Category Archives: Italy

Mar23

The Florentine Files… Three Women of the Renaissance

Posted on March 23, 2021 by terryannewilson

Eleonora di Toledo marked the passage of the months with epicurean delights. In April, asparagus from Milan and healthy doses of oysters. June was graced with figs, peaches, Venetian pears, and olives from her father’s Spanish vineyard. And as autumnal weather cooled Tuscany, feasts of salted cod, artichokes and pheasants were abundant. The setting, after all, was an illustrious Renaissance court; not just any court but that of the Medici’s. Eleonora was the wife of Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici. Yet it was no secret that Eleonara had married beneath her.

Born in 1522, Eleonora was the daughter of one of Spain’s wealthiest and important families. When Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, made her father Viceroy to Naples, Eleonora couldn’t know that she was destined to take the path of a political marriage to Florence’s all-powerful family. And some argue that Eleonora was among one of the first modern ruling ladies, a political advisor to her husband, commissioning and curating the arts, purchasing a palace with her own funds… and giving birth to eleven children. She was beautiful, intelligent, pious, and without a doubt, influential in helping guide the relatively new Dukedom of the Medici’s.

The Medici’s were not descended from power or royalty. Born in Florence in 1360, Giovanni di Bicci de’ Medici, one of five sons would inherit very little. Yet he would establish two woollen workshops and after securing a job in banking, set up the vastly influential Medici family bank in 1397. Branches were soon established throughout Italian city-states and beyond. Giovanni’s son Cosimo, then his grandson Piero, and in turn his great-grandson Lorenzo the Magnificent, would through the decades– except for two short interruptions – be the defacto rulers of Tuscany. They would endow Florence with patronage of art and architecture, helping facilitate a rebirth of the classical world – a great flourishing of artists, architects, scholars, writers and poets. In short, The Renaissance.

A distinguished visitor in 1490 declared from the pulpit of Florence’s cathedral that the Florentines were a people ‘whose name is known all over the world and is more blessed than any other.’ Two years later, the Florentine scholar Ficino wrote that the “profusion of golden intellects had restored to life the arts of grammar, poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture and music… and all of this, in Florence.”

A number of years ago, I happily strolled back and forth across Ponte Vecchio during a week-long course of ‘Women in Renaissance Art’ at the British Institute of Florence. The ‘old bridge’ has long spanned over the river Arno. It unites the two halves of the city, between the old Roman centre with Brunelleschi’s towering Duomo, stalwart palazzos and charming piazzas, then beyond, over to the Oltrarno to the more working-class quarter of Florence. The ‘other side’ where the grandeur of Palazzo Pitti meets medieval chapels and neighbourhoods that still echo with the hum of this once-artisanal community – leather ateliers and stationers, wool dyers and sculpture studios. Ponte Vecchio’s origins during Roman times as a stone and wooden crossing, only seems to underscore the palimpsest layering of history and architecture. It enraptures and endears us to this storied city; I’ve written previously of how and when I fell in love with Florence.

During my sojourn to study at the Institute, as I ambled back across the Arno to my pensione, I was transfixed by thoughts of the women of the Renaissance and the roles they played. Their contributions, sacrifices, perceptions and opinions are often overshadowed. Thankfully their stories are slowly and enticingly being peeled back. And not surprisingly, just as women throughout centuries have thrived, persevered, and often quietly made their way, Florence holds colourful, fascinating and heartbreaking tales… as rich as the Ghirlandaio, Lippi or Masaccio canvasses that imbue this richly decorated city.

As I write this however, I’m not nestled in the drawing room of the Hermitage gazing out over the Arno at sunset, ziaboldone in hand, eager to record the tales of the day. No, in this time of the pandemic, I’m in the snowy mountains of British Columbia studying virtually with the British Institute. Tulips evoking spring decorate my desk, Renaissance books lay open and bookmarked, and a painting of Eleonora di Toledo invites me to examine each finely crafted detail. It isn’t my favourite Renaissance painting – that goes to Primavera and Birth of Venus by Botticelli (I can’t settle on just one) – yet the story behind the painting and the life of the subject is captivating. Women’s lives often are.

Portrait of Eleonora di Toledo with Her Son Giovanni de’ Medici, Bronzino 1545

It is 1544, Eleonora and her second son Giovanni will soon be posing for the talented Bronzino, the portrait painter of the Medici court. Despite the Duchy and its tremendous wealth, Duke Cosimo agonizes as to how the portrait will be received. Are the clothes and jewels appropriate and lavish enough? Will the background be too understated? Should both of his young sons appear in the portrait? Yet surely such obvious fecundity, producing two sons in a short period, secures the Medici line and thus the future of Florence?

Cosimo (1519 – 1574) is from a different branch of the Medici family than those who had ruled for the past one-hundred and sixty years or so. He is the son of Maria Salviati, a granddaughter of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and the famous soldier Giovanni delle Bande Nere. In 1537, at the age of only 17 and almost unknown, his mother helps propel him to the head of the family when the Duke of Florence is assassinated by a cousin. Many influential men in the city favour Cosimo, hoping to rule through him as they anticipate he’ll be malleable and inept. Instead, he proves strong-willed, astute, ambitious, ruthless at times, and after his marriage to Eleonora in 1539, only more formidable.

There’s a romantic notion that the Duke first caught glimpse of the young Spanish noblewoman on a business trip to the state of Naples. Her father is allegedly considering an older sister for matrimony, yet legend has it Cosimo was taken with the beauty and grace of the younger sibling. Seemingly, despite the great wealth and their vast patronage of the Renaissance, the Toledo’s family are wary. The Medici’s are no match for their illustrious royal family. It’s time for Cosimo’s mother, Maria Salviati to hone her marriage-brokerage skills!

Duke, later Grand Duke, Cosimo I de’ Medici, Bronzino

Maria is a Medici by birth, a noblewoman, widowed at the age of 27, and had already used her family connections to secure her son’s installation as the new Duke as Florence. And she certainly knows the advantages of a family marriage to royalty, rather than to yet another noble family.

Allore, Maria sends her agents off to Venice, to peruse pearls. She wants only the best, two hundred or so, which are duly purchased. Fifty of the lustrous margaritas, and a pendant, are sent to win over the potential daughter-in-law-to-be… with the promise of the remaining pearls upon marriage. It’s also likely that Maria spends a small fortune on other gifts, as does Cosimo, as does Eleonara’s family when they finally agree upon the marriage and the substantial dowry. A dowry during the Renaissance was held in safe keeping for the wife’s benefit, though husbands could earn interest on the amount.

After a jubilant welcome to Florence, the spectacular wedding lasts for days and it’s agreed that despite the arrangement, the union is a fond one. To her new home, Eleonora brings an entourage, an art collection and the necessities to set up her casa. Her cassoni, carved wedding chests, would certainly have been overflowing. These chests, often exhibited during the precession that accompanied young brides to their new home, are costly and heavily decorated with representations of legendary heroes and allegories. The most expressive was saved for the heavy inner lid – imagery of those vital conjugal duties. Cosimo, however, needs no inspiration in this regard. He has already fathered a much-loved illegitimate daughter, Bia, who is raised by her grandmother Maria. By this time in 1540, the family had moved from the imposing family palazzo to the stately Pallazo della Signoria.

Palazzo della Signoria, now Pallazzo Vecchio

The couple’s first child, a daughter named after Maria, is born nine months later. A son Francesco, ten months later, Isabella just over a year later, then Giovanni the next year, Lucrezia just over a year after that. In all, Eleonora gives birth to eleven children in fourteen years. Last is Don Pietro in 1554 and sadly, of him, there are dark stories to be told… first, back to the Bronzino painting.

This is an important ‘royal’ portrait, yet perhaps that doesn’t quite compensate for the tedium of portrait posing, or even finding the time for that matter. Eleonora is not only busy as a mother and in her role as Duchess, she is also a traveller at heart.; happiest to escape the confines of Florence and whisked away by Cosimo on business or to one of the many villas in the dukedom. They play tennis, fish and hunt, entertain, and enjoy those vast Tuscan feasts.

Was it perhaps on one of these trips that the couple agrees upon the fabric for the portrait dress, acquiring twenty-seven metres of the finest fabric; worth a small king’s ransom. The three year sartorial undertaking to construct the masterpiece of velvet, brocade, gold and pearls requires ten meters. Eleonora sends the remaining fabric to her sisters in Spain, then gives a little to charity.

At last, the dress is declared a triumph and the sittings with Bronzino can be arranged. Besides her beautiful self, Eleonora adorns the dress – a golden chain belt with a glimmering pearly tassel and of course, those precious marriage pearls. Bronzino renders the painting exquisitely in the Mannerist style with a sculptural treatment and flat lighting. And he delicately paints a pomegranate on the constricted bodice of the dress, which justifiably symbolizes fertility and abundance. Eleonora looks regal yet distant perhaps, or is it simply what her more-strict Spanish royal upbringing dictates? This portrait is painted to impress, to exalt the Medici dynasty, really a vehicle for propaganda.

Often painted as gifts to noblemen, ruling families and royalty, once approved by their patron (the person who paid for its commission) portraits such as this would be wrapped in fine Florentine paper and transported afar using the Medici’s intricate communication and ‘logistics’ network. In this instance, quite likely intended as a gift to the Emperor himself. The family couldn’t have known just how poignant and treasured this painting will become. Despite her piety and prayers for the safekeeping of her family, tragedy would soon befall it.

Part Two

In 1549, Eleonora purchases the Palazzo Pitti, on that other side of the Arno, commissioning an extension and a grand garden. It becomes one of the family’s residences with room to house some of Eleonora’s and Cosimo’s amassed paintings, sculptures and objects d’art. Yet the Duchess won’t see her project completed. Three years later, the sweet boy in the painting is 19 and already a bishop. His brother Garzia is 16. In 1562, on a trip to Pisa, they and their mother succumb to malaria within weeks of each other. The boys die first. Then, at only forty, Eleonora passes away in the arms of her disconsolate husband.

Prayers are held throughout Florence, especially in the convent that Eleonora had founded, and the mournful funerals and the burials in the family crypts in the Basilica of San Lorenzo are far too premature. The exquisite dress, so carefully created, is now a burial gown.

As I delve deeper into Eleonora’s life, I’m interested in her legacy; a great patron of convents, of the arts, of Palazzo Pitti. Although the public perception of the Duchess was often one of ‘excessively Spanish, too pious and noble’, my perception, along with her legacy, is also one of a loving mother and wife. And I reflect with relief that she didn’t live to see the trials and tragedies that befall her family.

Cosimo carries on, fathers at least one more illegitimate child, then is conferred upon him the title of Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1569. He hands over the reins of the Duchy to his eldest son Francesco, marries Camilla Martelli, has two more children, then spends most of his remaining years outside of Florence at Villa di Castello. I come across a passage that after ruling Tuscany for thirty-seven years, in his final years, he dedicates himself to the cultivation of jasmine.

Eleonora and Cosimo had ensured all of their children were raised and educated in the classics, languages and the arts. Cosimo’s favourite daughter, Isabella, seems to be a delightful blend of her parents. A beauty like her mother, she has a love of music, is high-spirited and has an aptitude for politics. Yet her fate too is of a political marriage and her father settles the strategic union with the wealthy Roman Orsini clan.

Isabella is betrothed at age eleven, to twelve-year old Paolo Giordano Orsini. The marriage ceremony takes place at the favourite family Villa di Castello when the bride is sixteen and it’s known that the groom departs the next day with the military. Yet Cosimo does something unusual and safe keeps not only the dowry, but makes the paternal decision that his daughter should mostly remain in the Medici family home, rather than at the Corsinis. When her mother dies, Isabella steps in as ‘First Lady.’

Isabella also has an unusual amount of freedom and control over her own affairs than is customary for a young Florentine bride. She hosts a creative group of women who gather to appreciate and promote the arts. Isabella has an affair, rather unfortunately, with her husband’s cousin. This leads to a fateful night in 1576 when on a hunting holiday with her husband, Isabella is strangled at midday in the presence of servants at a family villa. Her husband is perhaps the murderer, or gives his tacit permission, as does Isabella’s brother, the now Grand Duke Francesco. An ambassador who knew Eleonora’s daughter wrote, “Her liveliness never leaves her, it is born within her.”

Yet that trait does not extend to Eleonora’s and Cosimo’s last child, Don Pietro, who appears to have had few redeeming qualities. A spendthrift and serial philanderer, he will truly shame the family name while at yet another country villa with his young wife. She is in fact a cousin of Pietro’s. Eleonora niece who she had taken in as a child, raising her alongside her own children. Leonor Alvarez di Toledo was named after Eleonora. She is witty, talented, and close with Isabella who is like a sister.

Like Isabella’s, Leonor’s marriage is not a success and she also conducts herself as her husband does, with a tendency to take lovers. In Cosimo’s time, affairs were tolerated if kept quiet; behind the villa doors so to say. Not so with Grand Duke Francesco and he also appears to cover up and approve another murder.

Leonor is strangled by Pietro de’ Medici on July 10, 1576, six days before Isabella. The Spanish royal house of the Toledos is outraged, yet Pietro is never brought to justice. He ends his days in debt, banished of all places to Spain and when he dies, his five illegitimate children are brought back to Florence to be cared for.

But this story is about Eleonora, Isabella and Leonor, three women of the Renaissance. And indeed, all Renaissance women – with talents, hopes, and dreams. Yet despite the many strides made by Eleonora and the two vibrant women she had loved and nurtured, their lives were ended tragically and senselessly, seemingly without remorse or punishment.

I’m haunted by something that is pointed out during the lectures that have become a part of my daily routine, part of my own Renaissance dream that has kept me grounded through these last winter days. We have to consider that during the Renaissance, close to half of all females were either sent to convents because of lack of dowry funds, or indeed chose to enter one – places of intellect, of learning, of peace and perhaps refuge.

In this fabled period that witnesses a rebirth of ‘enlightenment’, awakening of patronage and refinement of arts and architecture, a blossoming of knowledge and fresh philosophies, women were often denied access to that freedom of choice and expression. As much as Eleonora, her daughter and her ward epitomised the admirable traits of confidence, talent and opinions, their own flowering took place in the constraints of hypocrisy and their lesser status as women… a strength in adversity that fascinates and endears them even more to me.

The Birth of Venus, Botticelli, 1484 – 86

Primavera (Spring), Botticelli, about 1480

Mar21

Blame It On Michelangelo…. An Ode to Travel

Posted on March 21, 2020 by terryannewilson

Standard

I was meant to be giving a writing workshop today, in my childhood hometown of Coaldale, Alberta. Yet here I am, cocooned in my office… at home where most of us now find ourselves in the midst of this COVID-19 pandemic.

When it was announced recently that I had been awarded the Community Artist of the Year Award from the town I left when I was only eighteen, I gladly offered to give my Joy of Writing Workshop. I was also looking forward to reconnections, to spending a weekend with my parents, and to the honour of receiving recognition for my work from the place that conjures so many memories.

I’ll write soon on this alarming and incredibly sad situation now gripping the world, but for now I present this ode to travelling… a pleasure now largely on hold for people the world over. Most especially, this blog pays homage to Italy, a country and people I adore… people who are suffering tragic losses. It is perhaps also a message of hope. Despite the present crisis, those passions and dreams that we harbour will hopefully still be realised.

I had planned to speak about this in my workshop today, of how our dreams are like a seed, planted within us, rooted, sometimes latent, waiting until the time is right to act upon them. And I would have spoken of how our passions, whatever shape they take, are a part of who we are and give our life meaning. My passion has ever been to travel, to journey, to revel in the sheer experience of our world.

I took my first flight at the age of 17, a high school trip on Easter break to Italy. My parents remind me still that it almost didn’t happen. I’m thankful that it did, and for the wanderlust that ever since has filled my soul… I can only blame it on Michelangelo!

It was the beginning of grade 12 when I came home with news for my parents about an early grad trip to Italy. Although it sounded interesting, I didn’t think I’d go. I was busy as the President of the Student’s Council, a cheerleader and softball player. My school grades were fine but I never really excelled, except perhaps in English and History; in retrospect my love for it was always there. I hung onto every lesson and vividly recall our history teacher depicting Mao’s so-called Great Leap Forward on the classroom’s vast chalkboard. I couldn’t know that nine years later I would find myself escaping from China during the Tiananmen Square massacre.

During those school years, I would often go home and verify historical facts from our World Book Encyclopaedia volumes. For a tantalising period, one book would arrive every month, an interminable wait when one is hoping to read up on Wales or Yemen! There were always a couple of books perched on my bedroom desk, their faux leather binding a contrast to my vivid purple walls. With matching purple-flowery curtains and bedspread from the Sears catalogue, it was a dreamy space to read up on my favourite historical periods. I find it surprising that to this day I have a deep dislike for the colour purple, considering the many hours spent in that mauvy oasis.

“What do you mean you’re not going to Italy? It’s right up your alley,” my Dad remonstrated with me one evening. I was reclined on my bed trying to concentrate on my homework as a Cheap Trick album spun on my turntable. He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, then over to my mother who was leaning against the doorway, arms folded, ready to back him up.

“But I’m busy,” I said with emphasis, “and you do remember I have a serious boyfriend!”

My parents looked at each other knowingly. “All the more reason you’re going,” my mom retorted. “And if you fly through Amsterdam you’re going to meet some of your Dutch relatives. It might snap you out of this relationship you think is the be all and end all!” And with that, it was decided. I would be going to Europe for the first time in my life.

Four months later in Florence, I stood in front of Michelangelo’s marble sculpture of David. The statue in Piazza della Signoria is only a replica, imposing and evocative enough in its grand surrounding – but to be completely mesmerised you must gaze upon the true David at the Galleria dell’Accademia.

I have visited Florence often since then, but with absolute certainty, that first time David awakened something in my soul. I could feel the glory and enlightenment of the Renaissance, of history captured in storied stone. As I gazed up at Michelangelo’s chiseled marble, it represented not only this most beautiful age of art, one that would shape the course of history, but it embodied the promise of travel and the wonders that the world held in store. That first trip had a profound impact on how my life unfolded.

Six years later, David would surface again. I had moved to Calgary after graduating from college where my first real job, as a Personal Assistant, awaited me. Next, I would manage a health spa. I then settled into advertising. During that time I again traveled to Europe, to Asia, and by degrees I started plotting. How might I leave Calgary and live in Europe? Perhaps I could go live with my Dutch relatives whom I had gotten to know. Might I become an au pair in France? These were the days before internet and I would pour over newspapers and travel brochures for ‘possibilities’, ever hopeful that an ad would present itself and I would happily traipse off to that new life.

Of course, it couldn’t happen that easily. I kept working to save money. Earning money to travel is what really mattered to me. Oh the joy back then of taking your savings book to the bank and watching that total grow! In between jobs, I went on a six week Contiki Tour – touring nine countries with young people from around the world. We met in a designated hotel in London and as the bus journeyed us through European capitals, to castles perched on improbable hilltops, to a ferry that would sail us to the sandy shores of Corfu, the thrill of it all was intoxicating. I confess that there might have been a bit of partying, but ‘geeky me’ was equally enraptured with the history and the architecture. I plied our Australian tour guide with questions and took ample notes – still today I am a compulsive about note-taker. Not surprisingly when I returned to Calgary after that Contiki tour, I became even more obsessed with leaving Canada.

My wanderlust would become a detriment to relationships as I daydreamed of where I would travel and live. Sundays were the worst. The strains of Bach and Ravel would accompany me as I studied my oversized Atlas (another gift from my parents) laid out on a newly purchased glass-topped dining table. It was on monthly instalments, part of a furniture purchase made with my live-in boyfriend. I was 25, had a well paying job in advertising, and furniture that represented what I didn’t yet want… stability and commitment.

Besides my full time job, I often cocktail waitressed a few nights a week to boost my travel fund for that not-so-secret ‘world wide trip’. That’s when David again ‘appeared.’

I finally thought that I had found a way to work in Europe and applied for a job as a tour guide. Some months later, there I stood in London before a hiring panel, for none other than Contiki Tours.

“My presentation today is about David, Michelangelo’s magnificent Renaissance masterpiece…” With that introduction, the job interview began. Surely it would be the perfect marriage of learning and presenting history while traveling. Yet I would almost all but forget that I had applied.

By the end of that year, having saved for three years, I bought a one-way ticket to Asia. I quit my jobs, gave up my apartment and stored my sports car at my parents… a little insurance just in case I came back! And serendipity had interceded. He came in the form of a handsome Scotsman who had somehow landed in Calgary after a stint of working in Africa.

“Can I travel with you for a few months?” Bruce asked after we had dated for a short period. I agreed to just a few months. After Asia, I was set to meet a good friend in Australia, yet I wouldn’t know that my future was about to change course. Bruce has been my travel companion ever since; come this June, my husband of thirty years.

I had put my hopes and dreams into a 55 litre backpack and jetted off to Bangkok. Lounging poolside before backpacking started, I learned that I had been offered that job by Contitki after all. It seems life had other plans… I was already meandering down a different path.

Still today, I blame it all – respectfully, adoringly, most definitely on Michelangelo!

Pont Vecchio in the distance. A bridge over the Arno, Florence

I dig out my albums from those first trips that were so pivotal in my early days of traveling. I find a group photo of us high-schoolers posing in Rome… the days of big hair, tube socks and traveller’s cheques. Still taped into the back of the album is a typed copy of the itinerary. Particularly novel is the message to parents; “If you wish to contact your children in case of emergency, you should call the CETA office in Montreal. The representatives will contact us through their Rome office.” And the helpful message to be, ‘sure to pack the copy of your traveller’s cheque numbers in your suitcase, don’t keep it on your person with the cheques, your ticket and your passport!”

I also examine the group photo from that Contiki trip in 1984. We were travellers from around the world… especially Canada, the US, Mexico, South Africa, Australia and the UK. All within the age group of 18 to 30, we formed fast friendships on that six week journey. It was simply brilliant and still today I can feel the sheer joy of the experiences captured in the photos, etched on my traveller’s soul.

For nothing could be truer; we are the sum total of our experiences and dreams – both realised and not. And still in this uncertain time, we can draw on those memories, recall the pleasure of experiences with the hope that at the end of this crisis, we will look upon the world and its myriad people again with fresh eyes and new optimism.

And as this day was intended as a Workshop, I gently encourage you to write about a trip that is etched on your soul. And I’d so love to hear them – terryannewilson@mac.com

Jan30

From Italy, with love… a few unsent postcards

Posted on January 30, 2019 by terryannewilson

Standard

As with previous years, January finds me dreamily perusing last year’s photos and notebooks. There isn’t always time to write while I’m travelling, so in the chill of midwinter, I gladly relive a few of those interesting vignettes. All three of the settings were first-time visits. Oh the joy of unanticipated discoveries! So today, let’s wander back to Italy…

Bologna… of porticoes, tall towers and gastronomy

I can’t think why Bologna hadn’t been on my list of Italian cities to visit. It is now perhaps in the top five of my treasured collection.

Why Bologna? It’s quite simple… the towers, the porticoes, and the food.

Let’s begin with the setting – an architectural feast of light and shadows created by kilometre after kilometre of arched walkways. In fact the over thirty-eight kilometres of porticoes (harking back to the porticus of Roman times) which through their varied construction tell stories spanning the ages – from medieval wooden to frescoed renaissance to the austere functionality of post world war II.

They are simply beautiful. Deemed a UNESCO World Heritage Site, I found them entrancing, and useful as the rain dampened the streets late one afternoon. Through their evocative and protecting arch ways, we ‘mazed’ our way to another of the cities’ well-known landmarks, the tallest leaning medieval tower in the world. At over 97 meters tall, the Asinelli Tower tops that of Pisa – I know, it gets all the attention – but with its little sis, Garisenda nestled beside it, these two are excellent examples of tower homes.

Becoming prominent from the pre-Renaissance period, wealthy, feuding families in the 12th and 13th centuries attempted to outbuild each other, for the purpose of defensive and sheer rivalry. Often taking as long as ten years to construct, as many as 180 of these laboriously built ‘homes’ once dotted Bologna’s skyline. By the end of the 1200’s many had collapsed or been dismantled, making these two ‘sister’s that much more valuable. I admit that despite their enduring presence, they don’t quite have the same allure as the leaning tower in Pisa. Yet, their imposing silhouettes surely transport us to a vision of Bologna’s once-soaring skyline.

Bologna understands both old… and modern vibrancy. The city boasts the world’s oldest university, rendered new by the young and edgy vibe of student life. Students gather and commune in the squares, under and near the porticoes, and most definitely in the Quadrilatero. This compact area is teeming day and night with market stalls, lavish gourmet deli shops and packed cafes.

After all, Bologna is known as La Grassa, the fat one. To say that it is renowned for its food would be an understatement to the Bolognesi. This is where ragu or bolognese originated. Where delicate pouches of ravioli melt in your mouth. Where the Palazzo della Mercanzia keeps the recipes of Bologna’s world famous dishes under ‘lock and key’. Yes, they are that precious.

So Bologna? An amazing display of porticoes and lively streets – a blend of many centuries. And a veritable feast for both the gastronome and the architectural connoisseur!

A Lunch Date in Cinque Terre...

There we were, eight of us on a day trip from our writer’s retreat in Tuscany – let loose in the Cinque Terre (five lands). For many visitors these once isolated villages, strung along the Mediterranean Sea, are a destination for hiking from village to village. We do no such thing.

We jump on the 9:30 train from Aulla, to La Spezia. Then onto the ‘Cinque Terre train’ where we cram toe to toe with day-trippers in sun hats, safari hats, hiking boots and backpacks. Yes, many are doing ‘the hike’ a pilgrimage of sorts, but we were definitely the ‘merry writers on excursion’. As the crowded train whisks through the countryside, we catch brief glimpses of tall cypresses against country villas, castles clinging to hilltops, and then finally, of the dazzling Mediterranean. It was official – we had arrived at the Italian Riviera.

We alight at Monterosso and soon cozy-up at an outdoor cafe. Soaking in the shimmering sea, we order our first espressos of the day. We watch loungers and bathers claim their spots under paint-box-orange and Italian-green umbrellas. We, on the other hand, wander. A hat for all is in order and carefully chosen. Then we embark upon a slow, picturesque stroll along an ancient via. It meanders, and along with prickly pears and milky-green olive trees, it clings precariously to the hillside. The emerald-green-turquoise-saphire-blue water fans out below us like a rich, shimmering fabric. Being writers, we ponder… surely there must be a word for such a brilliant colour. None is conjured!

We hop onto a short ferry ride to Vernazza, which despite swarms of tourists and cruise ship passengers, still feels authentic and genuine. It’s an old sea-faring town with car-free, narrow lanes snaking upwards, fringed with mountainside vineyards just beyond the small settlement.

We join the fray in the busy piazza. It is seemingly laundry day, townfolk’s washing hanging from tall, peeling and faded pastel homes. As in Venice, the port’s water once lapped against the houses themselves, but now this main square folds down to the water; a beach, an impromptu soccer field, a place for passiagetta, the evening ritual of strolling.

It’s time for a late lunch and Roberto, our favourite Italian guy and in our group, manages to secure us a table at a restaurant with a view, Ristorante Gambio Rosso. It is ideally located on the square… allowing us to gaze out to the small inlet, to the crowds and up to the floating laundry. Now Roberto, our ‘gentleman on tour’, becomes our unofficial translator as we navigate the menu. We then dine in sheer pleasure. It is the scrumptious food, refreshing local wine and glorious company over a luxurious long lunch. Allore, it was surely a mix of the right place and the excellent company of ‘merry writers’.

The Cinque Terre – and especially Vernazza – claimed a little of our hearts that day.

Trieste… of the grand, of light on pastel

Trieste? Yet another unexpected delight hints that there will be yet more to find. Head north, past Venice, 150km onwards, to the very eastern top of Italy’s ‘boot’. Nestled at the foot of the mountains, on the Gulf of Trieste, this once prosperous seaport was one of the oldest cities of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Today, it feels a little like Vienna, or Salzburg with stately opulent buildings, many that harken back to the days of mighty shipping companies.

We explore endlessly, we eat often, and sometimes we hide in neighbourhood bars from that wind – the north-easterly bora – racing briskly up the Adriatic. In one, I taste the sweetest, thickest, most delicious hot chocolate I already know I’ll ever savour. It’s barely noon, but the bar is busy. A place where wine and beer already flows and where the daily paper is ritually digested.

When the sun comes out, Trieste is full of light dancing on pastel-hued buildings. Its grand square is simply resplendent. I’m taken aback at how ‘unItalian’ it feels. But then this storied city has always been at the crossroads of Latin, Slavic and Germanic cultures.

We also explore the coast in a little Fiat, grand castles and hillside villages dotted along this narrow ribbon of land between mountain ridge and the azure sea.

Our stay is brief; in fact, we’re on our way to Slovenia to visit our son and his girlfriend. So Trieste… what can I say. Simply splendid that we happened to be passing through!

Nov5

An olive harvest in Italy… sharing in a family ritual

Posted on November 5, 2018 by terryannewilson

Standard

“Let’s be silent,” I implore my fellow olive pickers. “Just five minutes. Let’s take in the sounds of the valley.”

We’ve talked endlessly, wonderfully, hour after hour as tree after olive-laden tree, steadily yield their bounty.

I want to savour the sounds of this Italian scene. The vista from Carolyn and Paolo’s slice of paradise is spectacular and speaks for itself. Vineyards run straight and tidy, rows of Soave-valley grapes, nestled in low hills. Colourful small towns, and hamlets, also inhabit the scene; their terracotta tiled roofs dotted between the greens of cypress, olive and vine. Church steeples pierce the sky and I am drawn to their melodic tunes, a familiar signature of the small-town Italy that I love.

It is late on a Sunday morning and as we suspend our conversation for a quiet interlude, church bells peal lyrically across the valley, drifting up to our perch on the hillside. Weaving with birdsong, they are the soundtrack to this weekend’s olive harvest.

Carolyn, a Washingtonian, long-happily settled in her husband’s homeland, had kept me updated on which weekend the olive harvest would take place.

“It’s now the 13^thand 14^th,” she had written while we were in Italy last month. “The olives will be ready then.” And indeed, that was the date set for all of the surrounding community… the olive harvesting weekend had been declared!

Carolyn, Paolo, their son Leo, and Fly the basset hound, had arrived the day before from their main residence in the South Tyrol, close to the Austrian border. This country home offers a gracious, pastoral counterpoint to their home in the Italian Alps.

“The first time we looked at the centuries-old farm house we knew it was special,” Paolo told me the evening before as we chatted over a drink at our hotel, just a picturesque meander along a small windy road from their casa.

“You’ll see tomorrow,” he had said, “our house is on the end of a row, so we have a view. But it needed work, everyone told us to walk away. And we did, for a year.”

The fondness Carolyn also feels for her country place was clear to see. “A year later, we revisited it and the owner was clever. He implored us to stay overnight and that was it. I fell in love with the bedroom!”

DSCF5959

This morning, before we start our day of harvesting, Carolyn tours me through their home and I understand it all perfectly. The old stone, wood and bright colours, blend to a cozy mix of rustic and modern. And yes, the bedroom is a haven. The shutters are flung open… to the sky and to the gorgeous vista, and to a pomegranate tree. All… just there, a live mural, as beautiful as my favourite Boticelli or Michelangelo. Oh yes, I could easily imagine waking up to this living canvas.

But allore, it is time to start picking and with bags tied with rope around our waists, we happily join the family harvest. We pluck and gently glide the olives off their branches. We reach high and low, between and around, sometimes kneeling and then on our tip-toes, low on the ground and high above. Eight year-old Leo is still light and nimble enough to perch himself on the more stable branches… perfect for those elusive olea europaeas.

Time after time as our waist-cinched bags become laden with the colourful drupes (pitted fruit), Leo ferries each trove to the crates. They are laid out along the aged stones at the back entry of the home and slowly fill up, hour by hour. Neighbours, Roberta and Diana, are also busy on their plot of land just above us. Their home is also a country retreat and has been in the family for generations. Like our hosts, their passion for harvesting is evident, as is their fondness for Carolyn and Paolo.

“We’re so happy this family is our neighbours,” they reveal gladly. I notice Roberta is wearing a t-shirt that reads… If you can’t get where you’re going – you may be there. The adage mirrors the inspiring signs that Carolyn has dotted around the property. They too play their part in the charming setting; as do the hammocks, Leo’s tree house, the roses and the profuse persimmon tree.

The scenes, the sounds, the scents suffuse into one; affirming my love of travelling, the wonder and joy of it, each experience a fond gem that I tuck away in my treasure chest of travel. So too, is this opportunity to spend quality time with a friend in a unique setting – sharing and discussing our future plans as we move from tree to tree. It is also the chance to be an actor in Italian life, to be part of an annual ritual rather than the habitual spectator as a traveller. When I notice Paolo and Bruce laying on their backs, cocooned under the silvery branches ensuring not one precious olive is left lonely on the trees, I know this too is bringing sheer satisfaction to my travel companion – and also the chance to work off some pasta-fed calories, a result of our indulgent pleasures over the weeks-long meandering trip.

But Paolo ensures that this day won’t be any different and has hung up his picker’s ‘basket’ to don his chef’s apron. His weekend culinary hobby is far removed from the demands of his doctor’s responsibilities, and we’re soon called into the house for a delicious late lunch. I contribute a bottle of excellent Slovenian wine that I had squirrelled away just for this occasion and with the door wide open to the occasional tolling of bells, we sit down to:

Feast a la Paolo~ Primo: Spagehetti alle vongole. Secondo: Polenta, funghi, e formaggio Asiago. And a side dish (Contorno) of a Melanzane alla pizzaiola… all of it simply delizioso!

Over this perfect Italian style lunch, I ask the family why the olive harvest is so special.

“It’s the expectation, the hope, that you helped something thrive. With no chemicals, its personal and kind of soothing,” Paolo explains.

“It’s so satisfying to put something on your table that you grew, something so healthy,” Carolyn adds. “It’s like honesty in a bottle.”

“I love that, very fitting. It’s so wonderful to be part of this day,” I say dreamily, savouring the food, the wine, the setting, the conversation… divine, all of it!

Yet, so busy is this olive harvesting time that we can’t luxuriate too long as the ‘sacred’ appointment for pressing the olives is near. ‘Don’t be late, but don’t be early,’ seemed to be the key and we realized it was almost the optimal time for departure. But with ten minutes still, before we leave for the pressing, Paolo and Bruce once again set upon an olive tree that had not quite been picked clean. They go about their task with renewed vigour, eager to boost the yield by a few precious kilos, knowing that what remained on the trees would wither on the branch.

My mind wanders just for a second… Yes, I can imagine our very own Italian getaway, with olives, maybe a small vineyard, even a dog, and…

“You’re going to love this next phase,” Carolyn is telling me. I’m pulled away from my daydream. It is time for the main event!

From the hilltop of Castelcerino, every road leads downward and with our precious loads of olives safely stowed, our small procession of cars wend along the narrow hillside roads, down through olive groves and vineyards to the little town of Cazzano di Tramigna.

The Frantoio per Olive, the olive pressing factory, was unimposing and familial, a pastel-shaded building set just off the main street alongside a stream and small lagoon. Bruce and I, novices to this process, allow ourselves to be guided by the others who despite having done this many times before, seem to have a sense of excitement and occasion.

The weighing arrangements for their respective loads is discussed with Roberta and Diana, then we all watch with anticipation as Paolo and Carolyn’s pallet container is forklifted onto the scale. Paolo looks pleased – it’s tanto, much! Twice the yield of past years and we’re secretly delighted that we had a hand in this record haul.

Roberta and Diana have even greater cause for celebration – arm-scratched, weary yet elated from four arduous days of harvesting, they’ve reaped over half a tonne of olives, testament to their pruning and nurturing over the past year.

The pressing equipment is neat and economical, clean and freshly painted in an appropriate shade of hunter’s green. We watch in fascination as the olives are tipped into the hopper, first the wash and separation of stray leaves and grit, green olives and black, all sizes and varieties mingling in the process before disappearing into the mulcher. Olives and pits are macerated, resulting in a brown mush that ultimately joins the growing mound outside of the building.

We follow the grapes from beginning to end, savouring the already olivine odours infusing the small, but bustling factory. There is anticipation in the air as we watch the Fattoio operatives expertly moving around the equipment, sure in the knowledge of whose olives were where in the process, small cards with the family name of the olives perch on one of the machines as reminders. No drama or fuss, they work with a well-practiced rhythm amongst the noise, and with the olive patrons literally waiting for the ‘fruit of their labour’… in liquid form, of course.

45370926_2270624286503383_4737051552542359552_n

In fact, the factory rather resembles a waiting room, complete with that particular shade of green and a row of metal chairs. But the collection of family containers awaiting this year’s harvest sets it apart. Bulbous glass demijohns, tall stainless-steel jugs and common plastic vessels all await their turn – the family name clearly indicated.

We’re nearing the two-hour mark. We’ve had a delightful peek around the town. We’ve stopped to admire the old, traditional olive press. We’ve enjoyed a glass of celebratory vino overlooking the gentle lagoon, a hilltop castle peering down on us all.

Now, finally, it’s our turn. We take our front-row seats opposite the crusher in time for ‘our’ olive oil to pour forth into the containers; it’s luminous green, forming an artful gush from the stainless-steel spout, about 120 litres of cold pressed, organic extra-virgin olive oil from the hills of Castelcerino. Looks of satisfaction are worn by all; they’ve waited all year for this.

Bruce and I marvel that such a seemingly simple process of picking and packing and pressing can feel so rewarding and fulfilling; and we’ve only helped. We understand the sheer satisfaction of how it must feel to our friends, but then again, it isn’t that surprising – it’s all about communing with each other, with the land, with a treasured Italian ritual.

Yes, Carolyn had mentioned this too while we lunched. “Watching Leo grow into this, to give him this ritual is wonderful. He’s taking ownership. It’s his land too.”

As we load the hefty loads of olive oil into the cars, Leo has the final word.

“I just like the picking,” he says with a ring of innocence and delightful exuberance.

Oct8

Thirteen hours in Pisa… my passion for Italy

Posted on October 8, 2018 by terryannewilson

Standard

Pisa Airport, named for Galileo Galilei, greets me like a fond friend. Just as it did six years ago, that very first time I arrived to attend a writer’s retreat, the long narrow concourse has a happy vibe to it. It makes perfect sense considering that it is one of the main gateways to Tuscany – to sunshine and stunning vistas, to that laid-back Tuscan way of living. I notice the abundance of sandals, summer dresses and sun-kissed smiles, both satisfied and expectant.

The Machiavelli leather shop is bustling and I remember how immediately enticing it was on my first visit; soft muted colours of the supplest leather beckoning the newly arrived. Leather is my particular weakness here – every imaginable shade and design, but this time I know to leave the browsing to the many leather shops in Pisa itself.

So, I do the Italian thing and head straight to the espresso cafe with its long, curved marble bar. For most it’s a fleeting visit – we ‘locals’ know it costs more to sit, so one stands, for maybe three minutes at most, tipping back steaming double-thimbles of espresso. Then a swift farewell and a few coins for the server – Ciao, arrividerci!

I linger a little, taking in the chatter amid the clatter of cups and saucers, breathing in the sharp wafts of rich espresso, taking in the comings and goings of locals and tourists. Exiting the airport to hail a taxi, the balmy Tuscan air and terracotta pots of soft pink oleanders greet me. I’m ebullient, I’m ‘home.’

Many people have that one cherished place they return to, that special place of relaxation, refuge and rejuvenation – for me, it’s Italy. This may be my eighth visit, but I’m no longer counting and even before I leave, I’m already plotting my return. What do I love about it? Actually, just about everything.

I love how the Tuscan sun plays on ochre stone walls and on the fortress-like Renaissance tower houses… look up, high up, and you’ll see frescoes telling their stories still, evoking a rich historical past. I’m awed by the weight of history along and under Rome’s ancient streets, the romantic waterways of Venice, the grandeur of Vienna-like Trieste in the north and its dazzling position on the Italian Riviera, the evocative Cinque Terre…

And I adore the trattorias, rustic neighbourhood restaurants with their checkered table cloths, delicious pasta and wines from local vineyards that never make it into a corked bottle; perhaps just a well-worn, wicker encased carafe. Perfect for long lunches with friends.

I’m captivated by the constant parade of shutters in every possible shade of green. I wait for the bells that peal throughout the day, giving even the smallest of towns their lyrical backdrop for everyday life. The tolling of bells has traditionally not only been for their rhythmic serenade, but also to call locals to church, to beckon town folk from slumber, to remind to return to work in the fields, even to warn of intruders or impending disasters.

In Italy, I love unhurried train journeys wending through glorious countryside, the sensuous lyrical language, terracotta pots arrayed on aged flagstone, and the gentle rhythm of Italy’s rural life.

On this visit, my month-long trip begins with the writer’s retreat where I’ll be ensconced for six days with old and new friends. But first, I have thirteen glorious hours in Pisa… a rendezvous, an opportunity to reconnect.

I stay just a long stone’s throw from that tower that leans. It is late afternoon and after a journey that was much longer than it should have been (including three static hours on the Montreal tarmac in a faulty plane), I now throw open the tall window sashes of my inn, once an old tower home, and, as if on cue, I’m greeted with ringing bells. I know they’re from the nearby campanile and as always they are music to my ears. Surely, they’re calling out a welcome for my return!

After a quick shower to wash away the jet lag, I walk barely two blocks through the tall, ivy sprawled stone gate of Pisa’s imposing old city walls. The familiar scene I know and love unfolds before me. The Piazza dei Miracoli, Square of Miracles, is considered one of the finest architectural complexes in the world; the Pisa Cathedral and Baptistry, and of course that tower that has ever such a tilt. The Leaning Tower is the campanile, the bell tower and naturally, it was never meant to lean.

In fact, due to inadequate foundation, the tower began subsiding during its construction in the 1100’s. Building of the flawed design was halted for a century while the Republic of Pisa engaged in battles with Genoa, Florence and Lucca. The lean increased over its decades-long construction and despite many attempts to right it, the Romanesque-style tower with its seven hefty bells, still leans at an angle of almost 4 degrees.

I admire the tower along with a multitude of tourists, but it’s really the side streets of Pisa that draw me. Strolling from the Piazza along the ‘main street’ of Santa Maria, I instinctively look up. I’m less interested in the scenes on the street level where people are dining, enjoying a glass of wine or yes shopping in those fabulous stores brimming with leather. No, it’s the view above eye level that reveal their vivid tales. I wander street after street, veering away from the tourist haunts, delighting in navigating this labyrinth of history.

The tall tower houses, artistic and architectural jewels, were the homes of noble families, mostly built during the middle ages. The torre case were built inside the city walls for defensive purposes, those soaring higher marking the more affluent and influential families. It was not only Pisa where these towers inscribed the Tuscan skies, but also Florence, Sienna, Lucca, and my personal favourite, San Gimignano.

Along with the towers, grand palazzos and trattorias, I pass small long-standing businesses so essential to the Tuscan way of life. And do their names not roll off the tongue like a wonderful symphony – spaghetteria, yogurteria, pasticceria, paineria, gelateria, Liberia, and the essential vineria.

The evening sun is glinting beautifully on the Piazza Dei Cavalieri, or Knight’s Square, as I amble to this quiet landmark. I know that this was once the political center of medieval Pisa, and later the headquarters of the Knights of St. Stephen. In 1558, the square was rebuilt in Renaissance style by Vasari, the talented architect of the Grand Duke of Tuscany Cosimo I de’ Medici. Medici’s statue looks over the square, framed by two magnificent Palazzos and the charming church of Saint Sebastian.

I’m distracted by strains of music that draw me to the steps of the church. I meet two university students, Oswaldo and Alexandra, as they serenade the evening strollers. This evening ritual of passeggiata is quintessentially Italian – a gentle, languid stroll through the piazzas, the vias, in the countryside, or along the sea-front. A pastime enjoyed by all ages – some fresh air, the chance to see and be seen, perhaps a stop at the gelateria or vineria.

I perch myself on the church steps beside the two musicians savouring their Spanish love song, delighting in the fading sun dancing on fine Italian marble. I take in the strollers, the buildings and all that I love.

Allore, it was the perfect beginning to this month in Italy, and prelude to a planned visit to Slovenia. But that’s a story for a time soon…

Aug28

These particular ones are green…

Posted on August 28, 2014 by terryannewilson

Standard

New challenges through a blue doorway in Sweden

As I closed my front door a few days ago, I thought of the new door that will soon open for me, wide with opportunities. It’s been a flurry of activity, packing and departing our house in Canada and I write this, finally relaxed, in a cozy hotel lobby in Sweden. Sunk into a deep sofa, candles flickering on a simple wooden coffee table, we’ve been mostly awake for the past 32 hours. Trying to keep jet lag at bay, soon after arriving in Copenhagen we made our way to nearby Lund. It’s a beautiful Swedish university town where our eldest has recently moved to study for his Masters degree.

It’s good to see him settled in his little loft apartment and know he’s ready for this next challenge, his new doorway of opportunity. I’m empathetic that many of us are experiencing change at this time of year. It’s the end of summer and the season of new beginnings for students, yet often a time of struggle for parents coping with their departure. By chance, my moving to Kazakhstan has coincided with our son’s transition and as we visited him this evening, I insisted on taking a picture in front of his new blue door. Although I suggest these photos rather casually wherever we may reside, I know that there’s an ulterior motive. These photos of our more than two dozen front doors evoke poignant and treasured memories of life lived inside, around and through those portals.

The doors that inspired a piece of writing in Tuscany

Anyone who knows me well, knows, I love doors. In fact, one of the tasks at a fondly remembered writing retreat* was to wander silently for thirty minutes gathering inspiration for a piece of writing. Set in a serene bamboo grove, it’s curious that my muse was not drawn from a natural setting within the Watermill grounds. Rather, I was intrigued by a stack of abandoned doors. Then again, my choice wasn’t all that surprising for someone who sees them as more than a barrier to keep out the elements. For me, a door can be exciting, mysterious and even better if there’s an interesting ‘knocker’ or other hardware on it!

Of those doors tucked away in an old Tuscan shed I wrote;

In Krakow, Poland

Stockholm, Sweden

These particular ones are green, in fact many shades of green, the peeling paint revealing layers of life’s moments. They are now stacked in a vertical pile, discarded behind the archway they once inhabited. I am endlessly intrigued by them; their texture and colour, their hardware and design. To me they become subjects to admire, photograph and even collect. The doors I prefer are old, often in abandoned structures or homes. They no longer have the joy of being opened, closed, or being left ajar so the cat can slink in and out. Behind their scratched panels and knotted wood, they hold secrets of lives lived within their protection. Lives, perhaps of hard work, turmoil, misery, even grief – but also of joy, laughter and secret words that cascaded up to their secure surface but didn’t venture further; keeping those vignettes tucked safely inside, keepsakes for family and friends.

An old Roman Villa

Doors are often portrayed as metaphors for life; for hope, opportunity or invitation. In fact, in Roman religion and myth, Janus is the God of beginnings and traditions, and thereby of gates, doors and doorways. He is depicted as having two faces, one towards the future and one to the past. The Romans even named a month after him – the gateway to the year, January.

220px-HK_Wan_Chai_Stone_Nullah_Lane_Blue_House_74D_n_Door_Gods_n_Letter_Box

A door in China, protected with door gods

The Chinese and other eastern cultures believe in a ‘door god’, represented in decorations positioned on each side of an entry to a temple, home or business. The ‘god’ wards off evil spirits and fosters good will. It seems doors have always been symbolic and endowed with purpose; often as portents of change.

A symbolic heart graces a Norwegian door

In Norway, I was charmed by ‘hearts’ that were hung on wooden doorways, especially at Christmas time. They seemed to beckon one inside, perhaps away from the damp and cold, into a warm hearth. Doors have traditionally been of wood; oak, cedar, cypress, elm or even olive. However constructed, even flimsily such as a tent or teepee, the door has ever signified a secure boundary. And yet that boundary opens wide to allow one to go forth and explore, though we all know how comforting the sight of your own front door can be after a tiring day or late night out.

One of my favourite doors; the town hall in San Gimignano in Tuscany

I have photographed them in many countries, often for their beauty but typically for the curiosity they invoke. Upon leaving the Middle East where we lived for seven years, I even brought two home with me. One is embedded within a coffee table, the worn, dark red wood now protected with glass. The other was rescued from a garbage pile beside a once imposing, but now dilapidated fort in the barren foothills of Oman. I like to think I rescued that one from being chopped up for campfire kindling!

An abandoned door in Sintra, Portugal

And as for the changes they represent, for someone like myself who happens to open and close more than my fair share, it isn’t always easy. A few days ago as the cabin lights dimmed and the plane taxied down the runway, tears escaped from my eyes. My anticipation for this next phase was overshadowed by a mother’s love for her children. As two of ours remain in Canada the knowledge of the impending distance tore at my heart knowing this family of five is once again separated by countries, even continents. Yet, there’s the underlying comfort that within some months, a door will be flung open and family will be reunited with stories to tell of all our adventures.

For now, I can’t wait to see the interesting portals I’ll find to walk through to explore, to appreciate more wonders of this interesting world. Did I mention my next front door will actually be a Hotel…there just might be a few stories forthcoming from there!

In Christiania, Copenhagen

Lucca, Italy

*The Watermill at Posara in Tuscany, as written about in blog post ‘ So you want to be a writer…’

May29

Two backpackers, post restante and a collection…

Posted on May 29, 2014 by terryannewilson

Standard

We left with backpacks, cameras and journals; that’s all that was necessary really. Not a cell phone, a tablet or a computer. Yes, it was wonderful last week to Skype with my son in Thailand and WhatsApp with him today as he sat in a thatched hut in Laos. But I feel privileged to have travelled with the promise…I’ll write soon.

Two backpackers in India, circa 1989

Understandably, it was wrenching for loved ones to wait for letters and postcards to arrive and hopefully read that all was well. But that was the beauty of it; to receive that correspondence and devour those long awaited words. First eagerly, but then more slowly to take in every detail. Those letters could also be secreted away and brought out again and again, just to feel closer to that person so far from home.

We had planned only a basic itinerary for our six month backpacking trip. Yet it was enough to inform our parents to send a letter to Poste Restante Dehli on such and such date, then to Kathmandu by another date… and on and on. That was our only means of communication, we agreed only to resort to collect phone calls if necessary.

Poste Restante as a return address on an original Aerogramme

Poste Restante is French for ‘post remaining’ or mail that is held. One could also refer to it as General Delivery. At the time, walking into one of these main post offices on the other side of the world was an experience in itself. They were often dark and musty with a uniformed postmaster sitting with disinterest behind an untidy, wooden desk. Not wanting to be disturbed, it was usually a performance for your mail to be located as he hunted the tall shelves, layered with endless cubby holes. You waited with anticipation yet also with trepidation. Will there actually be anything for me, did they send it in time? And if they had, you did not carelessly tear open the envelope. You found a place to open it carefully, then read, hoping all was well back home. I have a distinct vision of the steps to the Poste Restante in Hong Kong; crowded with backpackers eagerly reading their long awaited letters from home. Not only did we correspond frequently with our parents, we also received many letters in return.

A long letter on parchment paper from Nepal

And thankfully, every one of them was kept. Each letter and postcard recounting the tiny details one forgets through the years. To read them now evokes images and memories that electronic gadgets will never replicate. They are now hidden away, somewhere safe, in the hope that one day they’ll be appreciated for what they represent. A time when words were chosen carefully and written in your most presentable penmanship. A time when words were savoured. In fact as travellers, most evenings we would happily write by candlelight which would shed a more romantic sheen on the often basic hostel we found ourselves in. Updating our journals or writing long letters on carefully chosen stationery became a relaxing ritual, with the added comfort of knowing how much pleasure they would bring. Once they finally arrived on the distant shores of Canada and Scotland.

It seems my love of paper and stationery was with me even before I jaunted off to Asia. For some reason I can’t explain, I have always adored it.

The first paper collected, the iconic Florentia from Italy

My collection began on my first trip to Italy when I was 18; that lovely ‘Florentia’, with its paper of finely embossed gold, woven through vibrant flowers and leaves. I remember it was displayed on my desk once I returned home and I couldn’t bring myself to use it. It was just too beautiful. I now wander into the tiny shops when I return to Italy and find it impossible to not treat myself to just one more bundle of notes or calling cards, anything will suffice really. And I gladly use them now, as often as I can!

My compact souvenirs, stationery

That first purchase prompted me to also collect hotel stationery. That one sheet of paper and envelope encapsulates a moment in time and place, each with a unique letter head and often foreign language. It evokes the sights admired and the time enjoyed, in a place you’ve been fortunate to have visited. And so I admit, since that backpacking trip in 1989, I have taken just one piece of paper from each hotel. However, nowadays, I often have to ask as it appears that

Letterheads that evoke a time and place

stationery is a dying art, much to my dismay. Though I’m sure the demand has diminished, what with those handy tablets and computers! Of course we couldn’t live without them, however there’s nothing I’d like more than to reach into my mail box tomorrow and discover a waiting letter. Post marked from Asia, with stamps that hint of where it’s from, with an address that’s just yours, with an exotic letterhead…ah, one can but dream. Let’s see if he reads this!

Mar31

So You Want To Be A Writer…

Posted on March 31, 2014 by terryannewilson

Standard

I have to admit, being announced as a writer at the recent #FIGT conference was a proud moment. It had long been a dream of mine and my eventual epiphany was inspired by a borrowed book. That book would eventually lead me to a writing retreat in Tuscany, led by Jo Parfitt. At the risk of sounding over-dramatic, it changed my life.

Becoming a writer…in Tuscany

I’ve always been envious of people who are diligently committed to their writing, as opposed to simply proclaiming their wish to be a writer, as I had done for years. Having lived and travelled for twenty-three years in countries strung across the globe, I have nevertheless written every step of the way. Though up until now, those experiences have languished in my journals, begging to be released. They attest to adventures such as safari by camel in Rajasthan, truffle hunting in the Arabian desert, and trekking in Nepal. To be fair, a few of those diary pages made it to published articles; Fleeing Tiananmen Square was one and thankfully, on a happier note, Shopping in the Silver Souks of Oman. The latter is definitely a lighter read!

Yet there’s still no book to speak of despite pleas from my ever patient husband and even a grandmother’s admonishment to, “Please write that book dear so I’ll know what you been up to all these years”. Sadly, she’s no longer with us, which reminds me that time is knocking at the door. It seems there hasn’t been that all consuming desire to lock myself away and write, that persistent need to tell my story. I could blame it on raising sons on different continents and working part time which kept me more than busy. No excuse, countless writers produce a manuscript with far less ‘crippling’ situations than mine. I now appreciate that perhaps we need to grow into things, to arrive at that place more experienced, more poised, and to forgive ourselves for ‘lost’ time.

While living in Norway these previous four years, I finally heeded my husband’s protestations and “find something I was passionate about if I wasn’t going to write that darn book”. I did cultivate my passion for history and became a tour guide. And I did write, so to speak, with verbal narratives. I can tell you everything you want to know about the Vikings, shipping fleets and herring exports, or why most of the wooden houses in Norway are painted white. In fact, I would tell stories for three hours at a time, weaving history and local culture into rich tapestries, but alas they’re not on paper. My stories were informative and entertaining, but ephemeral nonetheless.

And so it was through a book lent to me, written by Maggie Myklebust, that I finally became committed to writing. Maggie had an inspiring story to tell and she was brave enough to do so in her book Fly Away Home. It touched me on many levels, but mostly Maggie’s determination to become an author, something she could not have envisioned. Her publisher was Jo Parfitt of Summertime Publishing, who would that autumn lead a writing retreat in Tuscany. After years of dabbling as a writer, I dug up the courage to put my proclamations to the test. And if it all failed miserably, at least I would have had a week in beguiling Tuscany.

The Tuscan Writers

Eleven strangers had chosen to be thrown together. Eleven strangers who shared a love of words, poetry and story telling, but could we write? We all had doubts as to why we had taken this plunge; frightened, yet excited with the possibilities of what the week would bring.

Writing at the Vine Terrace

The group was mostly British including eighty- four year olds, Pamela Mary and Peeta. These lovely ladies arrived together, their sun hats set firmly atop their silvery coiffures. They had been raised by nannies and servants in Her Majesty’s far flung colonies while their fathers served the British Empire. Both were eager to record their stories from a bygone era for family and posterity. They only wrote with pen and paper, no lap tops, and their penmanship was beautiful, of course. We were inspired that they had the courage to begin the journey of writing their memoir, confirmation that it is never too late to fulfill a dream.

The Watermill at Posara was the ideal setting for a writing retreat. The Tuscan sunshine, superb hospitality and gorgeous surroundings welcomed us with open arms. With the back drop of a cobblestoned courtyard and terracotta pots stuffed with bouganvilla, we embarked on six days of lessons and inspired writing. Most of our work took place under the Vine Terrace. Shaded by a mass of grape vines, their plump grapes poking through the trellises, the terrace welcomed us into its safety. It is here our writing would evoke emotions of sorrow, joy, disappointment and laughter, along with tears.

Our mandate was to learn and observe, to write, to polish, to present by 5 p.m. This did not vary. Every day, bar one, we knew at this time we must present a piece of work to be read aloud for all to hear, to ponder and to comment upon. As the sunflowers nodded in the late afternoon sun and the nearby bells of Posara chimed, we ruminated with our words and reached into our souls.

Frightening and challenging yes…

Instructive and inspiring, yes again..

Life Changing, absolutely.

At precisely 6:30 each evening, we were reminded that it was Apertivo time as the tiled table was promptly set with a fruit laden decanter of Aperol and carafes of Chianti. It was a welcome reward for our writing toil, and balm for our souls that we had bared to each other. After a delicious meal, our day would conclude in the comfort of the drawing room. Sinking into deep sofas, we engaged in lively conversation while sipping on chilled, locally made Limoncello.

The only male in our group was a famous British screenwriter (who shall remain anonymous) and we wondered why he was there, though pleased that he was. He would read from his poignant memoir, recently begun but already captivating. He would also regale us with stories of his Hollywood exploits, just as intriguing, I can assure you! We all contributed with tales of jungle treks, of living on a houseboat, of lovers, of simpler times, of loss. Each evening, was more entertaining than the previous. Each evening, eleven ‘strangers’ with different pasts became closer, breaking down barriers that would enable us to bare our souls just a little more in our writing the next day. With the window sashes thrown open allowing the moonlight to peek into our lively gatherings, we would comment that another day had indeed been well lived at The Watermill!

The most integral member of that group and the reason we were all there, was Jo Parfitt. We blossomed under her nurturing guidance, her magnanimous manner and her colourful scarves that greeted us each day. Because of her, we became writers… we became a writing family.