Among the many Italian doctors who passed through the hospital, one who remains particularly memorable to me was Gino Chiesa.
He was not only a talented young doctor but also a man of wide cultural interests, with a genuine appreciation of architecture, history, music and English life. He embodied the spirit of the Italian Hospital by building bridges between Italy and Britain rather than seeing them as opposites. Proud of his own country, he was equally fascinated by Britain’s traditions and history. He introduced me to Pergolesi’s works and enjoyed quoting a phrase describing English Gothic cathedrals as ‘comfortably spread out’, distinguishing them from the French strict stratospheric ones.
Later, during visits to Italy, Gino introduced me to Turin and its surroundings. Through him we experienced not only the beauty of the region but also the warmth of Italian family life. Sharing meals with his family reinforced something I would come to value deeply: the generosity and hospitality that have always characterised my relationship with Italy.

Another unforgettable figure was Dr Elio (Federico Domenico) Montuschi.

Originally from Bologna, he combined intelligence, warmth and great personal charm. Professionally, he became a respected physician and cardiologist in Britain, making important contributions to cardiovascular medicine, particularly in hypertension and vascular disease. His research reflected the highest standards of his profession.
Yet it is the man rather than the doctor whom I remember most vividly. He combined professional authority with genuine humanity and enjoyed conversation, friendship and good food as much as medicine itself. I remember particularly a concert I attended with him and my mum: it featured the great Chilean pianist Claudio Arrau playing the two Brahms concerti.
Like many Bolognese, he held strong political convictions and engaged enthusiastically with wider social issues. To me he represented the richness of Italian life: deeply attached to his origins while fully engaged with the modern world.
He regularly visited our home, where he clearly appreciated the Anglo-Italian atmosphere and hospitality. Those gatherings reminded me that culture is often preserved in ordinary moments—a shared meal, a conversation or a cherished memory can keep alive a homeland even when one lives far from it.
Dr Montuschi also represented another important role of the Italian Hospital. It was not simply a place for treating patients but also for supporting young Italian doctors who came to Britain to train, exchange ideas and build lasting friendships.
Looking back, I realise how remarkable the Italian Hospital really was. It brought together elderly immigrants, young doctors, volunteers such as my mother and members of London’s Italian community. It recognised that healing involves more than medicine; people also need language, familiarity, kindness and human contact.
For my mother it strengthened her lifelong connection with Italy while allowing her to help others. For patients it offered understanding. For young doctors it provided a bridge between two medical traditions. For people like Gino Chiesa and Dr Montuschi it allowed professional life and cultural identity to flourish together.
For me it was one of the first places where Italy ceased to be simply a country on a map. It became a world of friendships, conversations and lasting memories.
The closure of the Italian Hospital was therefore far more than the loss of a medical institution. London lost a unique part of its social history—a place where generations of Italians had found care, companionship and a sense of home.
Buildings may disappear, but the memories they create endure. For me, the Italian Hospital in Queen Square will always remain a little piece of Italy in London.

×××

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

There are evenings when a small town reveals itself as a place of great culture. This is exactly what happens every summer in Bagni di Lucca, where the chamber music concerts organised as part of Virtuoso & Belcanto and the Adolfo Betti Memorial bring musicians of international standing to this historic Tuscan setting.
I had the pleasure of attending the concert by the Pegreffi Quartet:

Emma Parmigiani First violin
Inesa Baltatescu Second violin
Emanuele Ruggero Viola
Lorenza Baldo Violoncello

They were the winners of this year’s Adolfo Betti quartet competition and I was again struck by the exceptional quality of the performers at these concerts. It is remarkable to think that in a town of this size one can experience performances marked by the same professionalism, refinement and intensity that one would expect in the famous concert halls of Europe. Incidentally the Pegreffi Quartet is called that because it pays tribute to Elisa Pegreffi (1922–2016), the great Italian violinist who was the second violinist of the renowned Quartetto Italiano. I have several of the Quartetto Italiano’s LP’s in my collection and they remain among my favourite quartet recordings. Theory Beethoven combines German studiousness with italian lyricism in a wonderful meld.

The evening’s programme offered a fascinating journey through three very different musical worlds. It opened with Haydn, who established the string quartet as one of the supreme forms of classical expression, with his characteristic elegance, balance and perfection of structure.
The audience was then taken into a very different sound world with Stravinsky’s Three Pieces for String Quartet specially written in 1914 for the Flonzaley Quartet, the ensemble of which Adolfo Betti was the first violinist. This short but revolutionary work revealed Stravinsky’s extraordinary imagination and his ability to transform the possibilities of the string quartet. Its inclusion in a concert dedicated to Betti created a particularly meaningful historical connection.
The evening concluded with Mendelssohn’s m String Quartet No. 2 in A minor, Op. 13. It is difficult not to marvel at the fact that such a mature and deeply expressive work was written when Mendelssohn was only eighteen years old. His achievement recalls the astonishing brilliance of his earlier Octet, composed at just sixteen, a masterpiece that already displayed the imagination, technical command and emotional understanding of a fully mature composer. Few musicians in history have shown such extraordinary gifts at such a young age — placing Mendelssohn among the greatest musical prodigies, alongside Mozart.

Throughout the concert, the Pegreffi Quartet demonstrated remarkable unity and sensitivity.. They were not merely performing notes on a page; they were bringing to life three distinct musical voices, separated by time but united by genius.

The enthusiastic response of the audience showed once again how important these events have become for Bagni di Lucca. These concerts are now eagerly awaited moments in the cultural life of the town, bringing together residents, visitors and music lovers in a shared appreciation of great art.
Evenings like this remind us that great music is not the exclusive property of major cities. It can flourish anywhere — even in a small Tuscan town where history, beauty and culture come together in a truly unique atmosphere.

This is my list of all the Betti quartet winners since 2018. (The competition started in 1997). I have also made a link to any posts I have written about the winners

2018 Elmire Quartet
2019 Leonkoro Quartet

https://longoio3.com/2018/08/04/a-great-quartet-in-the-making/
2020—
2021 Ãtma Quartet https://longoio3.com/2021/07/31/a-very-polished-evening-of-music-at-bagni/
2022 Cong Quartet
2023 Kanus Quartet https://longoio3.com/2023/07/30/a-little-night-music/
2024 Doré Quartet
2025 Arola Quartet https://longoio3.com/2025/08/03/from-flonzaley-to-arola/
2026 Pegreffi Quartet

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

Some buildings are more than bricks and mortar. They become part of our personal history. They become places where memories, friendships and cultures meet. For me, one such place was the Italian Hospital in Queen Square, London.
Although the hospital itself has now closed as a working institution, its influence on my life remains very strong. It was one of the places that first gave me a real connection with Italy—not just as a country, but as a living culture of people, traditions, food, friendship and generosity.
Looking back today, I realise that the Italian Hospital represented something quite rare. It was not simply a medical establishment. It was a place where Italian immigrants could find familiarity in a foreign country, where the Italian language could be spoken freely, where people who had left their homeland could rediscover a sense of community, and where British and Italian traditions came together.
The Italian Hospital had a remarkable history. It was founded in 1884 through the vision and generosity of Giovanni Battista Ortelli, an Italian businessman dealing with spectacles and scientific optical equipment and a benefactor in London who recognised the needs of the growing Italian community. Like many immigrants, Italians arriving in Britain often faced difficulties: a new language, unfamiliar customs, financial problems and the loneliness that comes with leaving family and friends behind. The hospital’s opening merited this article in The Graphic

Ortelli understood that medical care was not only about treating illness. People needed to be treated in an environment where they felt understood and respected. His aim was to create a place where Italians living in Britain could receive medical attention while remaining connected to their own language and culture.
From its beginnings, therefore, the Italian Hospital was more than a hospital. It became a home away from home for generations of Italians in London.
The building itself reflected the importance of the institution. Designed in the Victorian period by the architect Charles Henry Worley, it was both practical and elegant, combining the requirements of a modern hospital with a sense of dignity and welcome. It was not simply a functional building; it was a statement of confidence by the Italian community in London and a symbol of their contribution to British society.

Its location in Queen Square was also significant. The area was already associated with medicine, research and healthcare, and the Italian Hospital became part of that important medical tradition while maintaining its own distinctive identity.
My own connection with the hospital came through my mother, Dr Vera Pettitt.
My mother was Italian, originally from Milan. She married an Englishman, Harvey Pettitt, and moved to London. Like many Italians who came to Britain, she looked for ways to maintain her connection with Italy while also helping others who shared that background.
During the 1950s she became involved with the Italian Hospital as a volunteer.
She was never paid for her work. She gave her time because she believed in helping people. In particular, she helped Italians who were experiencing mental health difficulties—people who were sometimes facing not only illness but also the additional problems of living in a foreign country, dealing with language barriers, loneliness and the challenge of adapting to a new life.
Her reward was not financial. It was the satisfaction of knowing that she was part of a community and that she was helping people who might otherwise have felt isolated.
There was, however, another pleasure associated with the hospital: the wonderful Italian meals.
Because the Italian Hospital was not simply somewhere that people visited when they were sick. It was a meeting place. It was a little piece of Italy in the middle of London.
I remember going there to meet my mother. I remember walking through the entrance and seeing the rooms where people gathered. On the left was a room where doctors could meet and discuss their work, and beyond that was the dining room where tables were prepared for meals.
Those meals were an important part of the hospital’s character. Doctors, nurses, visitors and members of the Italian community would sit together, eat Italian food and talk. In a very Italian way, the meal itself became a form of friendship.
Food has always been one of the great links between people. It crosses language, nationality and background. At the Italian Hospital, a shared lunch created a connection between people who might otherwise never have met.
The hospital attracted many young Italian doctors who came to Britain to continue their training and gain professional experience. It became a bridge between Italian medicine and British medicine, allowing young doctors to learn from another healthcare system while remaining connected to their own culture.
The hospital was also at the centre of a wider social life. One of its most important annual events was the Italian Hospital Dinner and Dance organised by the hospital’s league of friends and held at the Dorchester Hotel in Park Lane. Carla Thorneycroft was a leading figure in the League of Friends which raised money to support the hospital, organising balls, concerts, bazaars, film shows and other fundraising events. She was the Italian-born wife of the British politician and industrialist Peter Thorneycroft and was born Carla Maria Concetta Francesca Malagola Cappi in Paris in 1914, into an Italian aristocratic family, and later became known as Lady Thorneycroft.

I have several memories of these elegant occasions. On one particular evening, I met a very nice young woman from Stanmore. She was a sweet and charming girl, and we enjoyed each other’s company during the evening. Afterwards, I rode all the way to Stanmore from.south London on my little Honda 50 to visit her and her family.
Sadly, there was one problem: she was already engaged to somebody else. So although we had enjoyed meeting each other, nothing further could develop. Nevertheless, it remains one of those pleasant memories that life occasionally gives us and which stay with us for many years.
Another Dinner and Dance, in fact the last one I attended, was after I had married my wife, Sandra. We had the same table, with two Italian doctors sitting on the other side. What surprised me was that they did not exchange a single word with us throughout the evening. I have often wondered whether they were simply reserved people or whether they assumed that we preferred to be left alone. Whatever the reason, it remains one of those small, curious incidents that become part of one’s memories.

That same evening is also memorable because the once-famous Italian lawyer Del Giudice, while coming down the grand staircase with his wife, tripped and fell. Fortunately, he recovered his balance and no serious harm was done, but it caused a moment of excitement among the guests.
The Dinner and Dance played a vital role in supporting the hospital. It helped raise money and brought the community together. Looking back, it is sad that many people did not fully appreciate at the time how important these efforts were in keeping the hospital alive.
The dedication of supporters such as Mr and Mrs Thorneycroft, who worked tirelessly on behalf of the hospital’s fund, deserves to be remembered. Despite their efforts and those of many others, the Italian Hospital eventually closed in 1990.
For those who knew it, this was not simply the closure of a building. It was the end of a unique institution—a place that had cared not only for the health of London’s Italians, but also for their friendships, their traditions and their sense of belonging.

***

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

MELANGEL OF THE WELSH HILLS

https://longoio3.com/?p=62141

The prince was hunting with his court
upon a warm spring day.
They chased sly foxes, deer and hares:
no respite for the prey.

Across swift streams and through fresh fields
his party held the trail.
The sun shone high, the scent was sure,
his wolfhounds would not fail.

Through dark-pined woods he kept the course,
his noble blood flowed strong,
until he entered a lonely vale
and heard a thrush’s song.

Around him high hills touched the sky,
the valley’s light was rare;
dismounting from his piebald steed,
the prince espied a hare.

Surprised, the leveret pricked its ears
and quickly scampered clear.
The hounds made haste to follow it
and leapt across the weir.

The prince blew loudly on his horn,
yet strange, no sound came forth,
as if to tell that peace must reign
in east, west, south and north.

Beyond there spread an emerald lawn,
with daisies scattered fair,
and in the midst a maiden stood,
bathed in the scented air.

Her face was sunshine bright and pure,
her dress was moonbeam white,
and underneath its folds there peeped
the hare, serene and quiet.

His hounds lay down upon the turf
and lost the scent of chase;
they held their tongues and offered paws,
and gazed upon her face.

The prince was spellbound by the scene
and bowed before her feet.
The virgin smiled at him with love,
his happiness complete.

“You shall not harm God’s creatures here,
forget your hunter’s blood;
for God will bless the faithful heart,
where love and joy shall bud.

“Here let the creatures dwell in peace,
beneath the heavens above;
for he who guards all living things
shall find the gift of love.”

She spoke. The prince looked on her face;
the maiden shone with light.
A joyful tear sprang from his eyes,
he could not leave her sight.

Entranced, he fell upon his knees
and, touched, replied, “Amen.”
Then rising slowly, bade adieu
and summoned all his men.

His party formed, they rode back home
and by the castle fire,
a feast was made and tales were sung
with harp and flute and lyre.

Yet no distraction could assuage
the prince’s tryst with her.
He thought upon those saintly words,
and none could he prefer.

He prayed and found an answer came,
for this to her he gave:
the valley where he felt such grace,
and in it built a nave.

“For in the joy which lives above,
the peace which is within,
this place is truly yours to keep,
without hate, without sin.

“This always shall be Vale of God:
the hunt shall be of hearts.
May all seek refuge in these hills
and only shoot love’s darts.”

He spoke. These words remain still true,
as, turning from the high road,
you walk the little valley to
the chapel he bestowed.

For in the dancing green of spring
hearts imitate the hare,
and leap with joy at Earth’s delights,
His goodness ever share.

And in the darkest winter’s night,
when all seems dead and through,
there is a knowledge that transcends,
a life that’s born anew.

For nature is God’s family,
creation bears His face;
and when a skylark sings above,
all loving souls embrace.

***

VERDIANA OF THE TUSCAN HILLS

https://longoio3.com/2024/06/06/of-sanctuaries-salad-days-and-serpents/

Among the Tuscan hills of gold,
where vines and olives grow,
there lived a maid named Verdiana,
whose kindness all would know.

She left the world of wealth and pride,
its splendour and its fame,
and in a little lonely cell
she sought a holier name.

Beside the fields of Castelfior,
beneath the Tuscan sky,
she listened to the wind and birds
that wandered softly by.

The shepherds brought their tales of grief,
the weary sought her door;
and none who came with empty hands
went empty evermore.

Then came a night of deepened shade,
when stars were burning bright;
two silent serpents came to her
from out the Tuscan night.

The villagers looked on with fear,
they turned their eyes away;
but Verdiana saw God’s creatures
and bade them there to stay.

She gave them shelter in her cell,
beside her humble bed;
and beneath the Tuscan moonlight
no fear of them was spread.

As Melangell in northern hills
gave refuge to the hare,
so Verdiana of the south
gave creatures love and care.

Two valleys, two remembered names,
two creatures seeking grace;
two holy women opening wide
the doors of a sacred place.

Through vineyards, fields and mountain paths,
the faithful came to pray,
to seek the saint of Castelfior
who walked the humble way.

And when the summer evening falls
upon the Tuscan stone,
the bells of Castelfiorentino
tell how her light has shone.

For once there stood a little cell
beneath the Tuscan skies,
where even creatures feared by men
found peace in holy eyes.

For holiness is not in power,
nor in a crown of stone;
it lives where love can make a home
for creatures once alone.

O

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

https://longoio3.com/?p=62070

Why you may ask, does a story from a remote valley in Wales appear in a blog that is mainly concerned with Italy? The answer is that pilgrimage is one of the great links between these two countries.
Italy is blessed with countless places of pilgrimage. They are often ancient, beautiful and deeply moving, and many of them have continued their traditions for centuries without interruption. Living in Italy, one constantly encounters these sacred landscapes: churches, sanctuaries and holy places that remain part of everyday life.
The situation in Britain is rather different. The Reformation and the Dissolution of the Monasteries caused a profound rupture in the old pilgrimage tradition. Shrines were destroyed, monasteries were closed, and many places of devotion disappeared. Some were later revived, particularly by Catholics in England, but often only after centuries of interruption. Their very survival or reconstruction therefore gives them a special poignancy.

Wales has an especially fascinating story. It had once been a deeply Catholic land, filled with saints’ churches, holy wells and places of pilgrimage. But the religious changes of the sixteenth century brought enormous destruction, and later the rise of the Nonconformist chapel tradition created a very different expression of Welsh religious identity. This movement was enormously important in preserving Welsh language, culture and confidence, but it was not always associated with the colourful, joyful traditions of pilgrimage that had existed in earlier centuries.
That is why Pennant Melangell is so remarkable. Hidden away in a beautiful valley, surrounded by ancient yew trees, it represents not simply an old church but a rediscovered world. A medieval shrine, apparently lost after the Reformation, has been reconstructed from its carved stones reused for other buildings and the original rounded apse rebuilt. Pilgrims have returned, and the valley has once again become a place of prayer, peace and celebration.

I remember visiting Pennant Melangell by motorbike before the restoration was complete. I remember the quietness of the valley and the little building at the back of the church used as an old schoolroom before it was transformed. Years later, rediscovering my old photographs and the ballad I wrote about St Melangell, I felt that the story deserved to be told again.

And there is another link with Italy. Some years ago, while visiting Castelfiorentino in Tuscany, we discovered the shrine of Santa Verdiana, another extraordinary example of popular devotion. Her story is quite different from that of Melangell — instead of a gentle hare, she was associated, according to legend, with two snakes that became her unlikely companions — but both saints reveal the richness and imagination of pilgrimage traditions.
Whether in the valleys of Wales or the hills of Tuscany, these places remind us that pilgrimage is not only about religion. It is about memory, landscape, stories and the human search for meaning. Each shrine carries the history of the people who have loved it, lost it and sometimes brought it back to life.

***

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