Colonnata is an old village located on a rocky spur carefully placed at the feet of the Apuan Alps, near Carrara famous in the entire world for its “lardo”, …

Pontremoli is a well-preserved medieval town in a scenic setting. Above the town is a restored castle with a museum of prehistoric stele statues.

Originally posted 2008-11-04 16:08:23.

health-giving waters

It’s renowned for the springs, already well-known in Roman times, from which water, particularly suitable for the treatment of a number of disorders of an inflammatory nature, flows at a constant temparture of 27 degrees. San Carlo, just outside Massa, is, on the other hand, a spa noted for its bottled water, with a building providing mineral water treatment located in a large park.

It’s also the ideal starting-point for trips to the marble quarries of Colonnata, Fantiscritti and Ravaccione.

Moving over to Garfagnana, Bagni di Lucca is a well known spa and holiday resort in the hills north of Lucca. Its waters are used, above all, to treat disorders of the digestive tract and liver.

walking in a white land
In addition to the innumerable opportunities for traditional climbing, the Apuan Alps offer mountainers interesting vie ferrate (steep stretches with fixed cables, ladders, etc.) and suitably equipped rock faces for those in need of practice. An extensive network of marked paths and numerous refuges allow walkers to explore these fascinating mountains: the clasic traverse of the range takes four days, from Vinca or Equi Terme to Stazzema, staying overnight in the refuges of the Club Alpino Italiano.

The Apuan Alps are also a paradise for speleologists and nature lovers. The Antro del Corchia (70 kilometres of caves with a difference in level of 1210 metres) is largest of the 1300 caves in the Parco Regionale delle Alpi Apuane, as well as being the biggest in Italy and one of the most important in the world.

The Buca di Equi is a series of caves open to the public: it’s noted for the discovery of artefacts of the Lower Palaeolithic and remains of numerous animals, including a cave-bear, a lion, a leopard, a white Alpine hare and a deer.

The Pietro Pellegrini botanical garden at Pian della Fioba has a range of the rich flora of the Apuan Alps, may be visited in brief tour lasting about an hour.

The best period to see flowers in the bloom is the height of the summer; the garden is open from mid-May to mid-September. Guided tours, led by students of the Tuscan universities, are free.

exploring the area
The best way to see Lunigiana and admire its superb scenery is on foot, especially in the autumn when the leaves turn golden, the smoke from the wood fires hovers above the houses and mushrooms abound in the woods. A circular tour in thirteen stages starting from Aulla comprises portions of both the Apennines and Apuan Alps.

The route follows the old paths across the hillsides that linked medieval villages, country churches, mills and lookout towers.

These are easy toutes, ideal for spring, sutumn and even winter. The villages have unmanned posti tappa (providing basic accommodation), although it’s also possible to stay in small hotels and sample the local cuisine in coutry trattorie.

#The tour may be done on horseback, breaking journey at the numerous della Lunigiana, Via Pietro Cocchi 36, Pontremoli, tel. 0178 330045; 0178 33594). The Magra Valley is ideal for anglers, who will find the rivers and lakes well stocked with trout.

Cyclists can also enjoy themselves: form Aulla to Castlenuovo di Garfagnana passengers can take their bicycles on the trains.

The mountains of Fivizzano, Vinca and Monzone are ideal for free climbing, while it’s possible to descend various stretches of the Magra and the Taverone by canoe.

people as protagonists
Visitors to the Apuan Alps, Lunigiana and Garfagnana will find their stay all the more fascinating thannks to the area’s rich heritage of popular traditions. In addition, throughout the year, there are numerous cultural events, all of considerable interest, involving art, music and literature. For instance, in the field of literature, Pontremoli has the Premio Bancarella in July and Pietrasanta is internationally famous for its art exhibitions.

The village festivals and fairs are often reminders for the local people of important periods in their history or opportunities to revive their relationship, which has never been wholly interrupted, with the rural environment. Thus, for example, in the first ten days of August, Filetto is transformed into the venue of a medieval market as part of an event known as “La via dei mercati”.

For two weekends, during the medieval fair devoted to the crafts and gastronomic specialities of Lunigiana, craftsmen’s workshops are reconstructed where leather, wood, iron and stone are worked and pottery is made: the local people dress in traditional costume and shows and concerts related to the theme are held in the square. Another tradition, which, after being abandoned in recent years, is now being revived is that of the “Maggio”, theatrical performances held in the open, just outside the villages, to celebrate the beginning of spring and the rebirth of the vegetation.

Religions festivals are particularly important, with events such as the passion-play at Fivizzano on Good Friday or creches with living figures in various places in the Garfagnana and Lunigiana.

Originally posted 2009-02-13 17:08:51.

A charming hilly town in the east of Tuscany, Arezzo boasts ancient origins. It was one of the greatest etruscan “Lucumonie” succesively it became a Roman town having a strategic position. It was an important centre for economic activities and for its oustanding monuments , such as the Amphitheatre with numerous ruins. Famous for its foundries and the artistic manufactures of red-painted vases (the so called coral vases) which spread all over the Roman world. In the Middle Age, Arezzo was a free city-state where the Ghibellina supporters often prevail in an atmosphere of friction with nearby Florence. After the rout of Campaldino (1289) its fortunes were low and apart from a brief period under the Tartari, it definetely yielded to Florentine domination (1384) and became part of Medicean Granducato. Arezzo is set on a hill above the plain made up of the floods from Arno river. In the upper part of the town you can find the Cathedral, the Town Hall, the Medici Fortress, from which the main streets branch off towards the lower part as far as the gates. The upper part of the town maintains its medieval aspect even if we can find later architectonic monuments.

Originally posted 2008-11-04 14:00:23.

“…Per salire al monte
Dove siede la chiesa….”
to the great Piazzale, and so to the old worn platform before S. Miniato itself, under the strange glowing mosaics of the façade: and, standing on the graves of dead Florentines, I shall look down on the beautiful city.

Marvellously fair she is on a summer evening as seen from that hill of gardens, Arno like a river of gold before her, leading over the plain lost in the farthest hills. Behind her the mountains rise in great amphitheatres,—Fiesole on the one side, like a sentinel on her hill; on the other, the Apennines, whose gesture, so noble, precise, and splendid, seems to point ever towards some universal sovereignty, some 158perfect domination, as though this place had been ordained for the resurrection of man. Under this mighty symbol of annunciation lies the city, clear and perfect in the lucid light, her towers shining under the serene evening sky. Meditating there alone for a long time in the profound silence of that hour, the whole history of this city that witnessed the birth of the modern world, the resurrection of the gods, will come to me.

Out of innumerable discords, desolations, hopes unfilled, everlasting hatred and despair, I shall see the city rise four square within her rosy walls between the river and the hills; I shall see that lonely, beautiful, and heroic figure, Matilda the great Countess; I shall suffer the dream that consumes her, and watch Germany humble in the snow. And the Latin cause will tower a red lily beside Arno; one by one the great nobles will go by with cruel alien faces, prisoners, to serve the Lily or to die. Out of their hatred will spring that mongrel cause of Guelph and Ghibelline, and I shall see the Amidei slay Buondelmonte Buondelmonti. Through the year of victories I shall rejoice, when Pistoja falls, when Siena falls, when Volterra is taken, and Pisa forced to make peace. Then in tears I shall see the flight at Monteaperti, I shall hear the thunder of the horses, and with hate in my heart I shall search for Bocca degli Abati, the traitor, among the ten thousand dead. And in the council I shall be by when they plot the destruction of the city, and I shall be afraid: then I shall hear the heroic, scornful words of Farinata degli Uberti, when in his pride he spared Florence for the sake of his birth. And I shall watch the banners at Campaldino, I shall hear the intoxicating words of Corso Donati, I shall look into his very face and read the truth.

And at dawn I shall walk with Dante, and I shall know by the softness of his voice when Beatrice passeth, but I shall not dare to lift my eyes. I shall walk with him through the city, I shall hear Giotto speak to him of St. Francis, and Arnolfo will tell us of his dreams. And at evening Petrarch will lead me into the shadow of S. Giovanni and tell me of 159Madonna Laura. But it will be a morning of spring when I meet Boccaccio, ah, in S. Maria Novella, and as we come into the sunshine I shall laugh and say, “Tell me a story.” And Charles of Valois will pass by, who sent Dante on that long journey; and Henry VII, for whom he had prayed; and I shall hear the trumpets of Montecatini, and I shall understand the hate Uguccione had for Castracani. And I shall watch the entry of the Duke of Athens, and I shall see his cheek flush at the thought of a new tyranny. Then for the first time I shall hear the sinister, fortunate name Medici. Under the banners of the Arti I shall hear the rumour of their names, Silvestro who urged on the Ciompi, Vieri who once made peace; nor will the death of Gian Galeazzo of Milan, nor the tragedy of Pisa, hinder their advent, for I shall see Giovanni di Bicci de’ Medici proclaimed Gonfaloniere of the city. Then they will troop by more splendid than princes, the universal bankers, lords of Florence: Cosimo the hard old man, Pater Patriae, the greatest of his race; Piero, the weakling; Lorenzo il Magnifico, tyrant and artist; and over his shoulder I shall see the devilish, sensual face of Savonarola. And there will go by Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta; Piero the exile; Giovanni the mighty pope, Leo X; Giulio the son of Guiliano, Clement VII; Ippolito the Cardinal, Alessandro the cruel, Lorenzino his assassin, Cosimo l’Invitto, Grand Duke of Tuscany, bred in a convent and mourned for ever.

So they pass by, and their descendants follow after them, even to poor, unhappy, learned Gian Gastone, the last of his race.

And around them throng the artists; yes, I shall see them all. Angelico will lead me into his cell and show me the meaning of the Resurrection. With Lippo Lippi I shall play with the children, and talk with Lucrezia Buti at the convent gate; Ghirlandajo will take me where Madonna Vanna is, and with Baldovinetti I shall watch the dawn. And Botticelli will lead me into a grove apart: I shall see the beauty of those three women who pass, who pass like a season, and are neither glad nor sorry; and with him I shall understand the joy of Venus, whose 160son was love, and the tears of Madonna, whose Son was Love also. And I shall hear the voice of Leonardo; and he will play upon his lyre of silver, that lyre in the shape of a horse’s head which he made for Sforza of Milan; and I shall see him touch the hands of Monna Lisa. And I shall see the statue of snow that Buonarotti made; I shall find him under S. Miniato, and I shall weep with him.

So I shall dream in the sunset. The Angelus will be ringing from all the towers, I shall have celebrated my return to the city that I have loved. The splendour of the dying day will lie upon her; in that enduring and marvellous hour, when in the sound of every bell you may find the names that are in your heart, I shall pass again through the gardens, I shall come into the city when the little lights before Madonna will be shining at the street corners, and the streets will be full of the evening, where the river, stained with fading gold, steals into the night to the sea. And under the first stars I shall find my way to my hillside. On that white country road the dust of the day will have covered the vines by the way, the cypresses will be white half-way to their tops, in the whispering olives the cicale will still be singing; as I pass every threshold some dog will rouse, some horse will stamp in the stable, or an ox stop munching in his stall. In the far sky, marvellous with infinite stars, the moon will sail like a little platter of silver, like a piece of money new from the mint, like a golden rose in a mirror of silver. Long and long ago the sun will have set, but when I come to the gate I shall go under the olives; though I shall be weary I shall go by the longest way, I shall pass by the winding path, I shall listen for the whisper of the corn. And I shall beat at my gate, and one will say Chi è, and I shall make answer. So I shall come into my house, and the triple lights will be lighted in the garden, and the table will be spread. And there will be one singing in the vineyard, and I shall hear, and there will be one walking in the garden, and I shall know.

Originally posted 2011-10-05 19:44:49.

The cusine of Lunigiana is mainly based on local produce: minestrone alla lunigianese, tortelli (a kind of ravioli), cavolo con le fette (cabage with toasted bread), cibreo di rigaglie (chicken giblets with egg and lemon sauce), torta d’erbe (chard pie) and small focaccie such as panigacci.

That gastronomic traditions migrate is shown by the bomba di riso (pigeons with rice), an Emilian dish that has crossed the Apennines and taken root in a corner of Tuscany that once belonged to the ducy of Modena. From market gardens Pontremoli and the plain of Massa-Carrara the dish has been enriched by a new ingredient, chards, which are boiled and then tossed in the pan with the gravy from the cooked pigeons. The pigeons are then boned, wrapped in the chards, placed in a round mould containg the rice and baked in the oven. A rare local speciality is chestnut soup, made from dried chestnuts and beans, which are boiled at length in salted water. Before serving, add rice and chopped lard and herbs browned in the pan.

The woods of Garfagnana abound in game, the basis of many roast dishes typical of the autumn, and mushrooms: porcini (boletus), ovoli (royal agaric) and above all the rare and very tasty spring prugnoli (Tricholoma georgii). In Barga and elsewhere in the Serchio Valley it’s possible to find white and black truffles. Specilities in this area include fresh fish with spelt and infarinata, a runny polenta. Maize flour is cooked in abundant salted water, and beans, pork rind, black cabbage, browned lard, garlic and herbs are added. It may be eaten at once or, if left to cool, it will solidify and can be cut into slices and fried in oil.

clams and salt cod
Naturally enough, on the coast near Carrara and in Versilia most of the dishes are fish based. In particular, little clams are served with speghetti or in soups. Once upon a time they were collected by people wadding waist deep to and fro in the sea, dragging a sort of seive behind them.

Salt cod is a common ingredient in the cusine of Carrara, where it is eaten in a soup alla carrarina (with tomato and vinegar) or in fritters. To make the latter, leave the salt cod to soak for two days, then put it on the chopping board with the skin in contact with the wood and, using a fork, crumble the fish. Prepare a batter with ten tablespoons of white flour diluted with milk to obtain a fairly runny mixture; add two tablespoons of olive oil, half a glass of dry white wine, an egg, a pinch of bicarbonate of soda and the crumbled fish. Leave the mixture, covered with a cloth, to stand for at least three hours, then fry, placing small spoonfuls in the moderately hot oil, turning the fritters over so they brown on all sides. Dry on kitchen paper and serve piping hot, sprinkled with salt and accompanied by turnips browned in oil.

Finally, mention should be made of the cured pork products from the Apuan Alps, especially the renowed lard of Colonata, white with just a hint of pale pink, which is left to mature eight months in brine and herbs. It should be eaten on slices of toasted bread or in soups. The lard produced elsewhere in the area is equally good, as is the particularly tasty coppa (cured shoulder of pork).

the famous testaroli of Lunigiana
Probably testeroli is the most famous dish of Lunigiana. In a large dish prepare a fairly runny batter with flour, water, salt and add 4 glasses of water to 1/2 kilo of white flour. Place a terracotta baking tray with a lid in flowing embers, and when hot pour in enough batter to forma layer of about 1/2 cm. Cover and leave for 10 minutes, then remove the cooked mixture from the tray and place on a cloth (a testarolo of abour 40cm in diameter is enough for 6 people). When cold, cut into squares about 5cm across; these are then boiled for 1 minute in boiling salted water. Drain and serve immediately with pesto or olive oil and grated sheep’s cheese.

wines that whiff of the sea
In the province of Massa-Carrara, the slopes descending from the marble quarries to the coast are the domain of the Candia dei Colli Apuani, with an annual output of 900 hectolitres. This wine was greatly appreciated by the poet Giovanni Pascoli, who, while he was teaching in Massa, waxed lyrical about the daily pleasure of “feeling the sparkling wine dissolve in the mouth”.

It’s fairly old-established wine that was mentioned in writings of 1874; in the course of time it has acquired its own character that clearly distinguishes it from the wines produced in the neighbouring areas of Liguria and Tuscany, although, in common with them, it has high percentage of Vermentino grapes. A DOC wine since 1981, it should be drunk new with vegetable hors d’oeuvres and fish dishes; the sweetish variety is ideal for accompanying desserts. There’s also a dry type and vin santo.

Since 1989, Colli di Luni has been the most northenly DOC wine in Tuscany and most southerly of Ligurian ones, since its production zone extends into both regionss. Every year a few dozen hectolitres are produced in a narrow strip of land between Fosdinovo, Aulla and Podenzana, and a similar quantity is made in Liguria in 14 communes. Here, too, Vermentino is predominant.

The viticulture of this area was mentioned by Pliny the Elder, while Napoleon’s soldiers also waxed enthusiastic about it. There are three types: Bianco, Vermentino and Rosso.

Originally posted 2009-02-13 16:54:03.

This enduring vitality of a place so old, so splendid, and so beloved, is, I think, particularly manifest in the Church of S. Giovanni Battista, the Baptistery. It is the oldest building in Florence, built probably with the stones from the Temple of Mars about which Villani tells us, and almost certainly in its place; every Florentine child, fortunate at least in this, is still brought there for baptism, and receives its name in the place where Dante was christened, where Ippolito Buondelmonti first saw Dianora de’ Bardi, where Donatello has laboured, which Michelangelo has loved.

Built probably in the sixth or seventh century, it was Arnolfo di Cambio who covered it with marble in 1288, building also three new doorways where before there had been but one, that on the west side, which was then closed. The mere form, those octagonal walls which, so it is said, the Lombards brought into Italy, go to show that the church was used as a Baptistery from the first, though Villani speaks of it as the Duomo; and indeed till 1550 it had the aspect of such a church as the Pantheon in Rome, in that it was open to the sky, so that the rain and the sunlight have fallen on the very floor trodden by so many generations. Humble and simple enough as we see it to-day before the gay splendour of the new façade of the Duomo, it has yet those great treasures which the Duomo cannot boast, the bronze doors of Andrea Pisano and of Ghiberti.

PIAZZA DEL DUOMO

Over the south doorway there was placed in the end of the sixteenth century a group by Vincenzo Danti, said to be his best work, the Beheading of St. John Baptist; and under are the gates of Andrea Pisano carved in twenty bronze panels with the story of St. John and certain virtues: and around the gate Ghiberti has twined an exquisite pattern of leaves and fruits and birds, it is strange to find Ghiberti’s work thus completing that of Andrea Pisano, who, as it is said, had Giotto to help him, till we understand that originally these southern gates stood where now are the “Gates of Paradise” before the Duomo. Standing there as they used to do before Ghiberti moved them, they won for Andrea not only the admiration of the people, but the freedom of the city. To-day we come to them with the praise of Ghiberti ringing in our ears, so that in our hurry to see everything we almost pass them by; but in their simpler, and, as some may think, more sincere way, they are as lovely as anything Ghiberti ever did, and in comparing them with the great gates that supplanted them, it may be well to remind ourselves that each has its merit in its own fashion. If the doors of Andrea won the praise of the whole city, it was with an ever-growing excitement that Florence proclaimed a public competition, open to all the sculptors of Italy, for the work that remained, those two doors on the north and east. Ghiberti, at that time in Rimini at the court of Carlo Malatesta, at the entreaty of his father returned to Florence, and was one of the two artists out of the thirty-four who competed, to be chosen for the task: the other was Filippo Brunellesco. You may see the two panels they made in the Bargello side by side on the wall. The subject is the Sacrifice of Isaac, and Ghiberti, with the real instinct of the sculptor, has altogether outstripped Brunellesco, not only in the harmony of his composition, but in the simplicity of his intention. Brunellesco seems to have understood this, and, perhaps liking the lad who was but twenty-two years old, withdrew from the contest. However this may be, Ghiberti began the work at once, and finished the door on the north side of the Baptistery in ten years. There, amid a framework of exquisite foliage, leaves, birds, and all kinds of life, he has set the gospel story in twenty panels, beginning with the Annunciation and ending with the Pentecost; and around the gate he has set the four Evangelists and the doctors of the Church and the prophets. Above you may see the group of a pupil of Verrocchio, the Preaching of St. John.

In looking on these beautiful and serene works, we may already notice an advance on the work of Andrea Pisano in a certain ease and harmony, a richness and variety, that were beyond the older master. Ghiberti has already begun to change with his genius the form that has come down to him, to expand it, to break down its limitations so that he may express himself, may show us the very visions he has seen. And the success of these gates with the people certainly confirmed him in the way he was going. In the third door, that facing the Duomo, which Michelangelo has said was worthy to be the gate of Paradise, it is really a new art we come upon, the subtle rhythms and perspectives of a sort of pictorial sculpture, that allows him to carve here in such low relief that it is scarcely more than painting, there in the old manner, the old manner but changed, full of a sort of exuberance which here at any rate is beauty. The ten panels which Ghiberti thus made in his own way are subjects from the Old Testament: the Creation of Adam and Eve, the story of Cain and Abel, of Noah, of Abraham and Isaac, of Jacob and Esau, of Joseph, of Moses on Sinai, of Joshua before Jericho, of David and Goliath, of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. At his death in 1455 they were unfinished, and a host of sculptors, including Brunellesco and Paolo Uccello, are said to have handled the work, Antonio del Pollajuolo being credited with the quail in the lower frame. Over the door stands the beautiful work of Sansovino, the Baptism of Christ.

It is with a certain sense of curiosity that one steps down into the old church; for in spite of every sort of witness it has the air of some ancient temple: nor do the beautiful antique columns which support the triforium undeceive us. For long enough now the mosaics of the vault have been hidden by the scaffolding of the restorers; but the beautiful thirteenth-century floor of white and black marble, in the midst of which the font once stood, is still undamaged. The font, which is possibly a work of the Pisani, is on one side, set there, as it is said, because of old the roof of the church was open, and many a winter christening spoiled by 173rain. It was not, however, till 1571 that the old font, surrounded by its small basins, one of which Dante broke in saving a man from drowning there, was removed from the church by Francesco I, Grand Duke of Tuscany, for the christening of his son.

Certain vestiges of the oldest church remain: you may see a sarcophagus, one of those which, before Arnolfo covered the church with marble, stood without and held the ashes of some of the greater families. But the most beautiful thing here is the tomb that Donatello made for Baldassare Cossa, pirate, condottiere, and anti-pope, who, deposed by the Council of Constance (1414), came to Florence, and, as ever, was kindly received by the people. It stands beside the north door. On a marble couch supported by lions, the gilt bronze statue of this prince of adventurers, who grasped the very chair of St. Peter as booty, lies, his brow still troubled, his mouth set firm as though plotting new conquests even in the grave. Below, on the tomb itself, two winged angiolini hold the great scroll on which we read the name of the dead man, Johannes Quondam Papa XXIII: to which inscription Martin V, Cossa’s successful rival at Constance, is said to have taken exception; but the Medici who had built the tomb answered in Pilate’s words to the Pharisees, “What I have written, I have written.” The three marble figures in niches at the base may be by Michelozzo, who worked with Donatello, or possibly by Pagano di Lapo, as the Madonna above the tomb almost certainly is.

Coming up once more into the Piazza from that mysterious dim church, dim with the centuries of the history of the city, you come upon two porphyry columns beside the eastern door. They are the gift of Pisa when her ships returned from the Balearic Islands to Florence, who had defended their 174city from the Lucchesi. The column with the branch of olive in bronze upon it to the north of the Baptistery reminds us of the miracle performed by the body of S. Zenobio in 490. Borne to burial in S. Reparata, the bier is said to have touched a dead olive tree standing on this spot, which immediately put forth leaves: the column commemorates this miracle. So in Florence they remind us of the gods.

In turning now to the Duomo we come to one of the great buildings of the world. Standing on the site of the old church of S. Salvatore, of S. Reparata, it is a building of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, begun in 1298 from the designs of Arnolfo; and it is dedicated to S. Maria del Fiore. Coming to us without the wonderful romantic interest, the mysticism and exaltation of such a church as Notre Dame d’Amiens, without the more resolute and heroic appeal of such a stronghold as the Cathedral of Durham, it is more human than either, the work of a man who, as it were, would thank God that he was alive and glad in the world. And it will never bring us delight if we ask of it all the consummate mystery, awe, and magic of the great Gothic churches of the North. The Tuscans certainly have never understood the Christian religion as we have contrived to do in Northern Europe. It came to them really as a sort of divine explanation of a paganism which entranced but bewildered them. Behind it lay the Roman Empire; and its temples became their churches, its halls of justice their cathedrals, its tongue the only language understood of the gods. It is unthinkable that a people who were already in the twelfth century the possessors of a marvellous decadent art in the painting of the Byzantine school, who, finding again the statues of the gods, created in the thirteenth century a new art of painting, a Christian art that was the child of imperial Rome as well as of the Christian Church, who re-established sculpture and produced the only sculptor of the first rank in the modern world, should have failed altogether in architecture. Yet everywhere we may hear it said that the Italian churches, spoken of with scorn by those who remember the strange, subtle exaltation of Amiens, the extraordinary intricate splendour of such a church as the Cathedral of Toledo, are mere barns. But it is not so. As Italian painting is a profound and natural development from Greek and Roman art, certainly influenced by life, but in no doubt of its parentage; so are the Italian churches a very beautiful and subtle development of pagan architecture, influenced by life not less profoundly than painting has been, but certainly as sure of their parentage, and, as we shall see, not less assured of their intention. Just as painting, as soon as may be, becomes human, becomes pagan in Signorelli and Botticelli, and yet contrives to remain true to its new gods, so architecture as soon as it is sure of itself moves with joy, with endless delight and thanksgiving, towards that goal of the old builders: in such a church as S. Maria della Consolazione outside Todi, for instance,—in such a church as S. Pietro might have been,—and that it is not so, we may remind ourselves, is the fault of that return to barbarism and superstition which Luther led in the North.

What then, we may ask ourselves, were the aim and desire of the Italian builders, which it seems have escaped us for so long? If we turn to the builders of antiquity and seek for their intention in what remains to us of their work, we shall find, I think, that their first aim was before all things to make the best building they could for a particular purpose, and to build that once for all. And out of these two intentions the third must follow; for if a temple, for instance, were both fit and strong it would be beautiful because the purpose for which it was needed was noble and beautiful. Now the first necessity of the basilica, for instance, was space; and the intention of the builder would be to build so that that space should appear as splendid as possible, and to do this and to enjoy it would necessitate, above all things, light,—a problem not so difficult after all in a land like Italy, where the sun is so faithful and so divine. Taking the necessity, then, of the Italian to be much the same as that of the Roman builder when he was designing a basilica,—that is to say, the accom 176modation of a crowd of people who are to take part in a common solemnity,—we shall find that the intention of the Italian in building his churches is exactly that of the Roman in building his basilica: he desires above all things space and light, partly because they seem to him necessary for the purpose of the church, and partly because he thinks them the two most splendid and majestic things in the world.

Well, he has altogether carried out his intention in half a hundred churches up and down Italy: consider here in Florence S. Croce, S. Maria Novella, S. Spirito, and above all the Duomo. Remember his aim was not the aim of the Gothic builder. He did not wish to impress you with the awfulness of God, like the builder of Barcelona; or with the mystery of the Crucifixion, like the builders of Chartres: he wished to provide for you in his practical Latin way a temple where you might pray, where the whole city might hear Mass or applaud a preacher. He did this in his own noble and splendid fashion as well as it could be done. He has never believed, save when driven mad by the barbarians, in the mysterious awfulness of our far-away God. He prays as a man should pray, without self-consciousness and not without self-respect. He is without sentiment; he believes in largeness, grandeur, splendour, and sincerity; and he has known the gods for three thousand years.

What, then, we are to look for in entering such a church as S. Maria del Fiore is, above all, a noble spaciousness and the beauty of just that. The splendour and nobility of S. Maria del Fiore from without are evident, it might seem, to even the most prejudiced observer; but within, I think, the beauty is perhaps less easily perceived.

One comes through the west doors out of the sunshine of the Piazza into an immense nave, and the light is that of an olive garden,—yes, just that sparkling, golden, dancing shadow of a day of spring in an old olive grove not far from the sea. In this delicate and fragile light the beauty and spaciousness of the church are softened and simplified. You do not reason any longer, you accept it at once as a thing complete and perfect. Complete and perfect—yet surely spoiled a little by the gallery that dwarfs the arches and seems to introduce a useless detail into what till then must have been so simple. One soon forgets so small a thing in the immensity and solemnity of the whole, that seems to come to one with the assurance of the sky or of the hills, really without an afterthought. And indeed I find there much of the strange simplicity of natural things that move us we know not why: the autumn fields of which Alberti speaks, the far hills at evening, the valleys that in an hour will make us both glad and sorry, as the sun shines or the clouds gather or the wind sings on the hills. Not a church to think in as St. Peter’s is, but a place where one may pray, said Pius IX when he first saw S. Maria del Fiore: and certainly it has that in common with the earth, that you may be glad in it as well as sorry. It is not a museum of the arts; it is not a pantheon like Westminster Abbey or S. Croce; it is the beautiful house where God and man may meet and walk in the shadow.

Yet little though there be to interest the curious, Giovanni Acuto, that Englishman Sir John Hawkwood of the White Company, one of the first of the Condottieri, the deliverer of Pisa, “the first real general of modern times,” is buried here. You may see his equestrian portrait by Paolo Uccello over the north-west doorway in his habit as he lived. Having fought against the Republic and died in its service, he was buried here with public honours in 1394. And then in the north aisle you may see the statue called a portrait of Poggio Bracciolini by Donatello. Donatello carved a number of statues, of which nine have been identified, for the Opera del Duomo, three of these are now in the Cathedral: the Poggio, the so-called Joshua in the south aisle, which has been said to 178be a portrait of Gianozzo Manetti; and the St. John the Evangelist in the eastern part of the nave. The Poggio certainly belongs to the series: it would be delightful if the cryptic writing on the borders of the garment were to prove it to be the Job. The St. John Evangelist is an earlier work than the Poggio; it was begun when Donatello was twenty-two years old, and, as Lord Balcarres says, “it challenges comparison with one worthy rival, the Moses of Michelangelo.” It was to have stood on one side of the central door. Something of the wonder of this work in its own time may be understood if we compare it, not with the later work of Michelangelo, but with the statues of St. Mark by Niccolò d’Arezzo, the St. Luke of Nanni di Banco, and the St. Matthew of Bernardo Ciuffagni, which were to stand beside it and are now placed in a good light in the nave, while the work of Donatello is almost invisible in this dark apsidal chapel. Of the other works which Donatello made for the Opera del Duomo, the David is in the Bargello, while the Jeremiah, and Habbakuk, the so-called Zuccone, the Abraham, and St. John Baptist are still on the Campanile.

The octagonal choir screens carved in relief by Baccio Bandinelli, whom Cellini hated so scornfully because he spoke lightly of Michelangelo, will not keep you long; but there behind the high altar is an unfinished Pietà by Michelangelo himself. It is a late work, but in that fallen Divine Figure just caught in Madonna’s arms you may see perhaps the most beautiful thing in the church, less splendid but more pitiful than the St. John of Donatello, but certainly not less moving than that severe, indomitable son of thunder. Above, the dome soars into heaven; that mighty dome, higher than St. Peter’s, the despair of Michelangelo, one of the beauties of the world. One wanders about the church looking at the bronze doors of the Sagrestia Nuova, or the terra-cottas of Luca della Robbia, always to return to that miracle of Brunellesco’s. Not far away in the south aisle you come upon his monument with his portrait in marble by Buggiano. The indomitable persistence of the face! Is it any wonder that, impossible as his dream appeared, he had his way with Florence at last—yes, and with himself too? As you stand at the corner of Via del Proconsolo, and, looking upward, see that immense dome soaring into the sky over that church of marble, something of the joy and confidence and beauty that were immortal in him come to you too from his work. Like Columbus, he conquered a New World. His schemes, which the best architects in Europe laughed at, were treated with scorn by the Consiglio, yet he persuaded them at last. In 1418 he made his designs, and the people, as now, were called upon to vote. Two years went by, and nothing was done; then in 1420 he was elected by the Opera to the post of Provveditore della Cupola, but not alone, for Lorenzo Ghiberti and Battista d’Antonio were elected with him. Still he persisted, and, as the Florentines say, by pretending sickness and leaving the work to Ghiberti, who knew nothing about it and could do nothing without him, in 1421 he won over the Consiglio. He began at once. What his agonies may have been, what profound difficulties he discovered and conquered, we do not know, but by 1434, when Eugenius IV was in Florence and the Duomo was consecrated, his dome was finished, wanting only the lantern and the ball. These he began in 1437, but died too soon to see, for the lantern was not finished till 1458, and it was only in 1471 that Verrocchio cast the bronze ball. Wandering round to the façade, finished in 1886, it is a careful imitation of fifteenth-century work we see, saved from the mere routine of just that, in its design at any rate, by the vote of the people, who, against the opinion of all the artists in Florence at that time, insisted on the cornice following the basilical form of the tower, refusing to endorse the pointed “tricuspidal” design. It is not, however, in such merely competent work as this that we shall find ourselves 180interested, but rather in the beautiful door on the north just before the transept, over which, in an almond-shaped glory, Madonna gives her girdle to St. Thomas. Given now to Nanni di Banco, a sculptor of the end of the fourteenth century, whom Vasari tells us was the pupil of Donatello, it long passed as the work of Jacopo della Quercia. Certainly one of the loveliest works of the early Renaissance, it is so full of life and gracious movement, so natural and so noble, that everything else in the Cathedral, save the work of Donatello, is forgotten beside it. Madonna enthroned among the Cherubim in her oval mandorla, upheld by four puissant fair angels, turns with a gesture most natural and lovely to St. Thomas, who kneels to her, his drapery in beautiful folds about him, lifting his hands in prayer. Above, three angels play on pipes and reeds; while in a corner a great bear gnaws at the bark of an oak in full leaf.

In turning now to the Campanile, which Giotto began in 1334, on the site of a chapel of S. Zenobio, we come to the last building of the great group. Fair and slim as a lily, as light as that, as airy and full of grace, to my mind at least it lacks a certain stability, so that looking on it I always fear in my heart lest it should fall. It seems to lack roots, as it were, yet by no means to want confidence or force. Can it be that, after all, it would have seemed more secure, more firm and established, if the spire Giotto designed for it had in truth been built? The consummate and supreme artist, architect, sculptor, and painter was not content to design so fair, so undreamed-of a flower as this, but set himself to make the statues and the reliefs that were necessary also. And then has he not built as only a painter could have done, in white and rose and green? He died too soon to see the fairest of his dreams, and it is really to two other artists—Taddeo Gaddi and Francesco Talenti—that the actual work, after the first five storeys—those windows, for instance, that add so much to the beauty of the tower—is owing.

The reliefs that, set some five-and-twenty feet from the ground, are so difficult to see, are the work of Andrea Pisano, the sculptor of the south gate of the Baptistery. Born at Pontedera, the pupil of Giovanni Pisano, this great and lovable artist has been robbed of much that belongs to him. Vasari tells us—and for long we believed him—that Giotto helped him to design the gate of the Baptistery; and again, that Giotto designed these reliefs for Andrea to carve and found. It might seem impossible to believe that the greatest sculptor then living, fresh from a great triumph, would have consented to use the design of a painter, even though he were Giotto. However this may be, the reliefs really speak for themselves: those on the south side—early Sabianism, house-building, pottery, training horses, weaving, lawgiving, and exploration—are certainly by Andrea; while among the rest the Jubal, the Creation of Man, the Creation of Woman, seem to be his own among the work of his pupils. It is to quite another hand, however, to Luca della Robbia, that the Grammar, Poetry, Philosophy, Astrology, and Music must be given. The genius of Andrea Pisano, at its best in those Baptistery gates, in the panel of the Baptism of our Lord, for instance, or in those marvellous works on the façade of the Duomo at Orvieto, so full of force, vitality, and charm, is, as I think, less fortunate in its expression when he is concerned with such work as these statues of the prophets in the niches on the south wall of the Campanile,—if indeed they be his. Seen as these figures are, beside the large, splendid, realistic work of Donatello, so wonderfully ugly in the Zuccone, so pitiless in the Habakkuk, they are quickly forgotten; but indeed Donatello’s work seems to stand alone in the history of sculpture till the advent of Michelangelo.

I speak of Donatello elsewhere in this book, [92] but you will find one of his best works among much curious, interesting litter from the Duomo in the Opera del Duomo, the Cathedral Museum in the old Falconieri Palace just behind the apse of the Cathedral. A bust of Cosimo Primo stands 182over the entrance, and within you find a beautiful head of Brunellesco by Buggiano. It is, however, in a room on the first floor that you will find the great organ lofts, one by Donatello and the other by Luca della Robbia, which I suppose are among the best known works of art in the world. Made for the Cathedral, these galleries for singers seem to be imprisoned in a museum.

The beautiful youths of Luca, the children of Donatello, for all their seeming vigour and joy, sing and dance no more; they are in as evil a case as the Madonnas of the Uffizi, who, in their golden frames behind the glass, under the vulgar, indifferent eyes of the multitude, envy Madonna of the street-corner the love of the lowly. So it is with the beautiful Cantorie made for God’s praise by Donatello and Luca della Robbia. Before the weary eyes of the sight-seer, the cold eyes of the scientific critic, in the horrid silence of a museum, amid so much that is dead, here the headless trunk of some saint, there the battered fragments of what was once a statue, some shadow has fallen upon them, and though they keep still the gesture of joy, they are really dead or sleeping. Is it only sleep? Do they perhaps at night, when all the doors of their prisons are barred and their gaolers are gone, praise God in His Holiness, even in such a hell as this? Who knows? They were made for a world so different, for a time that out of the love of God had seen arise the very beauty of the world, and were glad therefor. Ah, of how many beautiful things have we robbed God in our beggary! We have imprisoned the praise of the artists in the museums that Science may pass by and sneer; we have arranged the saints in order, and Madonna we have carefully hidden under the glass, because now we never dream of God or speak with Him at all. Art is dying, Beauty is become a burden, Nature a thing for science and not for love. They are become too precious, the old immortal things; we must hide them away lest they fade and God take them from us: and because we have hidden them away, and they are become too precious for life, and we have killed them because we loved them, we seldom pass by 183 where they are save to satisfy the same curiosity that leads us to any other charnel-house where the dead are exposed.

Alinari

Thus they have stolen away the silver altar of the Baptistery, that miracle of the fourteenth-century silversmiths, Betto di Geri, Leonardo di Ser Giovanni, and the rest, that it may be a cause of wonder in a museum. So a flower looks between the cold pages of a botanist’s album, so a bird sings in his case: for life is to do that for which we were created, and if that be the praise of God in His sanctuary, to stand impotently by under the gaze of innumerable unbelievers in a museum is to die. And truly this is a shame in Italy that so many fair and lovely things have been torn out of their places to be catalogued in a gallery. It were a thousand times better that they were allowed to fade quietly on the walls of the church where they were born. It is a vandalism only possible to the modern world in which the machines have ground out every human feeling and left us nothing but a bestial superstition which we call science, and which threatens to become the worst tyranny of all, that we should thus herd together, catalogue, describe, arrange, and gape at every work of art and nature we can lay our hands on. No doubt it brings in, directly and indirectly, an immense revenue to the country which can show the most of such death chambers. Often by chance or mistake one has wandered into a museum—though I confess I never understood in what relation it stood to the Muses—where your scientist has collected his scraps and refuse of Nature, things that were wonderful or beautiful once—birds, butterflies, the marvellous life of the foetus, and such—but that in his hands have died in order that he may set them out and number them one by one. Here you will find a leg that once stood firm enough, there an arm that once for sure held someone in its embrace: now it is exposed to the horror and curiosity of mankind. Well, it is the same with the Pictures and the statues. Why, men have prayed before them, they have heard voices, tears have fallen where they stood, and they have whispered to us of the beauty and the love of God. To-day, herded in thousands, chained to the walls of 184their huge dungeons, they are just specimens like the dead butterflies which we pay to see, which some scientific critic without any care for beauty will measure and describe in the inarticulate and bestial syllables of some degenerate dialect he thinks is language. Our unfortunate gods! How much more fortunate were they of the older world: Zeus, whose statue of ivory and gold mysteriously was stolen away; Aphrodite of Cnidus, which someone hid for love; and you, O Victory of Samothrace, that being headless you cannot see the curious, peeping, indifferent multitude. Was it for this the Greeks blinded their statues, lest the gods being in exile, they might be shamed by the indifference of men? And now that our gods too are exiled, who will destroy their images and their pictures crowded in the museums, that the foolish may not speak of them we have loved, nor the scientist say, such and such they were, in stature of such a splendour, carved by such a man, the friend of the friend of a fool? But our gods are dead.

Originally posted 2011-10-06 11:54:00.

The series of fortified villages, with which the valley is studded, bear witness to its long-standing srategic role as the most important route, over the Passo della Cisa, between the Po Valley and the Tyrrhenian coast.

The terraces, clearly visible on the steep slopes of the hills, attest to the fact that, in the past, the Lunigiana was much more intensely cultivated. Although olives and viness are grown up to a height of 600 metres, the area is largely forested, with chestnut trees alternating with Turkey oaks and mixed woods. Also the upper Serchio Valley, usually known as Garfagnana, bears the clearly visible signs of mans attempts over the cenuries to model the rugged natural landscape and obtain spaces suitable for agriculture. The terraces, built with earthen banks and , provided cultivated land on the mountain slopes, creating clearings in the woods. Here, too, there are ruins of the fortresses that defended the strategic position, evidence of a constant struggle for the political control of the region.

Trek & Bike Tours & Agriturismo in Tuscany & Garfagnana

Garfagnana holiday accommodation, Tuscany

Originally posted 2008-11-07 16:00:37.

Nowhere in Italy do the wines so vividly reflect the countryside as in the central Italy region of Tuscany. The bold, full-bodied, mostly red wines are as hearty of the residents, the food, and the soul of this historic province.

Chianti

Perhaps, the best known of Tuscany’s wines, Chianti is a wine-growing zone as well as a wine. Located in the heart of Tuscany, between Siena and Florence, Chianti is divided into seven sub-regions, each with their own character and terroir. The making of Chianti dates back to the 14th century, but it’s only been fairly recently, since 1932, that the Italian government has regulated its production. Today, Chianti must contain at least 75 percent Sangiovese grapes, with up to 10 percent Canaiolo and up to 15 percent Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon grapes permitted.

Chianti has a bold, full-bodied taste, with hints of ripe cherries and plums. It has a slightly spicy and salty taste that makes it an ideal accompaniement to tomato-based dishes, from traditional red sauces to braised meats.

Brunello di Montalcino

Tuscany’s most revered wine, Brunello (literally, “the nice, dark one”) comes from the southern part of Tuscany, where the climate is somewhat warmer than in Chianti. This slightly warmer temperature allows the wine grapes to ripen just a little more. Consequently, Brunello is made from 100 percent Sangiovese grapes, and always has been. By law, Brunello must be aged longer than most other Tuscan wines – four years, two of which must be in oak.

Brunello has a thick texture and a complex flavor profile, with overtones of black cherry, blackberry, and even chocolate. Brunello is ideal with meat dishes, such as a steak, lamb chops, or a roast.

Rosso di Montalcino

Often considered Brunello’s lesser cousin, Rosso di Montalcino is made from 100 percent Sangiovese grapes in the same region as Brunello, but not aged as long – a minimum one year instead of four. Thus it is fresher, lighter, and better when young. It, too, is a nice accompaniment to meat dishes.

Originally posted 2010-03-10 16:24:32.

Aulla is dominated by the Fortezza della Brunella, a large square fortress built in the 15th century. Now restored, the fortress can be reached in few minutes walk from the city centre and is the symbol of the town. The Fortezza della Brunella hosts the Lunigiana Natural Science Museum and is located in the middle of a beautiful park, with a view of the two rivers in the valley. Its strategic position at the foot of three important passes (Cisa, Cerreto and Lagastrello), and on the road to Casola and to the Garfagnana, made Aulla a central place for trade between the inland and the sea.

In the course of 11th and 12th centuries the Malaspina family and the Luni bishops competed over Aulla, until the former eventually succeeded. In 1522, the Malaspina family sold Aulla to Giovanni delle Bande Nere. For three years bloody fighting ensued until the Malaspina came back and took power again. The situation remained quiet until the eighteenth century, and Aulla could develop thanks to trade. In 1831 and 1849, Aulla took part in the famous riots that took place in the whole Italian peninsula; it then joined the newly born Regno d’Italia. In the following years Aulla developed further, thanks to the Parma-La Spezia railway and to the ever-increasing importance of the Cisa road – the old pilgrim road to Rome.

More recently, the motorway and a new railway station, continue to help Aulla to develop and grow as a thriving and lively town. The surrounding countryside is magnificent, and conveys the atmosphere of old times.

Some of the more interesting spots are: Caprigliola, whose city walls were built by the Medici; Bibola, with an old ruined castle; Albiano, rich in medieval houses; Olivola, in a dominating position, and Pallerone a, medieval village that hosts a mechanical “presepe” (Nativity representation) made in 1935.

Originally posted 2008-11-24 08:48:47.

Something of this power of evocation may still be found in the Piazza della Signoria of Florence: all the love that founded the city, the beauty that has given her fame, the immense confusion that is her history, the hatred that has destroyed her, lingers yet in that strange and lovely place where Palazzo Vecchio stands like a violated fortress, where the Duke of Athens was expelled the city, where the Ciompi rose against the Ghibellines, where Jesus Christ was proclaimed King of the Florentines, where Savonarola, was burned, and Alessandro de’ Medici made himself Duke.

It is not any great and regular space you come upon in the Piazza della Signoria, such as the huge empty Place de la Concorde of Paris, but one that is large enough for beauty, and full of the sweet variety of the city; it is the symbol of Florence—a beautiful symbol.

In the morning the whole Piazza is full of sunlight, and swarming with people: there, is a stall for newspapers; here, a lemonade merchant dispenses his sweet drinks. Everyone is talking; at the corner of Via Calzaioli a crowd has assembled, a crowd that moves and seems about to dissolve, that constantly re-forms itself without ever breaking up. On the benches of the loggia men lie asleep in the shadow, and children chase one another among the statues. Everywhere and from all directions cabs pass with much cracking of whips and hallooing. There stand two Carabinieri in their splendid uniforms, surveying this noisy world; an officer passes with his wife, leading his son by the hand; you may see him lift his sword as he steps on the pavement. A group of tourists go by, urged on by a gesticulating guide; he is about to show them the statues in the loggia; they halt under the Perseus. He begins to speak of it, while the children look up at him as though to catch what he is saying in that foreign tongue.

And surely the Piazza, which has seen so many strange and splendid things, may well tolerate this also; it is so gay, so full of life. Very fair she seems under the sunlight, picturesque too, with her buildings so different and yet so harmonious. On the right the gracious beauty of the Loggia de’ Lanzi; then before you the lofty, fierce old Palazzo Vecchio; and beside it the fountains play in the farther Piazza. Cosimo I rides by as though into Siena, while behind him rises the palace of the Uguccioni, which Folfi made; and beside you the Calzaioli ebbs and flows with its noisy life, as of old the busiest street of the city.

The Palazza Vecchio, peaceful enough now, but still with the fierce gesture of war stands on one side, facing the Piazza, a fortress of huge stones four storeys high—the last, thrust out from the wall and supported by arches on brackets of stone, as though crowning the palace itself. It stands almost four-square, and above rises the beautiful tower, the highest tower in the city, with a gallery similar to the last storey of the palace, and above a loggia borne by four pillars, from which spring the great arches of the canopy that supports the spire; and whereas the battlements of the palazzo are square and Guelph, those of the tower are Ghibelline in the shape of the tail of the swallow. Set, not in the centre of the square, nor made to close it, but on one side, it was thus placed, it is said, in order to avoid the burned houses of the Uberti, who had been expelled the city. However this may be, and its position is so fortunate that it is not likely to be due to any such chance, Arnolfo di Cambio began it in February 1299, taking as his model, so some have thought, the Rocca of the Conti Guidi of the Casentino, which Lapo his father had built. Under the arches of the fourth storey are painted the coats of the city and its gonfaloni. And there you may see the most ancient device of Florence, the lily argent on a field gules; the united coats gules and argent of Florence and Fiesole in 1010; the coat of Guelph Florence, a lily gules on a field argent; and, among the rest, the coat of Charles of Anjou, the lilies or on a field azure.

Originally posted 2011-10-05 01:48:00.