Some political questions begin not in parliaments or newspapers, but in classrooms.
For me, it began during O-level English, studying Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. We analysed rhetoric and motive, learned Antony’s speech, weighed Brutus against Cassius. But beneath the literary discussion lay a troubling question:
Was the assassination justified?

Caesar is killed not by foreigners, not by invaders, but by fellow Romans. Senators. Citizens. Men who believe — or convince themselves — that they are acting to save their Republic. Brutus frames it as an act of civic duty: not hatred of Caesar, but love of Rome.
That detail matters.
Caesar is struck down by members of his own political community. The act, however violent, emerges from within Rome itself. It is Romans deciding Rome’s fate.
And yet the result is catastrophic. Civil war. Bloodshed. The end of the Republic. Shakespeare offers no reassurance that internal action guarantees internal salvation. Even when a people act against a perceived tyrant, they may unleash forces they cannot control.
That lesson has echoed through history.
When thinking about Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, it is hard not to imagine that earlier removal might have spared millions. If Germans had succeeded in eliminating Hitler in the 1930s, might Europe have been saved some horror? If Soviet insiders had removed Stalin earlier, might the purges have been curtailed? If Italians had ended Mussolini’s rule sooner, might the damage have been lessened?

These are agonising counterfactuals.
But even here, the Julius Caesar warning remains: removing the individual does not automatically dismantle the structure beneath him. Rome’s instability predated Caesar’s murder. Likewise, Nazism was not only Hitler; Stalinism was not only Stalin.
Still, there is an additional moral layer when we move to modern examples such as Iraq or the ongoing tragedy of Syria.

There, the removal — or attempted removal — of rulers has involved external powers. Other nations deciding that a regime must fall. Other governments determining the political future of a people not their own.
And here the moral terrain becomes even more fraught.
One might argue that a people possess some moral right to resist — even violently — a tyrant who is destroying their nation. That argument has ancient roots. It rests on the idea of political self-determination: that sovereignty ultimately resides in the people themselves.
But when another nation intervenes to remove a ruler, the equation changes. However oppressive the regime, the act is no longer purely one of internal civic decision. It becomes entangled with geopolitics, strategic interest, power projection, unintended consequences.
In Iraq, the removal of Saddam Hussein did not lead to stable democracy. It created a vacuum. Sectarian violence surged. Institutions collapsed. The decision was not made by Iraqis alone; it was shaped and executed by external actors.
In Syria, foreign involvement has deepened and prolonged conflict rather than resolving it.
This is not to romanticise tyranny or deny suffering. It is to recognise that legitimacy matters. Who decides? On what authority? With what mandate? Violence undertaken “for” a people is not the same as violence undertaken “by” that people.
And even then — even if internal — the Roman example stands as warning. Brutus and his fellow conspirators believed they were acting for the Republic. They believed they were preventing tyranny. Instead, they accelerated its transformation into empire.
The moral question, then, is double-edged:
Does a people have the right to remove a tyrant ruining their nation?
Does another nation have that right on their behalf?
And even if the answer to the first is sometimes yes, does it follow that the outcome will be better?
History rarely rewards simple answers.
When I think of Iran — a country with deep intellectual traditions, a young population, internal political currents — I find myself hoping that any change that comes will emerge from within its own civic life. Change rooted internally may still be turbulent. But it carries a legitimacy that externally imposed transformation often lacks.

The schoolboy reading Julius Caesar sensed that something was morally unstable about the conspirators’ certainty. The adult observing modern geopolitics senses something equally unstable about nations deciding the fate of others in the name of liberation.
Brutus killed Caesar to save Rome.
Rome lost its Republic anyway.
That is the enduring caution: violence, even when clothed in civic virtue, does not guarantee freedom. And when violence crosses borders, the moral ground becomes even more uncertain.
It remains a real question. A difficult one. Perhaps one that resists final resolution.
But it is one worth continuing to ask.

As our creative writing course draws to a close, I find myself reflecting not only on what I’ve learned, but on how I’ve changed.
We were a small group — five or six of us, none particularly young — and that intimacy made all the difference. Under Francesca’s guidance (herself a comic strip writer and media artist), we explored emotion, character motivation, plot architecture, and, perhaps most importantly, the discipline of revision. Because we were few, each of us had the chance to read aloud. Feedback was immediate, focused, generous — and demanding.
Francesca’s notes are the kind that require rereading. They do not flatter; they refine.

Stripping to the Essential
One of the most valuable lessons I learned was how to cut. I would write a piece generously — perhaps too generously — and then be required to strip it back to its bare essentials. What remains after that process is often stronger than the original abundance.
Purple prose, I discovered, must earn its place. It can heighten a moment, illuminate a character, or intensify atmosphere — but it cannot exist merely for ornament.
This is something the great short story writers mastered with extraordinary control.

Guy de Maupassant
Maupassant wastes nothing. Every detail serves irony, psychology, or plot. His prose may appear effortless, but it is disciplined to the bone.
And then there is:

Anton Chekhov
Chekhov leaves space. What is unsaid resonates as powerfully as what is written. His restraint creates emotional depth.

The short story, I’ve come to realise, is a laboratory. One can write it in a few days — but shaping it properly requires clarity and courage.

Writing as Translation
Another discovery concerns language itself.
I wrote in Italian during this course. I was born in England. I have lived in Italy for over twenty years. So what language do I think in when I write?
The answer is: neither — and both.
There are traps everywhere. A curva becomes a “curve” instead of a “bend.” “Nervoso” becomes “nervous,” though the meanings diverge sharply. In Italian, mi viene il nervoso expresses irritation. In English, “I’m getting nervous” signals apprehension.
False friends are not simply lexical errors; they reveal cultural differences in emotional posture. English “nervous” turns inward. Italian “nervoso” flares outward.
When I write, I am not translating from English into Italian. I am translating experience into language — and sometimes translating it again. Every revision is another version, another emphasis, another shading of meaning.
Living between two languages creates a third space — a hybrid territory. In England I feel more Italian; in Italy more English. My wife and I, of mixed heritage, speak a language that is neither entirely one nor the other. We sometimes scold ourselves for it — but perhaps we should celebrate it instead.
This double linguistic vision feels not like division, but expansion. It sharpens nuance. It multiplies perspective. It deepens metaphor.

Synesthesia and Structure
One of the course’s most exciting concepts was synesthesia — the crossing of senses. Sounds that have colour. Music that can see. Paintings that can hear.
It made me more alert not only in writing but in reading. I now notice how authors build suspense, how they layer emotional tension, how they use sensory overlap to thicken atmosphere.
And as I read, I learn.

The Layered Novel: Time as Architecture
At the moment, I am reading the draft of a friend’s novel set in Rome — and it is structured in layers of time.
Ancient Rome.
Renaissance Rome.
Contemporary Rome.
Three temporal dimensions coexisting in one narrative structure.
This kind of “time-layered” novel is much sought after — and extraordinarily difficult to execute. It is a kind of literary architecture: a three-dimensional construction in which past and present speak to each other across centuries.
What impresses me even more is what comes next. The author, having written a rich and substantial draft, is now engaged in the harder task: sculpting it. Cutting. Sharpening. Refining.
I confess I would struggle with that stage. After writing pages of what feels like wonderful prose, who willingly removes it?
And yet — economic prose is essential. Especially now, when readers are short of time and long novels must justify every page. A sculptor removes marble to reveal form. A writer removes excess to reveal meaning.

Art as Transmutation
Ultimately, what this course has reminded me is that writing is not merely craft. It is also transmutation.
One cannot write only from encyclopedias. Facts may be verified there, but substance comes from experience — whether directly lived or deeply absorbed from others.
Joyful experiences. Painful experiences. Haunting memories.
The challenge is not to confess them raw, but to sublimate them — to transform them into something autonomous, something shaped, something that stands apart from the original wound or joy.
All artists do this.

George Orwell
Orwell transformed his experiences in Burma into Burmese Days. His encounters with poverty became Down and Out in Paris and London. His anxieties about totalitarianism and propaganda became 1984. Personal experience became enduring literature.
So too with painters, composers, and novelists across history. Deep feeling is not left raw; it is shaped into art. In doing so, something happens: the ghosts do not disappear, but they lose their power to dominate. They are transformed.
This is sublimation in its most creative form.

Why Write?
Writing, then, is many things at once:
Discipline
Precision
Experiment
Therapy
Translation
Sublimation
But above all, it is an offering.
It gives pleasure in the making.
It gives pleasure — one hopes — in the reading.
And perhaps that is the final justification.
To shape experience into something that can move another human being — across languages, across time — is no small thing.
As this course ends, I do not feel finished. I feel opened.
And that, I suspect, is exactly what good teaching should do.

In recent years, public discussion about Muslim dress has moved beyond simple curiosity and become a topic of intense debate. While the hijab—a head covering worn by many Muslim women—is widely accepted and generally uncontroversial, the niqab and other full-face veils, which cover the face except for the eyes and are often accompanied by long flowing garments such as burqas, raise entirely different questions. These questions are not merely about clothing; they touch on visibility, communication, participation in public life, and the deeper question of how individuals relate to the societies in which they live.
This is not merely a theoretical conversation. It has real legal and social consequences across Europe, and the differences from country to country are striking. France, for example, was the first European country to introduce a nationwide ban on full-face veils in public, including the burqa and niqab, in a law passed in 2010 and enforced from April 2011. The legislation prohibits wearing any garment that conceals the face in public, and violations can result in fines or social sanctions. The European Court of Human Rights upheld the law in 2014, accepting it as compatible with public safety and the principle of “living together”—a concept emphasizing social cohesion and shared norms.
Other countries have followed with similar legislation or restrictions. Belgium banned full-face veils in public in June 2011, with fines or short jail terms for violations. Austria introduced a law in 2017 requiring that facial features between the chin and hairline be visible in public. Denmark passed a ban in May 2018, enforced from August that year, covering streets, schools, public transport, and public buildings. The Netherlands implemented partial bans in 2019, prohibiting face coverings in schools, hospitals, public transport, and government buildings, while still allowing them in other public spaces. Bulgaria adopted a ban on face-covering clothing in public in 2016. Switzerland passed a national law banning full-face coverings, to be enforced from 2025 after a referendum narrowly approved it. Portugal approved a bill in October 2025 banning face veils in most public spaces, pending presidential approval or constitutional review.
Italy presents a particularly interesting case. Long before niqabs ever appeared on Italian streets, the country already had a law dating back to around 1870 forbidding face coverings in public. This was not aimed at religion but at security: the authorities sought to prevent bandits from concealing their identities while committing crimes in the suburbs of Rome, Naples, and other cities. This historical law illustrates that the question of face coverings has long been intertwined with public safety, independent of contemporary religious debates.
Some countries have not instituted nationwide bans but allow institutions to set their own dress codes, while others, such as the United Kingdom, do not legally restrict niqabs or burqas at all, leaving the decision to employers, organizations, or local practice. This patchwork of regulations reflects both historical legal traditions and contemporary debates about security, integration, and personal freedom. Observing these differences makes it clear that how society handles visibility, identity, and personal expression is never straightforward.
My own experience as a teacher in London brought these issues into sharp focus in a way that was both practical and personal. One day, a student arrived wearing a full niqab. While I had previously enjoyed a good rapport with her and had never encountered difficulties, I immediately realized that effective teaching in a classroom setting depends on being able to read facial expressions. A puzzled look, a hesitant smile, a moment of concentration—all of these signals are essential in helping a teacher gauge understanding and adjust their approach. After consulting with department leadership, we reached a practical compromise: she transferred to another class where teachers felt comfortable accommodating her attire.

This experience highlighted a broader tension between respecting individual religious choice and ensuring effective communication and participation in everyday social contexts. Full-face coverings like the niqab present practical challenges precisely because non-verbal cues—facial expressions, subtle gestures, and eye contact—are central to human connection. They are not trivial; they shape understanding, empathy, and interaction in ways that written instructions or verbal communication alone cannot fully convey.
In everyday public roles, the issue becomes even more immediate. It is difficult for me to imagine a woman wearing a niqab working at a Tesco checkout or at an information booth at Heathrow Airport. While no law explicitly forbids this in the UK, practical communication is essential in such roles. Customers expect to be able to see the face of the person assisting them, to gauge reactions, and to engage in basic, often nuanced, human interactions. Critics rightly argue that to exclude someone on the basis of dress could constitute discrimination—whether on religion, ethnicity, or gender. These are serious and valid concerns, making the debate far from straightforward.
Yet in reality, women who wear full-face coverings represent a very small minority, often less than one percent of the population in countries like England. During a recent visit to London, a city celebrated for its multicultural diversity, I did not see a single person wearing a niqab. This demonstrates that while the issue generates significant debate, it affects very few people directly, and the practical challenges and societal implications remain largely theoretical for most of the population.
This raises important questions: am I being culturally insensitive or short-sighted in my reflections? Or am I simply acknowledging the practical realities of social interaction and public life? I believe that true integration involves not only legal equality but also active participation in the shared norms and practicalities of the society one lives in. Being able to see the face of a student, a colleague, or a clerk is not a matter of prejudice; it is a matter of practical engagement and mutual understanding, a necessary part of living and working together.
Another critical dimension involves generational differences among immigrants, which adds an additional layer of complexity. In many cases, first-generation immigrants adapt to their new country, learning the language, observing local customs, and integrating into society. This pattern is well documented historically in England, the United States, and elsewhere. For example, we once went to Bedford, where we had been invited to a concert by Mia Martino, one of Italy’s most iconic and powerful voices. Known for her immense emotional depth, she was celebrated for hits like “Minuetto” and “Almeno tu nell’universo”. She was absolutely like a flag for Italy, and the concert itself was very much an Italian affair. Experiencing the Italian sense of community in Bedford, we noticed how the second generation of Italians there largely identified as English. They often rejected Italian customs, did not speak the language fluently, and actively sought to assimilate. Their goal was to be fully English in identity, social habits, and professional life, distancing themselves from occupations and cultural markers associated with their parents.

By contrast, some second-generation immigrants from Muslim countries or parts of Asia exhibit a different pattern. Rather than rejecting their heritage entirely, they may emphasize it even more strongly, seeking to uphold the principles and cultural practices of their parents’ homeland. This can include language, religious practices, and even dress codes. The result is a striking contrast: one generation moves toward full integration by minimizing the markers of their origin, while another generation seeks to maintain and even intensify their connection to heritage and faith, sometimes resisting full assimilation into the broader society.
This juxtaposition highlights the complex and often paradoxical dynamics of cultural adaptation. Integration is not simply a matter of legal status, citizenship, or rights; it is about how individuals navigate the practical, social, and cultural expectations of the societies they live in. Respecting choice is essential, but so too is fostering effective communication, participation, and shared understanding in everyday life. Observing these patterns, one begins to see that integration is a delicate negotiation, never a one-way process, and always influenced by personal, familial, and societal factors.
Ultimately, my perspective aligns with a simple guiding principle: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Respect for local customs, practical communication, and active engagement in society are fundamental to meaningful integration. They are not questions of coercion but of mutual participation, trust, and understanding, a rhythm of daily life that connects people in practical, human ways.

Noticing that the National Trust — that venerable, active, and profoundly English institution — appears to be increasingly torn apart by various controversies, I felt compelled to write. This should not be happening. Like the BBC, itself now subject to attacks from many sides, the National Trust ought to stand as one of the foundation stones of the national will to conserve not only historic buildings and landscapes, but the very essence of England and of being English. With these concerns in mind, I decided to write the following letter to the National Trust, which may be of interest to others who care about the organisation or who, like us, have long been members.

***

Dear National Trust,
We have been members of the National Trust for nearly fifty years — in fact, ever since we married. Indeed next year it will be our golden wedding anniversary.
Over the decades we have not only taken immense pleasure in visiting your properties and natural sites throughout the United Kingdom. but also have carried out volunteering for the Scottish National Trust participating in work parties on the island of St Kilda.That represents a lifetime of loyalty and appreciation for the work you do. Now, though we are retired and living in Italy, whenever we return to the UK we make it a point to visit National Trust places, especially those in towns new to us. Last year, for example, we greatly enjoyed your beautiful property in Salisbury Cathedral Close — Mompesson House — and during our stays in London we have visited many of your houses there. We also remember with particular admiration that remarkable small house at 575 Wandsworth Road in south London, transformed by its owner, Khadambi Asalache, who created the extraordinary hand-carved fretwork that fills the interior — a testament to craftsmanship, patience, and devotion.
We are writing, however, because we feel increasingly concerned about the current public debate surrounding the National Trust — discussions about whether it is becoming “woke” or not. From our perspective, the Trust’s essential mission has always been clear: the conservation of our heritage and its transmission to future generations. That purpose stands above passing political fashions, and we sincerely hope it will continue to unite rather than divide supporters.
We are especially concerned about the future of Clandon Park. We were fortunate enough to visit it when it stood in its full glory, and as residents of Italy we felt particular appreciation for the contribution of the great Venetian architect Giacomo Leoni. To contemplate the house remaining permanently as a ruin strikes us as short-sighted and, frankly, dispiriting.
For this reason, we are enclosing several photographs of Clandon Park taken during our visit many years ago, long before the devastating fire and indeed before the age of digital photography. These are original film photographs that we have carefully preserved and recently rediscovered in our family archives. They come from a time when such controversies surrounding the National Trust were not familiar, certainly not as intense as they are today — in many ways, a happier and more settled period for the organisation and its members. We hope these images may serve as a small reminder of the house as it once was and of the affection it inspired in those who visited it.
We understand that some ruins serve a powerful symbolic purpose. Recently in Berlin we saw the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church preserved in its damaged state as a reminder of wartime destruction. In Dresden, however, we witnessed a different approach: the magnificent Church of Our Lady — the Frauenkirche — restored to its former splendour, not to erase memory, but to demonstrate reconciliation and renewal after devastation.
In the case of Clandon Park, we respectfully feel that restoration would send the stronger message. Maintaining a ruin indefinitely may ultimately prove more costly and less inspiring than undertaking a long-term reconstruction project. Even if such a vision required twenty or thirty years, it would be an investment in beauty, craftsmanship, and historical continuity. Across Europe — in Poland and Hungary, for example — buildings destroyed during the war are still being restored decades later. Time need not be an obstacle to ambition.
Our hope is that the National Trust will continue to stand above polarising debates and remain a unifying guardian of heritage. We would be deeply saddened to see the organisation weakened or divided by these issues.
Thank you for your continued dedication and for the many decades of enjoyment you have given us.

Yours faithfully,

Francis and Alexandra Pettitt

PS. The photographs also include pictures of the Maori meeting house (wharenui) in its gardens which happily survived the 2015 fire) They do not include pictures of the interior as the National Trust at that time forbade taking photographs of the interiors of its properties.

It was wonderful to remove ourselves from mist, rain, and fog. Flying over the Alps, we entered again a land of blue skies, blue seas, and snow-capped mountains. It felt deeply good to return. The air was warm — not summer warm, but spring warm — and when we reached home our cats greeted us with unmistakable relief and affection. We, in turn, were grateful for the crumpets and good cheddar we had brought back, enough to make a comforting toast before collapsing into the sleep we desperately needed after a two-o’clock start.

As for reflections on our stay in London: we were pleased with very many things. The trains, in particular, impressed us — improved efficiency frequency, reliability. Less pleasing was the cleanliness of certain areas, and the prices, which could be astonishing, especially for exhibitions. Fortunately, thanks to Sandra’s foresight in securing life memberships of both the National Trust and the Art Fund, we benefited from generous reductions. We were also very grateful for the considerable courtesy shown in handling our requests, which left a particularly warm and lasting impression.
London itself displayed its familiar character as a global city. We experienced this most joyfully during the Chinese New Year celebrations, where the diversity of the city seemed festive, harmonious, and alive. Yet multiculturalism, if it is to flourish, must surely involve some degree of integration, and it was this question that lingered with us.
We were staying temporarily in a district with a strongly South Asian character — largely Indian, especially Gujarati. Walking down the high street felt like stepping into another cultural space entirely: one Indian shop after another, food stores, clothing shops with beautiful traditional garments, restaurants, sweet shops. The usual chain stores were present — Costa, Tesco, Boots, Primark — but otherwise the environment was almost entirely shaped by one community. English was seldom heard, and when it was, it was spoken in accents quite different from the familiar tones of London.

Then we travelled, barely an hour by train, to a traditional cathedral town. The contrast was striking. Suddenly one heard English everywhere — not merely the language, but a recognisably English accent, gentle and rural. The streets, the faces, the rhythm of life all seemed continuous with an older memory of England, the country as I had known it in youth. It felt less like travelling within one nation and more like crossing an invisible frontier between two worlds.

What struck us most was not diversity in one place and continuity in another, but the apparent lack of overlap. In the London district, traditional English institutions had largely vanished: a Baptist church converted into a mosque, a pub transformed into a restaurant, services run almost entirely by people of non-English heritage. Yet in the cathedral town, there was almost no visible presence of non-European backgrounds at all — as if time had paused somewhere around the 1970s.
This raised, for me, the broader question of multiculturalism beyond major cities. In Italy, too, diversity exists, though often tied to specific economic roles. In Emilia-Romagna, Sikh farmers have become renowned for their skill with dairy cattle. In southern Italy, migrant labourers harvest tomatoes under extremely difficult conditions. Integration here is pragmatic, grounded in work.
I was reminded of my own experience teaching Eastern European students in England who worked as fruit pickers in East Anglia. They would sometimes apologise for falling asleep during lessons — not from lack of interest, but from exhaustion. Their day had begun at three or four in the morning, transported to the fields before dawn and returning late. One wonders whether such workers remain in the same numbers today. Countries such as Poland, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, and Romania have grown rapidly more prosperous; the old stereotype of the “Polish plumber” feels increasingly outdated.
There is also, in England, a deep attachment to the traditional image of rural life: the village pub, the parish church, the landlord behind the bar, Morris dancers in the street, the sense of continuity with centuries past. Many people wish to preserve this vision, fearing that change might dissolve it. Whether such preservation requires resisting diversity, or whether tradition can coexist with renewal, remains an open question.
Italy presents a slightly different case: in some regions, migrant labour is not merely tolerated but economically essential. The Sikh farmers of the Po Valley are not seen as intruders but as indispensable contributors.
These reflections leave me with mixed feelings. I love England deeply — its landscapes, its history, its humour, its institutions. Yet I cannot ignore a certain unease, not only about that country but about our era as a whole: a sense of division, of mutual suspicion, of cultures talking past one another rather than with one another.
What seems most needed now is not argument but empathy — a rediscovery of kindness, curiosity, and love not only for one’s own community but for humanity as a whole, and indeed for the fragile planet we share. Without that deeper foundation, neither tradition nor diversity can flourish safely.
And so we return home grateful, thoughtful, and hopeful that the future may yet be shaped less by fear and more by understanding.

I mentioned earlier that I wrote for my friend and classmate’s magazine Novelty back in 1964. I carried on writing after that. The earlier pieces — including Un Tourista in Italia — never really received a proper conclusion, and I am not even sure whether the series was ever completed in full.
Soon afterwards I turned to what was to become my second great enthusiasm: music. The following article formed part of a series I was writing at the time on Restoration opera. This dates from a little later — 1966 — when I was about seventeen. Again, I regret that I never pursued this line of study further. I eventually embarked on quite a different subject at university, a choice that caused me considerable difficulty in later life.
Nevertheless, this piece has now been brought back into the light exactly as it was written then. It should be remembered that this was a moment when the early-music revival was only beginning to gather momentum. Performances on period instruments were not yet familiar. Although developments were already stirring in Amsterdam — with figures such as Gustav Leonhardt — audiences were still accustomed to Restoration opera and related repertoire being played on modern instruments and with over-vibratoed voices. Orchestras might gesture toward the style or atmosphere of the period, but historically informed performance as we now understand it had not yet taken hold.
Looking back, I remain astonished that I had formed these views at such an age. The subject was not taught at school; this was entirely the result of my own reading and curiosity. It was not written as an exercise or assignment, but purely from personal research and enthusiasm. With that in mind, I present the article here for anyone who may wish to read it.

SEMI-OPERA OF THE ENGLISH RESTORATION: Part 8

The pastoral convention reached its apotheosis in Henry Purcell’s semi-opera The Fairy Queen, based on Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and produced in 1692—a theme which Benjamin Britten resurrected in his opera based on Shakespeare’s play first produced in 1960.

We return to the Italian Intermedii, such as Hercules, entertaining Plautus’ comedies in Italian. They were originally introduced with some symbolic connection to the remainder of the drama, as in the allegorical meaning of the early English court masque. The Intermedii were either produced for the intimate entertainment of noblemen or staged at important occasions.
At Lucrezia Borgia’s wedding, we read in the letter of the Ferrara ambassador, Boccaccio, to his master, Duke Hercules I, dated June 13, 1493:
“In conclusion, the women danced and, as an interlude, a good comedy was given, with songs and music. The Pope and all others were present. What more shall I add? There would be an end to my letter. Thus we passed the whole night, and whether it was good or bad your Highness may decide.”

Incidentally, Lucrezia Borgia was married to Giovanni Sforza when she was thirteen, and she had wedded once more by the time she was sixteen.
It seems that these Intermedii were often the only reason noblemen attended drama performances in the Renaissance. Isabella d’Este wrote about a play at Lucrezia’s third wedding: “It was a very full affair, sat there for the sake of the Intermedii.”
It is significant that the Intermedii of the eighteenth century often appeared between the intervals of the drama, producing an animated effect for the audience. It was not uncommon for them to enter the repertoire alongside works of serious opera. For example, Pergolesi’s “La Serva Padrona” was an intermedio between the acts of “Il prigionier superbo” by Alessandro Scarlatti. It became an immediate success lasting to this day, unlike Scarlatti’s opera.
Thus, the combination of music, dance, and symbolic theatricality has made this form a hit for over 400 years.

The following text was written by me in 1964, when I was sixteen years old, for a classmate’s magazine called Novelty. He published a new issue every week (a single copy laboriously typed out) and asked me to contribute something. I volunteered a series on Italy. Recently I asked my friend, with whom happily I remain in touch, whether the magazine or anything that I wrote for it survives. ‘Of course he replied and sent me a couple of extracts. What appears below are parts 11 and 12 of that series.
Looking back, I am amazed that I could write so coherently at sixteen about my experiences in Rome.
The story behind my visit is worth explaining. My mother at that time a social worker for the Italian community in London, was helping a girl whose difficulties stemmed from her mother’s recent divorce; the girl struggled to come to terms with her father having left the well-to-do family home in Rome. Her mother offered to pay my mother for her care. My mother said, “Don’t pay me—but, if you like I would be most grateful if you could do one thing: my son is very interested in Rome. He’s just read a whole book about its architecture. Why not give him hospitality for a couple of weeks?”
And indeed, it came true. I was given two weeks’ hospitality—not in Rome proper, but in a holiday flat the family owned in the capital’s seaside resort of Ostia. I spent much of my time on the beach, but I also took the train into central Rome with my Blue Guide and explored the architectural wonders of the city intensively. I’ve been to Rome many times since, but never with such concentrated attention to its highlights.
At the time, someone told me that as a child I could enter many places free of charge, which is why the following episode occurred: my visit to the Ministry of Public Instruction. I am now publishing Parts 11 and 12 as they appeared in Novelty. Sadly I had no camera with me. It could have been possible for me to have had one at the time but it just didn’t happen. So no photographs either of me or of the Ministry of Instruction. (Any photos are added from current sources).
I remain captivated by what I wrote, and I often wish I had pursued this path more rigorously. Life took me in other directions, but in many ways my current blog is an attempt to recapture that path not taken.

***

“UN TURISTA IN ITALIA PARTS 11 and ,12

On the following Monday — which was to be my first visit to the city of Rome — armed with dark glasses and notebook, I started on an extremely fine but very hot day to see Rome’s monuments. I should have gone in at twilight and lazed around on the beach at Ostia instead.

The aluminium multiple-unit train flashed rapidly through the flat but interesting scenery of the Roman Campagna. To the left was the Via Ostiense, the ancient Roman consular road linking Ostia with the great metropolis; the modern road still follows the old course. Everywhere the countryside was dotted with the typical Roman “umbrella pines” which have inspired poets, artists, and musicians to speak of their picturesque quality. One only has to think of Respighi’s Pines of Rome, a very beautifully orchestrated symphonic poem.
The new and extensive suburbs of Rome now began to appear, and shortly afterwards the train plunged into the entrance of its underground section.
“Colosseo,” read the station plaque. I stepped off the train to get my first view of that most famous of Roman monuments — the Colosseum. There it was: its time-scarred and blackened walls rose to a high yet sturdy level. The sheer size of this edifice made a very deep impression of “the grandeur that was Rome” on me. I had seen the Colosseum many times before in reproductions and the like, but never had imagined that it could be so vast and impressive. As usual, the local Romans passing by paid no attention to it. But do we Londoners pay attention to Nelson’s Column or Buckingham Palace when we pass them?
In order to get a better view of the Colosseum from the top, I decided to climb a flight of stairs, but found myself confronted by a ticket-office official.
“That will be three hundred lire, please,” he demanded.
“Three hundred lire,” I thought. “Why, that’s nearly three and sixpence, which is rather expensive.”
Fortunately the benevolent official guessed my thoughts and said,
“If you’re a student, you ought to go to the Ministry of Public Instruction, where they will give you a card entitling you to free admission to all national monuments.”
Thereupon he wrote down the address of the ministry and told me about it — the prospect of obtaining something for nothing was now most appealing.

It is extremely nerve-wracking to arrive in a city of which one is completely ignorant. I had no idea where the bus was going to take me. Every so often I asked a passenger, in my best Italian, “Do you know where the Ministry of Public Instruction is, please?”
Eventually, I got off the bus and walked up to a large building’s entrance. I looked at the elaborate Baroque façade, a style in vogue at the time.

I found that the interior of the building was as impressive as the outside. Fortunately, the attendant was polite.
“Please,” I said to the man behind the desk, handing over a card with neat italics. “This will be stamped?”
“Certainly,” he said after finishing his artistic calligraphy. The Ministry of Public Instruction in Italy is a most amusing institution—every public announcement and advertisement must carry a little government stamp if it is to be legally displayed. Even to receive a school report, a pupil must pay a forty-lira stamp duty, much as he might dislike doing so and receiving it!
Of course, it was much easier returning to the Coliseum, for everyone knows what that building looks like.

Protected by government authority, I began my inspection of this massive but elegant structure.
“Have you got your permit?” asked the keeper as I brushed past his booth, displaying my card. In fact, the advice of this humble man proved invaluable during my travels in Italy. I calculated that I saved, in all, ten pounds in museum entry fees!

After an exhausting climb, I arrived at the top of the amphitheatre and reflected on its historic stones. The Colosseum was commenced by Vespasian in A.D. 70 and completed by Domitian twelve years later. It is situated in the level valley between the Esquiline and Caelian hills, and in plan is a vast ellipse, 620 feet by 513 feet, with eighty external arcaded openings on each storey.
The arena itself is an oval of 287 feet by 180 feet, surrounded by a wall 15 feet high, behind which was the podium with the Imperial throne and seats for the Pontifex Maximus (Chief Priest), Vestal Virgins, Senators, Praetors, and other officers of state”.

Whenever we visit England — London in particular — we try to venture beyond the capital. However absorbing London may be, there is an entirely different England to be discovered in the historic cathedral cities, where centuries of history, architecture, and civic life remain woven into the fabric of everyday existence. Having visited Peterborough and Salisbury last year, this time we chose Winchester.
The journey from Waterloo was smooth and pleasant, and on arrival we walked down through the High Street toward the cathedral. Much of the route was sheltered from the light rain by Winchester’s remarkable arcaded pavement — a sequence of historic, porticoed walkways whose timbered façades and overhanging upper storeys create a continuous covered passage. This architectural survival, at once practical and picturesque, allowed us to approach the cathedral in comfort while admiring the character of the town at close quarters.

We arrived just in time for the Eucharist service and joined the congregation. Afterwards, we were warmly invited for tea and biscuits in the north transept. This unforced friendliness and courtesy became the defining impression of the entire day.

During the service, shafts of sunlight gradually began to filter through the great windows, illuminating the soaring vaulting in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. By the time we finished, the transformation was unmistakable: the cathedral interior glowed with a soft radiance that lent the vast space an almost theatrical beauty.

Stepping outside, we found the day had turned fully bright. The sunlight felt unexpectedly warm, and the cathedral’s pale stone seemed to come alive, its details newly revealed. After the dim grandeur within, the sunlit close — lawns, pathways, and ancient walls — felt open, serene, and quietly celebratory.

It is easy to forget that in Anglo-Saxon times Winchester was effectively the capital of England. The cathedral stands on a site of immense historical continuity, and one of the most striking features is the massive Romanesque work in the transepts — great arches of a scale rarely encountered elsewhere.

The cathedral itself is magnificent. Its nave is among the longest in Europe, the vaulting elegant and soaring, and the interior rich with monuments and tombs. For me, the grave I most wanted to find was that of Jane Austen. It lies in the north aisle, marked by a modest but beautiful stone. Curiously, the inscription praises her virtues and intelligence but makes no mention of her literary achievements — at the time of her death in 1817, her authorship was not publicly celebrated as it is today.

We also explored the south transept, where displays and models recount the cathedral’s long history. Before the Reformation, the church was a major pilgrimage destination associated with St Swithun. The destruction wrought during that turbulent period is still palpable. The great medieval rood screen behind the high altar was demolished in a wave of iconoclasm. Among the surviving fragments is a damaged but extraordinarily beautiful statue of the Virgin and Child. The Child’s head is lost, but the Virgin’s face remains serene and luminous — of a refinement that calls to mind early Renaissance sculpture. Standing before it, one cannot help reflecting on how much of England’s medieval artistic heritage vanished during those years.

Leaving the cathedral close — those green spaces that so beautifully frame many English cathedrals — we walked to the city museum. Though modest in size, it contains genuine treasures: Roman mosaics, medieval artefacts, and an extraordinary scale model of Winchester that reportedly took nine years to complete.

The High Street itself was lively yet relaxed, enlivened at one point by a street performer entertaining a cheerful crowd.

For lunch we followed a recommendation to Josie’s on Jewry Street, a family-run café clearly popular with locals. We were warmly received and treated to a substantial meal — in my case, an enormous “big breakfast,” a hearty and unapologetically English feast that felt entirely appropriate after a morning of walking and sightseeing.

After this cheerful interlude we continued to the Westgate, one of the surviving medieval gateways in the old city walls. Today it houses a small museum — modest but full of character. The building itself is the chief exhibit: thick stone walls, narrow windows, and a palpable sense of centuries passing through its arch. Climbing to the terrace at the top, we were rewarded with a lovely view down over the High Street and across this delightful town, now bathed in sunshine, revealing its harmonious scale and historic layout.

A short walk brought us to the Great Hall, all that remains of Winchester Castle. Inside hangs the famous Round Table of King Arthur. Whether or not it has any genuine connection to the legendary king is doubtful — the table dates from the late medieval period and was later repainted in Tudor times — but it nevertheless carries a powerful symbolic aura. One cannot stand before it without thinking of the Knights of the Round Table and the enduring pull of Arthurian legend.

The hall itself is magnificent: tall Gothic windows filled with tracery, a soaring timber roof, and an atmosphere that feels both ceremonial and intimate. Behind it lies a reconstructed medieval garden, enclosed and peaceful. Even in early spring it was already alive with colour — daffodils nodding in the breeze, snowdrops clustered beneath trellises, and the first stirrings of the season awakening. In the clear sunlight, it provided a particularly tranquil pause after the grandeur of the hall.

By now the afternoon was drawing on, and we reluctantly turned back toward the station. Winchester, we discovered, is gently hilly, so the return involved a pleasant climb or two before descending again toward the railway.
Soon we were on the train back to Waterloo, followed by the familiar sequence of Underground, bus, and walking until at last we reached home, tired but deeply content after a truly memorable day.
What made the excursion special was not merely that it was outside London, but that it was a journey into a cathedral city of a more traditional scale — an England shaped by centuries rather than by rapid modern change. The friendliness of the people, the coherence of the town, and the continuity of its history combined to create an atmosphere quite distinct from that of a great metropolis.
Above all, Winchester offered a sense of calm continuity: a place where past and present seem to coexist without strain, and where the rhythms of daily life unfold at a human pace.
We left feeling that we had not simply visited another destination, but had stepped for a while into an older, deeper England — and we are already looking forward to our next cathedral city, which will likely be Norwich.

Stepping out of Leicester Square Underground Station into the lantern-lit streets of Chinatown, London during the Lunar New Year felt like entering a fragment of East Asia transported into the heart of London. It reminded us of the way that most Chinese of Italian towns, Prato, transforms itself during their New Year celebrations which we were privileged to witness a year ago. (See https://longoio3.com/2024/03/07/dragons-firecrackers-and-smoke/).

The New Year doesn’t fall on the same date each year; it follows the Chinese lunisolar calendar, beginning on the second new moon after the winter solstice, which means it appears between late January and mid-February. While astronomers can predict the date precisely, its arrival is announced in a far more vivid, public way: red lanterns swinging above the streets, the clash of drums and cymbals, bursts of firecrackers, and suddenly lions and dragons threading their way through the crowd. This year is the Year of the Horse, a sign full of vitality, independence, and forward motion, and it seemed perfectly suited to London, where energy and movement fill the streets and celebrations must weave around weather, traffic, and city life.

As we walked down Gerrard Street, we found ourselves immersed in a moving theatre: dragons, long and sinuous, carried by teams beneath shimmering fabric, and lions, with expressive heads and playful movements, weaving through shops and restaurants. We paused in front of bakeries and delis, drawn to freshly cooked buns, the lacquered glow of roast ducks, and the colourful array of sweets. We couldn’t resist stepping inside a few shops and emerging with a box of takeaways, imagining the feast that would await at home. The act of bringing the celebration with us, away from the winter drizzle, transformed the evening into a private festival, each dumpling and fragrant chicken leg a continuation of the energy, colour, and joy we had just witnessed.

The dragon dances not as a spectacle alone but as a symbol: benevolent and powerful, associated with wisdom, prosperity, and the life-giving forces of water. Its movements undulate rhythmically to the beat of drums, meant to usher in good fortune and sweep away misfortune. The lion, by contrast, performs in a more intimate, theatrical way, visiting individual businesses to bow, blink, and playfully “eat” offerings, scattering lettuce and oranges to symbolize wealth. Its role is protective, warding off negative energy while blessing shops and homes.

In London, the performances are adapted to the urban setting: routes are planned for narrow streets and dense crowds, sequences are shorter and frequent, and music is amplified so that rhythm carries over the chatter of spectators. Yet the traditional gestures, bowing, and drum rhythms retain their authentic symbolism, making the dances both understandable and moving even for those encountering them for the first time.

The city context shapes the experience without diminishing it. Unlike in Asia, where dragons may stretch across vast squares and lions climb high poles, here the creatures coil through narrow streets, passing close enough to hear the clatter of bamboo and the performers’ breath.

Even the brief dry spell (what a depressing winter Londoners have been having) that had allowed the festival to unfold felt like a subtle blessing, echoing the ancient purpose of the dances to attract good fortune. Experiencing the Lunar New Year in this way — vibrant, intimate, and moving seamlessly between public spectacle and private celebration — reminded me that its essence lies not only in what we witness but in what we carry with us afterward: warmth, abundance, and the hope of a good year to come.

An Italian Evening in Belgrave Square — Music, Memory, and Farewell

Last night we managed to fit in one more concert before returning home — an unexpected coda to the day, rich in music, memory, and serendipity. We had been invited to the Italian Cultural Institute London in Belgrave Square for a recital by the Italian singer-songwriter Sergio Caputo.
Until now, Caputo had scarcely crossed my radar. Yet from the very first audible notes — after some rather painful technical issues early on — it became clear that this was an artist of unusual charm and sophistication. His music is a delightful blend of Italian pop, jazz, swing, and urbane, witty storytelling, as though each song were a vignette of city nights, lonely streets, moonlit cafes, and fleeting encounters. His guitar playing alone was a joy to behold: fluid, expressive, and at once intimate and commanding, a ribbon of sound curling around the audience, wrapping us in its warmth.
There were moments when I thought of an “Italian Bob Dylan,” not in timbre but in spirit — a storyteller with a keen eye for life’s small absurdities, its melancholy, its humour. The lyrics, even when only partially understood, carried wit, irony, and poetry, like whispered secrets between friends at midnight. And the audience — exuberant, vocal, and unmistakably Italian — knew every word, singing along with heartfelt enthusiasm. I felt slightly abashed not to share their encyclopedic familiarity, yet profoundly privileged to witness it, swept along by their collective devotion.

A Concert Immersed in Sound
Caputo’s set unfolded like a nocturnal stroll through an Italian city — sometimes playful, sometimes wistful, always intimate. He moved effortlessly between melodies, each phrase punctuated with delicate guitar flourishes, tiny improvisations, and glances that drew the audience in like conspirators in a shared joke. The technical problems at the start — the balance and levels — were frustrating, almost painful, but once corrected, the music blossomed.
I could hear the city itself in his playing: the gentle clatter of footsteps, the distant laughter, the sigh of a breeze down a narrow street. Each song told a story, sometimes comic, sometimes tender, sometimes sharply ironic, always anchored in the pulse of Italian life. The audience leaned in, laughed, clapped, and occasionally hummed along, their voices a living accompaniment, reminding us that music is both personal and communal, a thread linking hearts across time and place. Here’s my translation of perhaps his best-known song: ‘un sabato italiano’.

‘On an ordinary Saturday night in an Italian city, people pour into bars and streets lit by neon, dressed for romance, adventure, or simply to escape loneliness. They flirt, drink, laugh, and play roles — the seducer, the sophisticate, the dreamer — hoping something meaningful might happen. Yet beneath the glamour and chatter lies boredom, insecurity, and quiet longing. Connections are fleeting, emotions half-sincere, and everyone seems to be waiting for a moment that never quite arrives. As the night fades, nothing has really changed: people drift home alone or unsatisfied, carrying the same hopes into the next week, while the city prepares to repeat the ritual all over again”

Rediscovering Italian Classical Tradition
As the evening unfolded, I found myself reflecting on Italian music in its broader, canonical sense. When we speak of the great tradition, it is not the popular song that comes first to mind, but the masters of classical music, opera especially: Antonio Vivaldi, Giuseppe Verdi, Ottorino Respighi, Giacomo Puccini, and others who have defined the soundscape of Italy through centuries. This music — rich in melody, drama, and colour — remains the axis of Italy’s musical identity, the heartbeat of a culture that moves effortlessly from the intimate to the epic, from whispered sonatas to soaring arias.
Yet Italian popular and folk music has long influenced composers far beyond Italy’s borders. Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony, with its lively tarantella rhythms, captures the energy, pulse, and swing of Italian dance and song. Richard Strauss’s Italian Fantasy carries the lightness, the rhythm, and the colour of Italian popular melodies, as if the spirit of Italian streets, piazzas, and festivals had been distilled into orchestral form. Italian popular music, ever-present and vibrant, has quietly inspired European classical composition for centuries, running alongside the monumental canon of Italian classical composers.

Photographs Across Worlds — Fosco Maraini
Adding to the evening’s richness was the exhibition of Fosco Maraini’s photographs. These images spanned continents: ethnographic studies from Tibet and the Himalayas, portraits of workers and traditional crafts, snapshots of Italian cultural life. Each photograph seemed to carry a story within its frame — a quiet gesture, a glance, a fleeting moment of dignity or joy captured forever.
For us, the exhibition was deeply personal. Two years ago we had the extraordinary privilege of visiting Maraini’s isolated house in the Garfagnana forest, attending a small concert, and meeting his Japanese widow, who continues to catalogue his legacy. (See my post https://longoio3.com/2023/07/24/maraini-mozart-and-the-mayor/). Viewing his work again in London felt like a circle quietly closing, a bridge across time and space, a whisper from the past meeting the present in a luminous, delicate alignment.

A House of Memories — Farewell to Belgrave Square
And then, there is the building itself. Belgrave Square is more than a venue: it is woven into the fabric of our lives. It was in its grand drawing room, many years ago, that Sandra and I first met. Sandra was brought up there; her father served as Secretary General, and her mother also worked in the office. It is a place of life, of lessons, concerts, lectures, chance encounters — a home of cultural and personal memory. Its walls seem to hum with echoes of every note sung, every word spoken, every conversation lingered upon, every footstep in the grand stairwell.
Now, the Institute is moving to Palace Gate, to be combined with the consulate and other Italian offices under the name “Casa Italia.” Practical, perhaps, but it strikes the ear as misplaced — even cheap. The name evokes a well-known Italian restaurant in London. One cannot help but imagine people phoning the consulate and ordering three pizzas, only to find themselves at a government office. The poetry, the gravitas, the intimacy of Belgrave Square is lost in this new, slightly absurd branding.

An Ebullient Evening
When the concert concluded and we stepped out into the London night, the building still hummed with conversation, laughter, and Italian warmth. It was not merely an audience departing but a community lingering, reluctant to let go, reluctant to leave behind something more than bricks and plaster — a spirit, a culture, a shared history.
For us, the evening was more than entertainment. It was discovery and remembrance, coincidence and farewell — an Italian evening in London, framed by its canonic classical composers, by contemporary jazz-inflected songwriting, by photography that bridges continents, and by a place whose walls are infused with decades of cultural life.

We left with full hearts, grateful for one last night in a house of music and memory, a chapter closing, yet leaving a resonance that will linger long after the lights went down. In the memory of its rooms, in the spirit of its concerts, and in the songs still ringing faintly in our ears, Belgrave Square will remain an Italian home, even when the doors have closed for the final time.

“We left with hearts made full by one last night,
Grateful for music breathing through each wall,
Where memory kept vigil in the light
That trembled soft before the final fall.
There first we met—two strangers drawn to sound,
While arias climbed the stair and filled the air;
Now silence folds those bright rooms all around,
Yet something of their singing lingers there.
Belgrave Square remains our Italian home,
Though doors are closed and chandeliers are dim;
Its echoes follow everywhere we roam,
A distant choir grown tender, far, and slim.
And when we drift to that last island’s shore,
Love’s song will guide us—opened door to door”.