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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ieri sera, alle ore 20.30, nella Pieve di Monti di Villa, è stata celebrata la Santa Messa in onore del patrono del paese, San Giovanni Battista, il profeta che, secondo la tradizione cristiana, annunciò la venuta di Gesù e lo battezzò nel fiume Giordano.
La celebrazione è stata presieduta da don Raffaello Giusti e si è conclusa in un clima di raccoglimento e di gioia. Al termine della Messa, tutta la comunità si è ritrovata per un piacevole rinfresco, trascorrendo insieme un momento di amicizia e condivisione.
Purtroppo quest’anno non è stato possibile svolgere la tradizionale processione per diversi motivi. Tuttavia, come ha ricordato don Raffaello Giusti nella sua omelia, la fede e la preghiera non dipendono da una processione: l’importante è ritrovarsi insieme per celebrare il Signore.
È stata una bella serata, vissuta con serenità e spirito di comunità.

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Last night, at 8:30 pm, Holy Mass was celebrated in the Parish Church of Monti di Villa in honour of the town’s patron saint, Saint John the Baptist, the prophet who, according to Christian tradition, announced the coming of Jesus and baptized him in the Jordan River.
The celebration was presided over by Father Raffaello Giusti and concluded in an atmosphere of reflection and joy. After the Mass, the entire community gathered for pleasant refreshments, enjoying a moment of friendship and sharing.
Unfortunately, the traditional procession could not be held this year for various reasons. However, as Father Raffaello Giusti recalled in his homily, faith and prayer do not depend on a procession: the important thing is to come together to celebrate the Lord.
It was a beautiful evening, experienced with serenity and a community spirit.

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There are moments in life that seem disastrous when they occur, yet later reveal themselves as unexpected blessings. For me, one such moment came during the bitter winter of 1963. I slipped on the icy ground outside the Butt at Dulwich College—our school’s refreshment room where one could buy a packet of crisps and a bottle of Tizer outside lesson times—and broke my leg.

It was one of the coldest winters Britain had experienced for generations.

I found myself in King’s College Hospital. To make matters worse, the fracture was initially set incorrectly. I had to tell them they had got it wrong. The leg was broken again, a metal pin inserted, and I resigned myself to many weeks of enforced stillness.

Looking back across more than sixty years, I sometimes think that broken leg changed my life.

Until then I had enjoyed music, but I had not yet entered its deeper world. During those long weeks I discovered Rachmaninoff. Something opened in me that has never closed. His music seemed to reveal another world entirely—one of depth, longing, and emotional truth.

At the same time I began to awaken to painting, literature, and the wider landscape of European culture. Hospital gave me something rare: time to listen, to think, and to discover.

When I returned home, the public library became a second education. Its shelves of gramophone records were extraordinary. My first borrowings were Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and Berlioz’s overtures. I cannot imagine a finer beginning.

Yet there remained one great art that left me unmoved.

Opera.

Whenever the singing began, my interest would simply fall away. I hated Britten and listened dutifully to Monteverdi in Raymond Leppard’s then-fashionable re-orchestrations. Our school music master insisted that Monteverdi marked the beginning of opera. I accepted it intellectually, but not emotionally.

My real devotion lay in orchestral and chamber music, particularly the extraordinary transition between the late Baroque world of Bach and Handel and the emerging classical language of Mozart and Haydn. That transformation fascinated me.

Opera simply was not for me.

Or so I believed.

Gradually, almost without noticing, something shifted.

Jeremy Tambling introduced me to Gilbert and Sullivan. Later, Sandra and I were invited to Glyndebourne. I remember dressing for the occasion, walking through the gardens, eating strawberries and cream during the interval, and feeling I had entered another world entirely. I can no longer recall the opera, but I remember the atmosphere with complete clarity.

The real change came later.

For two pounds one could buy an upper-slip ticket at Covent Garden. Sandra and I would roar into London on my motorbike, park freely, and climb the endless stairways to the highest gallery. There were no lifts. The wooden benches creaked beneath us. None of it mattered.

We were already inside the experience.

It slowly became clear that opera is not something one simply hears.

It is something one enters.

Music, theatre, poetry, architecture, painting, costume, movement, and the human voice converge into a single, overwhelming form. Opera is not music with decoration. It is the place where all the arts meet.

Without ever noticing the exact moment, I had become an opera lover.

There were nights that remain vivid still. I once queued through the night for Joan Sutherland in Massenet’s Esclarmonde. That sense of anticipation, of waiting for something almost unreal, has never left me. Over the years I gathered programmes from every performance, and they now form a parallel autobiography—one written in evenings at Covent Garden, Glyndebourne, Torre del Lago, La Scala, and elsewhere.

Long before I became an audience member, I had stood on the operatic stage myself.

At Cambridge I joined the university opera society and sang—and even danced—in Berlioz’s Béatrice et Bénédict, alongside the delightful Sally Bradshaw, who later became one of Britain’s distinguished Handel sopranos. We also performed Gluck’s Iphigénie en Tauride. Those experiences gave me an early glimpse of opera from within, before I encountered it as a listener.

As the years passed, my tastes continued to evolve.

I was drawn increasingly to Handel and the Baroque world. I met figures such as Raymond Leppard, whose pioneering work in reviving Monteverdi helped reshape our understanding of early opera. Later came interpreters such as Sardelli at Barga who invigorated Vivaldi for a new generation.

Italy changed everything again.

At Torre del Lago we discovered a different operatic world. In those days there was no permanent theatre. Each summer a vast scaffolding structure rose beside the lake, only to be dismantled again at season’s end. During intervals, coffee was served by the Red Cross. It sounds improbable now, but it gave the experience a striking immediacy and humanity. Many still insist those early performances possessed a magic that later splendour cannot quite replicate.

Nearby, at Lucca, the Teatro del Giglio offered a more permanent and equally admirable tradition.

We travelled widely. In Valletta we encountered one of Europe’s most extraordinary survivals: an eighteenth-century theatre of astonishing beauty, where we heard J.C. Bach performed with remarkable freshness. The Camden Festival, too, played its part in reviving forgotten works and composers.

Elsewhere came unforgettable evenings: Catania’s Teatro Bellini, where I heard Pizzetti’s Assassinio nella cattedrale—rarely performed now—and Genoa, where I saw a remarkable Falstaff in a theatre rebuilt after wartime bombing, controversial in its restoration yet unforgettable in presence.

There are still places I have not seen: Venice’s La Fenice, Naples’ San Carlo. Perhaps there is still time.

I have, however, been fortunate enough to visit Wagner’s house in Bayreuth and Bellini’s in Catania. Verdi’s remains on the list.

Yet opera has never been about buildings alone.

There is a persistent misunderstanding in England that opera is elitist. It is not. One often pays more for a football ticket than for an opera seat. In Italy, opera is part of life itself, woven into the fabric of the community.

I remember passing through Modena on the day Luciano Pavarotti was buried. We stood outside the cathedral as his coffin entered, accompanied by flowers and a letter from his family. It was not merely the farewell to a singer. It was the farewell to a man who belonged to the life of his city.

That is what opera means in Italy.

In England, opera was once regarded with suspicion, even as morally questionable in Victorian times. Yet opera is not elitist. If anything, it demands something far rarer than wealth or status.

It demands human generosity.

Understanding.

Compassion.

And love.

So I return always to Mozart.

The Magic Flute remains, for me, the purest expression of what opera can be: wisdom, joy, humanity, forgiveness, and light. And I return also to The Marriage of Figaro, where comedy and philosophy, tenderness and social insight, coexist in perfect balance.

Opera continues to deepen and expand life.

Perhaps that is its greatest gift.

Opera is not simply something we attend.

It is something through which we remember our lives.

It becomes a structure of memory itself—of love, friendship, travel, loss, and discovery.

And in the end, it is inseparable from life itself.

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