
3:00 pm
Tug of War
Fornoli

Hay-Bale Race
Fornoli

Football Tennis
Fornoli

Baskin demonstration
Fornoli

6:30 pm
Junior Five-a-Side Football
Fornoli

Tuesday 1 September
—
Table Tennis
Matteo Trenta School Gym, Bagni di Lucca

—
Table Football
Matteo Trenta School Gym, Bagni di Lucca

Wednesday 2 September
7:30 pm
Sand Volleyball
Centro Ippico La Riviera
Thursday 3 September
6:30 pm
TEK + Five-a-Side Football
Don Giampaoli Sports Ground, Fornoli

7:30 pm
Briscola
Bar La Ruota, Fornoli

Friday 4 September
—
No separate competition listed in the official calendar
—
Saturday 5 September
9:00 am
Padel
Tennis & Padel Club, Bagni di Lucca3:00 pm
Graziellata
Bagni di Lucca Villa

3:00 pm
Relay Race
Bagni di Lucca Villa

3:00 pm
100 metres
Bagni di Lucca Villa

—
Prize-giving / Award Ceremony
Bagni di Lucca Villa

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All cities change. Urban landscapes are never static. Fashion, economic forces, demographic shifts and, at times, war continually reshape them. London is one of the greatest examples of this constant evolution. During my lifetime I have watched many parts of the capital change beyond recognition, yet London had already undergone dramatic transformation long before I was born.
The Second World War left deep scars across the city. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the City of London, where bombing destroyed streets, ancient alleys, historic buildings and long-established communities. Yet London survived. From the ruins emerged a new commercial city of modern offices and skyscrapers, while precious fragments of the past—churches, lanes and historic corners—remained to remind us of the city’s extraordinary history.
A similar story can be seen across London’s suburbs. Many grew rapidly during the nineteenth century as the railways expanded and the population increased. Some, such as Highgate, Hampstead, Willesden, Crouch End, Ealing and parts of Norwood, have retained much of their Victorian and Georgian character. Their tree-lined streets, handsome houses, churches and traditional shopping parades continue to give them a distinctive atmosphere and a strong sense of identity.
Others have been far less fortunate.
For me, nowhere illustrates this better than Woolwich.
When I moved there after my marriage in 1979, I had little idea of Woolwich’s remarkable past. Only later did I discover how much had already disappeared. Buildings I could easily have visited as a schoolboy on a bicycle had been swept away during the great wave of demolition in the 1960s and 1970s.
Woolwich was never simply another London suburb. For centuries it ranked among Britain’s most important military and industrial centres. The Royal Arsenal was known throughout the world, and around it grew barracks, workshops, churches, schools and housing—a complete community built around the service of the nation. Few places contributed more to Britain’s military history.
Sadly, much of that inheritance disappeared in little more than a generation.
Among the greatest losses were the barracks. The Grand Depot Barracks, the Grade 2 listed Red Barracks with their magnificent classical architecture, and the Cambridge Barracks with their imposing Victorian colonnades represented an entire chapter of Britain’s military history. Today little survives beyond gateways and fragments of wall. Had they remained, they would almost certainly have found new life through sympathetic conversion, as has happened with so many former military buildings elsewhere.

Incidentally the Red Barracks on Frances Street in Woolwich—the former Royal Marine Infirmary—were used in the film The National Health (1973), directed by Jack Gold and written by Peter Nichols.
They were adapted as the fictional Princess Maria of Battenberg Hospital, which is the main hospital setting in the film. The building was subsequently demolished in 1975.

Scandalously the Rotunda, designed by Nash and built to house the tent in which the peace treaty ending the Napoleonic wars was signed and which once housed a fine firearms museum, remains on English Heritage’s buildings at risk register.

The churches suffered equally. Holy Trinity Church the ‘church on the square’ with its elegant Georgian portico dominating Beresford Square, was demolished—an act that would be almost unthinkable today.

The Royal Garrison Church met a different fate. Bombed during the Second World War, it survives as a haunting ruin. Its remarkable mosaics and remaining architectural features still convey something of Woolwich’s former importance and, unlike so many other buildings, it was recognised as being worth preserving and with its new canopy is back again in use for local events such as concerts.

Woolwich’s flourishing evangelical churches now use the two former mega cinemas but formerly.the Woolwich Tabernacle, demolished in 1965, was the largest Baptist chapel in Britain. Perhaps the saddest loss was St Margaret’s Church on Plumstead Common. This magnificent Gothic Revival church transformed the Common into something resembling an English village green. It gave the whole area a sense of dignity and identity. Falling congregations and rising maintenance costs eventually sealed its fate, and it was replaced by a building utterly lacking the architectural presence of its predecessor. I have often wondered what became of its carvings, stained glass and furnishings. They too formed part of Woolwich’s story.

The streets also changed beyond recognition. In Burrage Town enough Victorian housing survives for the original scale and character of the streets to remain, even if many individual houses have been altered with replacement windows, stripped cornices and unsympathetic modern entrances. Elsewhere entire streets disappeared beneath post-war housing schemes. While these developments provided much-needed homes, they swept away the rich mixture of houses, shops, pubs and small businesses that had given Victorian Woolwich its unique character.
The decline of the local pub reflected a national trend. Thousands have disappeared across Britain, and Woolwich lost so many of its neighbourhood public houses. Some survive as homes, preserving at least the buildings themselves, while others, including the Director General near the Town Hall, vanished altogether, taking another small piece of local history with them.
The demolition of the houses on Woolwich Common was another tragedy. They were comparable with those that still surround nearby Blackheath Common, where they were recognised as worthy of preservation. Among those demolished was the birthplace of General Gordon of Khartoum, once one of Britain’s greatest national heroes and greatly admired by Queen Victoria. By the late twentieth century, however, much of that history had already been forgotten.

Yet Woolwich is not simply a story of loss.
Much survives to remind us of its remarkable past.
The ancient parish church of St Mary’s remains at the heart of the town. Sensitive restoration, including the reopening of its blocked side aisles, has restored much of its original character and dignity.
The two principal Catholic churches in Woolwich and Plumstead also survive. The Woolwich church, designed by Pugin, may be modest in scale, but it contains fine Gothic Revival features and remains an important reminder of the town’s nineteenth-century expansion. Unfortunately it’s now dwarfed by the Tesco store opposite voted the ugliest building in London a few years ago.

Within the Royal Arsenal itself, several historic buildings have also been preserved. Chief among them is Sir John Vanbrugh’s Great Store, one of the Arsenal’s most important surviving buildings. Sadly, the impact of modern development around it has diminished its historic setting, reminding us that the surroundings of a great building are often almost as important as the building itself.
Among Woolwich’s finest survivors are its cinemas. The Granada and the Odeon remain magnificent examples of 1930s Art Deco architecture, built at a time when even an evening at the pictures was treated as a grand occasion. The Granada, with its spectacular Hollywood-inspired interior and remarkable medieval-style murals created by artists associated with film-set design, remains one of London’s architectural treasures.

Saved first as bingo halls and today serving as Pentecostal churches, both buildings continue to enrich the townscape.

Looking back, the greatest sadness is not that Woolwich changed—every town must change—but that so much disappeared before its value was fully recognised. During the 1960s and 1970s Victorian architecture was too often dismissed as outdated and expendable. Today many of those same buildings would almost certainly have been listed and carefully restored.
When historic buildings disappear, a town loses far more than bricks and mortar. It loses continuity, identity and the visible reminders of the generations who lived there before us.

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Goodbye, Europe
There are moments in history when a single image seems to crystallise an age.
For me, the recent scenes from Ceuta were such a moment. Thousands of young men, almost all of military age, pressing against Europe’s frontier in scenes that reminded me less of orderly migration than of a football crowd pouring onto a pitch after a cup final. Whatever one’s political persuasion, the images were extraordinary. They seemed to ask a question that Europe has been avoiding for far too long: where does this end?
I am old enough to remember a very different conversation.
Years ago, those who crossed the Mediterranean were described as making journeys of hope—viaggi della speranza. The pictures from Lampedusa stirred compassion throughout Europe. We were urged to open not only our borders but our hearts, and many sincerely believed that this was both our moral duty and the defining mark of a civilised continent.
I understand those feelings. I do not dismiss them.
Yet I cannot escape the conviction that the world has changed, and that our response must change with it.
History, after all, is not a gentle story. It is a chronicle of migrations, conquests, invasions and collapsing civilisations. The Roman legions marched across Europe. The Goths, Vandals and Huns swept across frontiers that once seemed impregnable. The Mongols thundered westward. The Ottoman armies reached the gates of Vienna. European powers, in turn, crossed oceans and reshaped continents, often with devastating consequences for those already living there.
Every generation imagines that its civilisation is permanent. History quietly whispers otherwise.
Perhaps that is why I find such comfort in visiting places like Kraków. Walking through its streets, hearing the languages of Europe around me, admiring buildings that have survived wars, occupations and revolutions, I glimpse something that feels wonderfully familiar. It reminds me of the Europe of my childhood—a Europe whose identity seemed unquestioned, whose traditions formed the background music of everyday life.
Whether that Europe still exists is a question I increasingly ask myself.
When I return to Britain, I often feel like a traveller visiting two countries at once. There is still the England of cathedral cities, village greens, market towns, ancient churches and the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. But there is another England too, one transformed within a single lifetime. Many people now leave London not simply in search of cheaper housing or quieter surroundings, but because they seek a way of life that they fear is slipping away.
Now proposals to house asylum seekers in rural communities suggest that even these places may not remain untouched by the changes that have already reshaped the great cities.
To me, this is not an argument against kindness. Civilised nations should always offer sanctuary to those genuinely fleeing persecution. But compassion without order cannot endure. A country that loses control of its borders risks losing the confidence of its own people, and without that confidence even generosity becomes difficult to sustain.
None of this means ignoring the deeper tragedy. Vast inequalities of wealth, opportunity and security continue to drive millions from their homes. If I have one wish beyond Europe itself, it is for a world in which people are not forced to abandon their countries in search of dignity and hope. Until that day arrives, migration will remain one of humanity’s greatest challenges.
I also believe that our societies flourish best when the state remains secular, guaranteeing freedom of belief while allowing no religion or ideology to dominate public life. Equal rights, equal responsibilities and equal opportunities should belong to everyone.
As I approach my eightieth birthday, I know that these debates will soon belong to younger generations. They will shape the Europe that follows. My own journey is drawing towards its close.
Perhaps that is why I find myself thinking less about politics than about memory.
I think of the Europe that gave the world Bach and Beethoven, Dante and Shakespeare, Chartres and Florence, Oxford and Bologna; the Europe of village cafés, cathedral bells, mountain paths and market squares; the Europe that, despite its endless wars and failures, also produced extraordinary achievements in art, science, philosophy and democracy.
That Europe taught me who I am.
I hope it survives—not as a museum preserved in glass, but as a living civilisation that remembers its inheritance while facing the future with wisdom and confidence.
If my fears prove mistaken, no one will be happier than I.
But if they do not, then these words are simply the reflections of one ageing European who has loved his continent all his life.
Goodbye, Europe.

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Addio, Europa
Ci sono momenti nella storia in cui una singola immagine sembra cristallizzare un’epoca.
Per me, le recenti scene di Ceuta sono state uno di questi momenti. Migliaia di giovani, quasi tutti in età militare, che si accalcavano contro il confine europeo in scene che mi ricordavano meno una migrazione ordinata e più una folla di tifosi che invade il campo dopo una finale di coppa. Qualunque fosse il proprio orientamento politico, le immagini erano straordinarie. Sembravano porre una domanda che l’Europa ha evitato per troppo tempo: dove finisce tutto questo?
Ho l’età per ricordare un dibattito ben diverso.
Anni fa, coloro che attraversavano il Mediterraneo venivano descritti come viaggiatori della speranza. Le immagini di Lampedusa suscitarono compassione in tutta Europa. Fummo esortati ad aprire non solo i nostri confini, ma anche i nostri cuori, e molti credevano sinceramente che questo fosse sia un nostro dovere morale sia il segno distintivo di un continente civilizzato.
Capisco questi sentimenti. Non li ignoro.
Eppure non posso sfuggire alla convinzione che il mondo sia cambiato e che la nostra risposta debba cambiare con esso.

La storia, dopotutto, non è una storia dolce. È una cronaca di migrazioni, conquiste, invasioni e crolli di civiltà. Le legioni romane marciarono attraverso l’Europa. Goti, Vandali e Unni si riversarono oltre i confini che un tempo sembravano inespugnabili. I Mongoli si riversarono verso ovest. Gli eserciti ottomani raggiunsero le porte di Vienna. Le potenze europee, a loro volta, attraversarono gli oceani e rimodellarono i continenti, spesso con conseguenze devastanti per chi già vi abitava.

Ogni generazione immagina che la propria civiltà sia eterna. La storia, però, sussurra silenziosamente il contrario.

Forse è per questo che trovo tanto conforto nel visitare luoghi come Cracovia. Camminando per le sue strade, ascoltando le lingue europee che mi circondano, ammirando gli edifici sopravvissuti a guerre, occupazioni e rivoluzioni, intravedo qualcosa di meravigliosamente familiare. Mi ricorda l’Europa della mia infanzia: un’Europa la cui identità sembrava indiscussa, le cui tradizioni costituivano la colonna sonora della vita quotidiana.
Se quell’Europa esista ancora è una domanda che mi pongo sempre più spesso.

Quando torno in Gran Bretagna, spesso mi sento come un viaggiatore che visita due paesi contemporaneamente. C’è ancora l’Inghilterra delle città cattedralizie, dei prati dei villaggi, dei borghi di mercato, delle chiese antiche e delle dolci colline delle Cotswolds. Ma c’è anche un’altra Inghilterra, trasformatasi nel corso di una sola generazione. Molte persone oggi lasciano Londra non solo in cerca di alloggi più economici o di un ambiente più tranquillo, ma perché cercano uno stile di vita che temono stia scomparendo.
Ora, le proposte di ospitare i richiedenti asilo nelle comunità rurali suggeriscono che anche questi luoghi potrebbero non rimanere indenni dai cambiamenti che hanno già rimodellato le grandi città.
Per me, questo non è un argomento contro la gentilezza. Le nazioni civili dovrebbero sempre offrire rifugio a coloro che fuggono realmente dalle persecuzioni. Ma la compassione senza ordine non può durare. Un paese che perde il controllo dei propri confini rischia di perdere la fiducia del proprio popolo, e senza quella fiducia anche la generosità diventa difficile da sostenere.
Tutto ciò non significa ignorare la tragedia più profonda. Le enormi disuguaglianze di ricchezza, opportunità e sicurezza continuano a costringere milioni di persone ad abbandonare le proprie case. Se posso esprimere un desiderio che vada oltre l’Europa stessa, è quello di un mondo in cui le persone non siano costrette ad abbandonare i propri paesi in cerca di dignità e speranza. Fino a quando quel giorno non arriverà, la migrazione rimarrà una delle maggiori sfide per l’umanità.

Credo inoltre che le nostre società prosperino al meglio quando lo Stato rimane laico, garantendo la libertà di credo senza permettere a nessuna religione o ideologia di dominare la vita pubblica. Pari diritti, pari responsabilità e pari opportunità dovrebbero appartenere a tutti.
Mentre mi avvicino al mio ottantesimo compleanno, so che questi dibattiti apparterranno presto alle generazioni più giovani. Saranno loro a plasmare l’Europa che verrà. Il mio percorso si avvia alla conclusione.

Forse è per questo che mi ritrovo a pensare meno alla politica e più alla memoria.
Penso all’Europa che ha dato al mondo Bach e Beethoven, Dante e Shakespeare, Chartres e Firenze, Oxford e Bologna; all’Europa dei caffè di paese, delle campane delle cattedrali, dei sentieri di montagna e delle piazze del mercato; all’Europa che, nonostante le sue infinite guerre e i suoi fallimenti, ha anche prodotto straordinarie conquiste nell’arte, nella scienza, nella filosofia e nella democrazia.
Quell’Europa mi ha insegnato chi sono.

Spero che sopravviva, non come un museo custodito in una teca di vetro, ma come una civiltà viva che ricorda la sua eredità e guarda al futuro con saggezza e fiducia.

Se i miei timori si riveleranno infondati, nessuno sarà più felice di me.
Ma se non lo saranno, queste parole saranno semplicemente le riflessioni di un europeo invecchiato che ha amato il suo continente per tutta la vita.

Addio, Europa.