Umbria Archives - The Patroclus

September 19, 2024October 3, 2024

The Sala Dei Notari in Perugia

The Sala dei Notari (Room of the Notaries) in Perugia is not just an imposing and beautiful space, but something that tells us how Perugians thought of themselves, in the Middle Ages and today.

To visit, or live in, a central Italian town is to be constantly aware of the Middle Ages. Not just the architecture, but the medieval town districts, and the celebrations and parades that I documented in my posts on The Serious Business of Dressing Up and its successor. Over time I have come to think that there is more to this than the admittedly great fun of a street parade in funny costumes. To some extent I believe that it is because towns are celebrating what is seen as a golden age. Why? It is unlikely to be the regular wars and the bubonic plague. But it is likely to be about community memories of identity and self-determination. Let us explore that idea in the context of Perugia.

An enjoyable aspect of central Italian cities – to the history nerd anyway – is the fact that many of the noble civic buildings are still used for public administration. These buildings generally date from the period of the independent communes in the 11^th-13^th Centuries, when cities developed their own institutions of self-government – law courts, regulation of commerce and public works, and self-defence.

One of the best examples is in Perugia. In my post on The Buried Streets of Perugia I wrote about how the subjugation of Perugia by Pope Paul III led to the relocation of power to the new Papal fortress built at the southern end of the town, and how, during the centuries of neglect that followed, the magnificent Gothic civic buildings at the other end of town nonetheless survived. But before Perugia fell, there were few better examples of the assertive, self-governing and self-confident medieval Italian city.

Perugia Palazzo dei Priori — Perugia – Piazza IV Novembre, the Fontana Maggiore and the Palazzo dei Priori on a busy Sunday morning in late summer. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 16mm lens (click to enlarge).

After the defeat of Papal forces by the new Italian government in 1860, the fortress was demolished and replaced by the palaces which – with obvious symbolism – housed the government of the Region of Umbria and the Province of Perugia as elements of the modern Italian State. Meanwhile, at the northern end of town, by the Duomo, the Palazzo dei Priori continued to house the local government offices, as it does today, along with the excellent National Gallery of Umbria.

While there is much to admire about the period of the independent communes, one very unfortunate aspect – which was to fatally weaken Italy in following centuries – was the intense factionalism of the time. City fought city, and internally, factions and powerful families fought each other. These factions were often proxies for the overarching great-power rivalry of the Middle Ages, between the Papacy (the Guelphs) and the Holy Roman Empire (the Ghibellines), but the existence of that rivalry did not cause Italian bellicosity, it simply channelled it.

The Perugians were famously warlike, and there can have been few cities in central Italy they did not fight with. They were particularly unable to get along with their near neighbours in Assisi, and in 1202 there was an encounter between Perugia and Assisi at a place called Collestrada, near today’s Perugia Airport. In that battle a wealthy young man serving as a soldier in the militia of Assisi was taken prisoner and spent a year in Perugian captivity, where he underwent a spiritual conversion. His name was Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone, but history knows him by his nickname Francesco – or in English, Francis of Assisi.

Francis’s peaceful message didn’t change things very much. In the photograph below, the iron chains and bar that hang above the door of the Palazzo dei Priori were taken from the gates of the town of Torrita di Siena after a battle between Perugian and Sienese forces in 1358. The gryphons, by the way, are the symbol of Perugia, and you can see them everywhere in the city, and also on packets of “Baci” chocolates made by the Perugina chocolate company.

In the end, the factionalism and fighting doomed the independent communes. Fighting created mercenary armies, their commanders became warlords and strongmen who seized power, and some of those went on to become counts, marquises and dukes. They in turn fell to foreign powers, or in central Italy, to the Papacy.

But those collapses of self-government did not happen straight away. That they did not happen sooner was due in part to an admirable institution devised to deliver effective government while keeping factionalism under control. This was rule by a podestà. A podestà was an official – well-born, but not of the higher ranks of the nobility, typically of the rank of knight – and typically with legal experience. Crucially, a podestà had to come from somewhere else, so could not have ties to one of the local factions. And he served for a fixed term (usually two years) so he was not around long enough to “go native” with one of those local factions. A podestà was not a dictator, more like a chief magistrate. His authority was balanced by councils and assemblies, other magistrates and the factions themselves, but he was expected to act as a mediator between them all, and take decisions in the best interest of the city as a whole.

In some places the podestà was felt to be too closely aligned to the interests of the gentry rather than the growing middle class, (populares in Latin) so an additional official position was created, that of capitano del popolo, who like the podestà was appointed from somewhere else and served a fixed term. Perugia too took that route.

In Perugia today, at the top of a flight of stairs leading up to the Palazzo dei Priori from what is now called Piazza IV Novembre near the famous Fontana Maggiore, is a large room called the Sala dei Notari, or “room of the notaries”. It is a large chamber, originally used for meetings of the popular assembly. Later, after Perugia came under Papal control and popular assemblies ceased to be meaningful, it became the headquarters of the guild of notaries, from which it takes its modern name.

These days the room is once again an assembly hall, of sorts, where public meetings are held, lectures given, and city councillors meet. Weddings are held there. Last time I was there they were holding a prizegiving for a fun run. But what a magnificent place it is to hold any kind of ceremony.

The Sala dei Notari. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

The frescoes date from the 13^th Century, and some depict biblical stories, Aesop’s Fables, and other improving maxims. There are also commemorations of the medieval podestàs of Perugia in the form of their coats of arms. All were, however, heavily restored in 1860 by a local artist named Tassi – and show it, especially the podestà memorials. The style is 19^th-Century and the writing is in the sort of Victorian mock-gothic script that one sees in calligraphy by Augustus Pugin and William Morris. Nonetheless the effect is still very striking, and what is more, this was not just a simple exercise in nostalgia or fashionable neo-gothicism, but a historically significant act. Look at the date. 1860 was the year that Perugians finally – after several bloody failures – threw off the Papal yoke and became part of united Italy. Of course they were going to emphasise and celebrate anything that reminded them of their historical autonomy.

A selection of these commemorations follows, with my attempts at translating the (often abbreviated) Latin.

The noble and puissant knight Gozzadinus de Gozzadini of Bologna, honourable podestà of the city of Perugia, AD 1395. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

The noble and puissant knight Minus Karnli de Montanis of Siena chief magistrate (?) of the commune of Perugia 1360. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

The puissant man Pazinus, Lord of Palle de Strozis of Florence, honourable Podestà of the people of Perugia, 1435. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

Two people commemorated here: Rodolfus de Panciaticis of Pistorio, podestà in 1347, and somebody called Gabrielis from the Piccolomini family, from Siena (perhaps related to Aeneas Piccolomini, Pope Pius II), Capitano of the Comune of Perugia in the same year. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

The noble and puissant knight Enricus de Obizis of Lucca, honourable podestà of the city of Perugia, 1378. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

Noble and puissant knight Jonus Jacopus de Gianfigliazzis of Florence, honourable podestà of Perugia, 1421. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

Gentle knight Lord Jhoannes de Boccadeferris of Bologna, honourable podestà, 1417. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

Noble and puissant man, Lord Ciprianus de Manasseis of Terni, honourable podestà of Perugia, 1433. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

I am struck by how far away some of these podestàs come from: Bologna, Siena, Lucca and so on. But these are all other independently-minded cities, and presumably shared the Perugians’ commitment to self-determination. It is appropriate, therefore, that the Perugini should have honoured them at the time, appropriate too that their descendants should have renewed the honour in 1860 after the end of Papal domination, and appropriate still that their coats of arms should look down on the Perugini today as they get married, debate council taxes, and hand out medals.

August 16, 2024October 10, 2024

Catherine of Siena, Cardinal Albornoz and Sir John Hawkwood

This is a story about how three very different individuals were involved in the return of the Papacy to Italy in the 14th Century.

In my article about the Avignon “captivity” I talked about how the French King basically took over the Papacy, moved it to Avignon in Provence, and stacked it with Frenchmen. Now I am going to talk about its return to Rome, almost 70 years later. It’s a complicated story, which I propose to simplify by concentrating on three people, only one of whom – Saint Catherine of Siena – was Italian. The other two are a Spaniard and an Englishman. Gosh, where do I start?

Catherine of Siena

Let us start with Catherine, whom history has long credited with being a major force in pressuring the last Avignonese Pope (Gregory XI) to return with his curia to Rome. Apparently modern scholarly opinion varies on just how influential she was, but as we shall see, she had by then acquired a reputation for holiness. Giving her the credit would have therefore been a more acceptable story than acknowledging some of the more worldly considerations Gregory might have had.

Catherine (her full name was Caterina di Jacopo di Benincasa) was born in Siena in 1347, just before the Black Death struck Europe. Her father was a cloth dyer and must have been reasonably well-off, going by the size of the house in which she lived with her long-suffering family, and which you can still visit.

Siena Catherine's house — Siena, the house of St. Catherine’s family. Canon EOS-3 35mm camera, 28-135mm IS zoom lens, Fujichrome Velvia 50 film (click to enlarge)

Catherine is known, among other things, for some fairly extravagant acts of asceticism and mortification of the flesh, some with psycho-sexual overtones, that today would provide plenty of material for a doctoral thesis, or at the very least a conference paper. At a minimum she would be diagnosed with anorexia. But we must be careful not to judge the past too much by the standards of the post-Freudian present, at least not without trying to understand what it must have been like to live then. During her childhood, the plague killed more than half the population of Europe – and an even greater proportion of the population in crowded medieval Italian cities like Siena. You can still see the effects today – in 1339 Siena had started a significant project to enlarge the cathedral, which stopped during the plague and never restarted.

In the absence of any scientific understanding of what had caused the catastrophe, it is hardly surprising that many people assumed they were living through the early chapters of the Apocalypse, and responded accordingly. Confraternities of flagellants paraded through the streets whipping themselves. Others thought about prophecies of false saviours and false preachers, and looked hard at the contemporary church, obsessed as it was with wealth and power. This was the world in which the young Catherine grew up; how could it not have affected her and her contemporaries?

Although she is often portrayed in the habit of a Dominican nun, it seems that she was probably not a nun but joined a lay sisterhood associated with the Dominicans. Given the considerable freedom she seemed to enjoy, including living at home with her family, and travelling around Italy urging clerical reform, it does seem more likely that she was not actually a nun. Either way, she lived a life of virgin piety, acquired a reputation for holiness, and a habit of dictating letters to popes and princes telling them what they ought to be doing (the lay sisterhood taught her to read, but the fact that her books and letters were all dictated suggests that she did not write).

One of her lucky targets was Pope Gregory, who received a series of letters arguing for the return of the Papacy to Rome, and for reforms to the Church and the Papal States. John Julius Norwich, in his book The Popes, suggests that Gregory had already decided that the Papacy belonged in Rome, but as Catherine’s fame spread, associating her with the cause would have been an astute move. Gregory, like the rest of the Papal court, was French, but many of his fellow-Frenchmen did not share his enthusiasm for Italy, so he would have needed to make it look like he was yielding to a mass movement.

Her body worn out by self-inflicted privations, Catherine died in 1380 aged just 33, but she was quickly canonised, adding yet further spiritual lustre to the return-to-Rome movement. Another woman who had agitated for a return to Rome – Bridget of Sweden – was canonised as well, suggesting that the Papacy had no objections to such advocacy.

Cardinal Gil Albornoz

Gregory was not the first Avignon Pope to contemplate a return to Rome. Fifteen years or so earlier Innocent VI had the same idea, but he faced a problem, not with the Papacy’s spiritual power, but with its secular power in Italy, which had attenuated during the time in Avignon. The Popes’ claims to secular sovereignty were based on a bare-faced and not very competent 9^th-Century forgery known as “The Donation of Constantine” according to which the Emperor Constantine had rather implausibly handed over the entire Western Empire, including Italy, to the Pope to rule as sovereign territory. In practice, the Papal power to govern states only really ran until it encountered a stronger power: in the North, the Holy Roman Empire, in the South, the Normans followed by the Angevins and Spanish, and in the West, Spain and of course France.

In much of Europe the Middle Ages saw the growth of unitary states with all powers vested in monarchs. In contrast, Central and Northern Italy saw the emergence of independent communes in which towns and cities developed the institutions of government for themselves, and an admirable system (rule by an independent podestà appointed from another city for a fixed term) to keep them working.

Over time the communes failed and became counties and dukedoms, or the notionally independent institutions remained in place but effective government took place behind the scenes under the control of powerful families like the Medici.

In the longer term the future for Italian cities was either direct control from Rome or passing into the possession of a foreign dynasty, but back in the 14^th Century none of that looked inevitable. The Visconti of Milan were growing in power and many other cities were quite content with the de facto independence they enjoyed with the Papacy all that distance away in Provence. Two things turned all that around – one was the Black Death, which temporarily stopped all economic activity and created a significant labour shortage. The other was Cardinal Gil Àlvarez Carrillo de Albornoz, the Pope’s Vicar-General.

In theory the Vicar-General was a cardinal delegated to assist the Pope with the management of the Papal States, but as Vicar-General, Albonorz was more of a general than a vicar. An example of the church militant if ever there was one, Albornoz led armies, besieged cities, killed thousands, and built a lot of fortresses in the process of completing his task to re-establish Papal control.

He had started his career as a mere archbishop of Toledo leading his forces in Spain against invaders from Morocco. Without apparent ironic intent, Innocent VI gave him the title “Angel of Peace”.

So in 1353 Albornoz was given the job of subduing these independently-minded city-states, and he and his small army of mercenaries turned out to be very effective at it.

All through central Italy, in towns like Urbino, Assisi, Orvieto, Spoleto and Narni, you will find castles built by Albornoz after the towns were taken by Papal forces. In other towns such as Todi you might find the remains of one subsequently dismantled. The name and the history behind them are well enough known that they may simply called “Fortezza Albornoz” or “Rocca Albornoz”.

Assisi Rocca — Assisi, the Rocca Maggiore. Reconstructed by Albornoz on the site of an earlier castle. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, Zeiss Sonnar 150 CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

Under Albornoz, the role of these fortresses was not to defend the towns they guarded. It was to subdue them, and in cases like Narni, it was to control a strategic road – the ancient Via Flaminia where it passes through the gorge of the River Nera.

Narni Rocca — Narni, the Rocca, built by Albornoz, and rebuilt after destruction by Charles V’s “landesknechte” in 1527. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

Urbino Fortezza Albornoz — Urbino, foundations of the Fortezza Albornoz. Fujifilm GFX-50R camera, 32-64mm lens (click to enlarge).

Orvieto Rocca Albornoz — Orvieto, the Rocca Albornoz. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

Todi Rocca Albornoz — Todi, remains of the Rocca Albornoz. Fujifilm GFX-50R camera, 32-64mm lens (click to enlarge).

But now we need to turn our attention to the third person in this story – and one just as unlikely as the other two.

Sir John Hawkwood

Some people say that “Hawkwood” sounds like the name of a character from a fantasy novel, but it makes me think of a 1970s prog-rock band. I’ve just discovered that there is also a character by that name in a popular video game. Whatever associations his name might have for English speakers, the Italians couldn’t really cope with it and mangled it into “Giovanni Acuto”, which since that means “John the Sharp” or “John the Astute”, is not actually a bad fit. It turns out that Albornoz wasn’t the only person leading a band of mercenaries around Italy, and that this particular person – Hawkwood – had a considerable effect, for good or ill, on the conduct of warfare and politics in Italy. He was loathed and execrated, but ended up being celebrated as a hero in Florence.

How did an Englishman find himself in that position? It was in part the unintended consequence of a peacemaking exercise by a Pope. In 1360 the Hundred Years’ War between England and France was still only the Twenty-Three Years’ War, but after the disasters of Crécy and Poitiers, and the taking into captivity of the French King, things were going badly for France. Innocent VI (like all the other Avignon Popes a Frenchman) had been keen to engineer a truce, which he did with the Treaty of Brétigny.

The unintended consequence of peace was that, because a large number of troops on both sides were not feudal levies but mercenaries, they were promptly discharged in situ in France, either to starve or to form themselves into “free companies” and keep on soldiering, but this time on their own account. One such group was called the White Company, led by a German called Sterz, but composed mostly of Englishmen, including John Hawkwood of Essex.

Pickings were slim in the war-ravaged regions of north-western France, but to the south was a fabulously wealthy place – the Papal state of Avignon. The brigands captured the nearby town of Pont-Saint-Esprit and laid siege to Avignon itself. After a while, and another outbreak of plague, Innocent gave in and paid them a large sum of money to go away. And here’s a fascinating possibility. There is no written record, it seems, of the agreement between the Papacy and the White Company, but it has been suggested that part of the deal was that the Company should continue south into Italy, there to assist Albornoz, who already had several mercenary companies in his pay. Subsequent events are not inconsistent with this scenario.

The free companies hit Italy like a gauntleted fist. Italy had seen a good many armies over the years, but the military professionalism of these foreigners set them apart from the citizen militias that were all that most cities could call on – to the amazement of Italians, they even continued campaigning in winter. And they had the English longbow – the most effective infantry weapon of the Middle Ages.

While working for Perugia, Sterz was imprisoned and executed by the city authorities on a charge of plotting to betray them to the Papal forces, and Hawkwood formally took over command of the White Company. He quickly established a reputation for ruthless effectiveness – you wanted him on your side if you could afford him. And there were plenty who could, or were desperate enough to promise to find the money. Central and northern Italy were in turmoil as Albornoz, the Visconti of Milan and the remaining free communes all manoeuvred for advantage. At this early stage Hawkwood was mostly fighting on the side of the Pope, but on one occasion when he was not, he had a mysterious and bloodless encounter with Albornoz’s forces near Orvieto which may simply have been arranged to create an opportunity for a clandestine meeting between the two.

Hawkwood fought on the Pisan side in an inconclusive Pisa-Florence war, on the Milanese side in a war between the Visconti and Papal forces, and on the Papal side in two wars with Florence. He built closer relations with Milan, marrying Donnina Visconti, the illegitimate daughter of Bernabò Visconti, the Lord of Milan. It seems she had inherited her father’s force of character and proved an effective deputy in managing Hawkwood’s affairs.

The White Company — A tent at the annual spring medieval festival in Bevagna, Umbria, bearing Hawkwood’s arms: argent on a chevron sable, three escallops of the field. Fujifilm GFX-50R camera, 32-64mm lens (click to enlarge).

Pope Innocent died and was replaced by Gregory XI. Albornoz died on campaign and was replaced as Vicar-General by Cardinal Robert of Geneva, a vicious man who in the name of the Church perpetrated one of the worst massacres of the Italian Middle Ages, in which most of the population of Cesena were slaughtered, despite having been promised forgiveness if they surrendered.

Hawkwood’s troops were involved in that massacre; by one contemporary account he tried to persuade Robert to accept the town’s submission without bloodshed, but the cardinal was determined to make an example of Cesena, and thousands of innocent civilians died.

We don’t know whether that was the event that finally turned Hawkwood against the Pope; after all he had not previously shown himself to be particularly sentimental when it came to civilian lives, and there had been other irritants in the relationship, such as Gregory’s regular failure to pay wages. That was not a trivial matter, as Hawkwood still had to pay his men out of his own pocket, causing some serious liquidity problems. On one occasion Hawkwood, in frustration, took the Umbrian town of Città di Castello in the name of the Pope but held it for himself in lieu of wages. But whatever his reasons, after the Cesena massacre Hawkwood mostly turned up on the side of a city for whom he had previously been a nemesis – Florence – and against both of his previous allies: the Visconti and the Papacy.

Florence returned the compliment: they paid him well and granted him Florentine citizenship, and he acquired a good deal of property in the region.

He died peacefully in 1394, at the (for then) advanced age of 70 or 71. The Florentine authorities gave him a lavish funeral in the duomo, where his standards were hung and remained for years. A marble tomb was planned, but the municipal funds were a bit low (perhaps because of all the money paid to mercenaries), and forty years later the Medici employed the painter Uccello to do a mock-marble memorial in the duomo, which you can still see today.

Ucello Hawkwood Memorial — The Hawkwood memorial in the Florence Duomo, by Uccello. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge).

The inscription reads, in translation: “John Hawkwood, British knight, most prudent leader of his age and most expert in the art of war”.

Why would the Medici bother honouring the memory of someone forty years dead? I doubt they ever did anything out of sentiment. My guess is that it was because Hawkwood ended up on their side against dangerous rivals that still threatened them. A reminder of past victories would be a useful signal to their enemies and their own people of their determination to continue to fight for their independence.

Which brings me to the issue of Hawkwood’s legacy. Much has been written about the great and undeniable harms that the free companies visited upon Italy (although they didn’t really start any wars, they just made existing conflicts worse). And also how much the great condottieri of the next couple of centuries – Gattamelata, Colleoni, the Dukes of Mantua, Federico da Montefeltro, Cesare Borgia – learned from Hawkwood’s example. But did he do any good? The Florentines seemed to think so. Perhaps if had not been for him, Florence and Tuscany might have ended up subject to either Milan or the Papal States, or divided between them. The glories of Medici Florence might never have happened. Now that would have made a difference.

Odds and ends

In 1377, after an arduous and dangerous sea voyage from Marseilles, a small fleet carrying Gregory XI, his cardinals and his court sailed into the Tiber, and the Papacy never left Rome again. It had only been away for seven decades or so, but an awful lot had changed. The Black Death had delivered enormous economic and spiritual shocks to European society, and there was a new breath of intellectual enquiry in the air: the Renaissance was coming.

The end of the Avignon Papacy was not a clean break. Most of the cardinals were still French and shortly after Gregory died and was replaced by the Italian Urban VI, they had second thoughts, walked out, and elected their own Pope – none other than Robert of Geneva, the butcher of Cesena, who took the name of Clement VII. Urban and Clement excommunicated each other, exchanged insults, and the resulting “Great Schism of the West” was to last another forty years. Urban is now considered a canonical pope by the church, and Clement an “antipope”, which serves him right.

I’ve chosen to write this post around three individuals, but there was a fourth memorable character involved – an extraordinary fellow called Cola di Rienzo (or Rienzi). This vain and pompous, but romantic and audacious adventurer rose from humble origins, seized power in Rome, and announced his intention to reunite Italy under a reborn Roman Empire. His bombastic personality, his imperial Roman fantasies and not least his violent end are all strangely reminiscent of Benito Mussolini. It’s quite a story, which has inspired multiple works of fiction and a Wagner opera. If I can assemble enough relevant photographs I might do a separate post on him one day.

The White Company included not just soldiers, but lawyers and notaries as well, to draw up complex contracts with employers. One oddity of those contracts is a standard clause that they would not act contrary to their loyalty to the King of England. Some have taken this to imply a degree of control by the King (Edward III).

There is some evidence for this. Hawkwood may have been a go-between helping arrange the marriage of Edward’s second son, Lionel, Duke of Clarence, to the daughter of Galeazzo Visconti of Milan. The wedding went ahead, but Lionel died soon after (inevitably, given the Visconti’s record, there were suggestions of poison). The wedding had taken place in Milan, and the Visconti hired a large force of mercenaries to escort the groom there. That bodyguard was commanded by John Hawkwood.

In Lionel’s retinue was a young diplomat called Geoffrey Chaucer. It is probable that they met, and plausible that the Knight in the Canterbury Tales is based on Hawkwood, at least in part.

The End of the World – The Duomo and Signorelli Frescoes in Orvieto

In a pretty location in Umbria you may visit an artistic masterpiece of the Renaissance: Signorelli’s frescoes in the cathedral of Orvieto.

Orvieto is a town in western Umbria with a spectacular situation – the area abounds in outcrops of “tufa” – rock formed from volcanic ash, around which the softer rock has eroded away. This makes such sites good choices for defensibility, and it seems that there has been a settlement here from before Etruscan times. The name itself is said to derive from the Latin Urbs Vetus, meaning “the old city”.

Although in the region of Umbria now, Orvieto is located west of the Tiber River and so it would not have been part of the ancient territory of the Umbri, nor, for the same reason, would it have been part of the ancient Roman province of Umbria. The modern region of Umbria, with several other regions, was created when the Papal territories were annexed by the Kingdom of Piedmont during the unification of Italy, and its modern area only approximates that of its ancient one. So Orvieto doesn’t feel particularly Umbrian – the landscape and architecture have more in common with northern Lazio towns like Montefiascone and Caprarola.

Map showing the location of Orvieto, between Rome and Florence (click to open in Google Maps).

As the map shows, Orvieto is approximately halfway between Rome and Florence, and on both the main north-south motorway and the high-speed railway line. This means it is well-placed to receive a lot of tourists, which it does – but there has to be a reason for them to want to come. That reason is an artistic and architectural heritage that seems out of proportion to a place of such modest size. But some important things have happened here. Thomas Aquinas lectured at the university, and from the mid-1200s Orvieto was one of the cities to which Popes removed themselves when conflicts in Rome became too dangerous.

These days the attraction of Orvieto is largely based on the extraordinary duomo, or cathedral. While the duomo dominates the town when seen from a distance, you don’t actually see it as you walk along the narrow streets from the funicular which brings visitors up from the railway station and the car park. Then you suddenly turn a corner and there it is – and it is breathtaking.

Next to the duomo is an impressive medieval building – the Papal Palace, used as a residence when the Pope was in town. These days it houses the tourist office where you buy your ticket to visit the duomo.

The Duomo

Towards the end of the 13th Century, the town authorities decided to build themselves a magnificent church, to be dedicated to Santa Maria Assunta, and built of alternating layers of white and black stone, like a giant liquorice allsort – a style common in Tuscan cities like Siena and Pistoia. Progress was a bit slow; the town kept running short of money, and every now and then plague and war interrupted things. In fact it took about three hundred years, so it started in the Romanesque style, most of it was Gothic, and there were some Renaissance bits towards the end.

Orvieto Duomo showing the gothic façade and the black and white stripes. Horseman 45FA large format camera, Fujinon-W 125mm lens, 4×5-inch sheet film back, Fujichrome Velvia 50 film, rising front to correct perspective (click to enlarge).

Apparently one of the more serious problems first encountered was that the structure didn’t appear to be strong enough to carry its own weight – a Sienese architect was brought in who added buttresses and other features based on the duomo at Siena.

And it was that Sienese architect – a chap called Maitani – who designed the first of the cathedral’s masterpieces – the magnificent Gothic façade.

The façade is the most prominent architectural feature in Orvieto and it can be seen clearly in the distant view of the town in the first photograph above. Sometimes, when the setting sun hits its golden mosaics, it shines like a beacon far into the distance. The mosaics date from the late 14th Century, but most were replaced and redesigned in the 15th, 18th and 19th Centuries.

At the base of the four piers of the façade are a series of bas-reliefs depicting stories from the old testament, and a Last Judgement with gruesome-looking devils carrying away the souls of the damned. It is thought that some of the work was by Maitani himself, but that three or four other master sculptors must have worked on it. My favourite part of it is a “Jesse Tree” which was a favourite motif in Christian iconography, showing various ancestors of Christ, starting with Jesse, the father of King David, in the branches of a tree. This has been compared to a medieval manuscript illumination, but carved in marble – I would certainly agree with that description.

Around the door you will see some of the most extraordinarily delicate carving, of marble inlaid with beautiful mosaics. This sort of portal carving is very common in Gothic cathedrals, but seldom is it as elegant as this.

The Interior and the Cappella Nuova

Once inside the “liquorice allsort” one tends to be struck by the comparative simplicity. I like this, as it is probably close to the original impression one would have had in the Middle Ages. Some writers seem to find it too stark a contrast to the glories of the façade, and if you agree with them, then be patient, because the best is yet to come.

And the best – which is what you have come to see – is one of the most memorable works of the 15th-16th Centuries, which is saying something. On one side of the nave is a chapel referred to variously as the Chapel of the Madonna of San Brizio or simply the Cappella Nuova, or “New Chapel”. “New”, in this case means that it was commissioned in 1408, a bit over a hundred years after work on the cathedral commenced, but consideration about how to decorate it did not begin until the mid-1400s. Perhaps it was a question of money, because that certainly turned out to be a constraint in the decades to come.

In 1446 negotiations were started to secure the services of one of the most famous artists of the day, the Dominican monk born Guido di Pietro, later called Fra Giovanni da Fiesole, but known to anglophone art history as Fra Angelico (NB: not Frangelico – that is a hazelnut-flavoured liqueur). In Italy he is usually called Il Beato Angelico, the blessed Angelico. The title eventually became official in 1982 when Pope John Paul II formally beatified him. I have some photographs of his frescoes from the monastery of San Marco in Florence, which I will make the subject of another post one day. (edit: here is that post.)

In 1447 the cathedral authorities signed a contract with Fra Angelico, and he did spend one summer in Orvieto, preparing designs and executing a couple of ceiling panels – in which he was assisted by the young Benozzo Gozzoli. A combination of papal demands on Fra Angelico’s time and possibly the difficulty of finding the money to pay him meant that he did not return, although apparently Gozzoli stayed on and continued the work for a while.

Fra Angelico died in 1455, and for the rest of the 15th Century no real work was done on the chapel, although the scaffolding remained in place. Orvieto itself went through some hard times with a period of civil disorder caused by the usual conflicts between rival wealthy families, which cannot have helped with the civic revenues.

Every now and then as finances permitted, attempts were made to find a painter to carry on the work, including the great Perugino, who characteristically kept the Orvietans hanging for a decade or so before finally turning them down. At that point, the choice fell on Luca Signorelli.

Signorelli came from the town of Cortona on the border of Tuscany and Umbria. In 1499 he was around 50 years old and presumably at the height of his powers. He had contributed to the decoration of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and also to the famous paintings in the monastery of Monte Oliveto Maggiore near Siena, but it was this work in Orvieto that established his reputation in art history. As part of the contract he undertook to complete those parts of the chapel for which Fra Angelico had left drawings, but these were only for the rest of the ceiling panels. Since Fra Angelico’s work featured a Christ in Judgement, Signorelli proposed to continue the theme of the Apocalypse and Last Judgement, in keeping with Fra Angelico’s intent, but also picking up the eschatological tone of the carvings on the cathedral façade.

I have seen a tourist website which states that the Orvieto Last Judgement is based on that of Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel. This is completely the wrong way round! Signorelli was first, and Michelangelo came after. Any similarities – which there are – are the result of Michelangelo drawing inspiration from Signorelli, and not vice versa.

The Frescoes

Let’s start with the ceiling, which is the only place you can see any work by Fra Angelico. These are the two panels featuring Christ in Judgement and The Prophets.

Orvieto Cappella Nuova — The Cappella Nuova, ceiling panels by Fra Angelico – *The Prophets* (centre) and *Christ in Judgement* (left) Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm lens (click to enlarge).

The rest is all by Signorelli. The upper walls contain several scenes, drawn from the biblical account of the apocalypse and medieval works. In (I think) chronological order, they are The Rule of the Antichrist, The Apocalypse, The Resurrection of the Flesh, The Damned in Hell and The Elect in Paradise. You may find them given slightly different names in different sources.

The Rule of the Antichrist

The central figure in this panel is the false Christ preaching. He is rather shockingly depicted as similar to the real one, but with the devil whispering in his ear. Our old friend the art historian Vasari claimed to have identified real people in the crowd around him, including the young Raphael as the well-dressed long-haired chap in red tights with his hands on his hips. However some modern sources cast doubt on this.

It had not occurred to me until I started writing this article, but this fresco was painted very shortly after the Dominican friar Girolamo Savonarola was convicted of heresy and executed in Florence. Savonarola preached a Taliban-like message of radical asceticism, and for a while was the effective ruler of Florence, declaring it to be the new Jerusalem and the world centre of Christianity. Savonarola was famous for his “bonfires of the vanities”, in which rich Florentines offered their treasures for destruction, and sure enough, on the ground in front of the Antichrist is a pile of such offerings. It seems very probable that people would have made the connection, and moreover that the church authorities would have wanted them to. Then I noticed that behind the Antichrist Signorelli has depicted a group of disputing clerics, prominent among whom are several in the black and white Dominican habit that Savonarola would have worn. I wonder if that was part of the message as well? Not that Savonarola had been the actual Antichrist, but that this sort of puritanism was dangerous heresy.

Elsewhere in the scene, bad stuff is happening all over the place. People are being persecuted and executed for not following the Antichrist. and in the central background the Antichrist is performing bogus miracles. At the top left is the end of this particular part of the story, where the Antichrist has dared to attempt to ascend into heaven, but is quickly dispatched by the Archangel Michael. A group of people below, presumably the Antichrist’s followers, are killed in the collateral damage.

At the lower left stand two men dressed in black, solemnly observing the scene. These are Signorelli himself and Fra Angelico. Signorelli cannot have met his predecessor, and I do not know on what the likeness was based, but it was a generous gesture on Signorelli’s part to include him.

In this as in the other main scenes, you will notice a clever artistic trick by Signorelli – at the bottom of each scene some of the characters look as if they are actually standing on ledges that are part of the structure of the cathedral. It is quite a skilful bit of false perspective, given that you are looking at it all from below. It is not the only part of the chapel where he plays these sorts of games.

The Apocalypse

This scene is painted over the archway that divides the chapel from the nave of the duomo. On the right, in the foreground the Old Testament King David and a Sibyl are predicting the end of the world. Behind them, someone is escaping from a collapsing building, and people are being led to execution. In the distance, a city is in ruins and ships are borne high on huge waves.

On the left, flying devils are laying waste to the earth with fiery breath, while people below flee in panic.

As elsewhere, the foremost figures – David and the Sybil on the right, the terrified refugees on the left, have been painted as if they have come out of the paintings and are standing on the actual architecture of the cathedral.

The Resurrection of the Flesh

In this scene the Last Trumpet is sounded, and the dead emerge from the earth – some already restored to flesh, others still as skeletons. I’m not sure why they did not all come back in complete form straight away.

Signorelli specialised in nude figures, in particular powerfully-muscled males, at a time when this was still a fairly novel thing in a sacred setting (as we have seen, Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel frescoes came later). I’m not aware of whether the cathedral authorities thought he was being too daring.

The Damned in Hell

Signorelli definitely went to town on this scene. At the top right three armed archangels prevent any escape, while devils seize the damned souls and bear them into the fiery gate of hell at the lower left. There is a heaving mass of bodies below, but it is easy to distinguish the figures from each other – assisted, as one source points out, by the fact that Signorelli gives the devils grotesquely-coloured skin.

There is apparently a tradition that the naked woman being carried off on the back of a flying devil is a depiction of a former girlfriend of Signorelli’s who had jilted him. This would make it an early example of revenge porn, but I have not seen this in any serious discussion of the frescoes so it can probably be discounted.

The Elect in Paradise

The final large scene is a complete contrast to The Damned in Hell – obviously, because it is The Elect in Paradise. The raised dead stand around – most now decorously draped – while angels welcome them with crowns. More angels provide entertainment in the form of a chamber orchestra.

The Zoccoli

All of the main pictures start about two and a half metres above floor level. The walls below that are painted to look like pedestals (Zoccoli in Italian), which gave Signorelli the opportunity for some more trompe l’oeil showing off. As we have already seen, he painted an apparent flat surface on top of the Zoccoli, which allowed some of the action to appear to spill forward out of the pictures. The Zoccoli are ornately decorated in the “grotesque” style, which in this context does not mean ugly but rather in a style based on the art seen in the ancient Roman ruins that were starting to be excavated. The classical theme is continued by the fact that in the centre of each Zoccolo there is a portrait, not of some saint or elder of the Church, but a poet.

By tradition these poets are Homer, Empedocles, Lucan, Horace, Ovid, Virgil and Dante, although some of these are now disputed. Dante is obvious, so no argument there. Ovid is surrounded by illustrations from his Metamorphoses, and Virgil with illustrations from his Georgics and Aeneid.

In medieval legend, the ancient poet Virgil acquired a second career as a magician and prophet. He therefore appears twice here, once in each persona – at least the wild-haired fellow below is thought to be him.

What they all have in common is that they wrote about visits to the underworld. Another feature that they share is that apart from Dante they are reacting to the apocalyptic events happening above them. They look at each other in alarm, or peer out of their little windows at the scenes above. It brings the biblical prophecies and classical literature together in a very Renaissance-humanist way, but it is also a little joke on Signorelli’s part.

Signorelli worked in Rome and elsewhere in central Italy, but I think this is his unquestioned masterpiece. It’s all quite an extraordinary experience, and one that we have yet to tire of repeating. When we first visited I was just impressed by the scale of it all. It was only later that I realised firstly how revolutionary it was in artistic terms, but also how elements of it would have resonated with recent history. We’ve been there a few times over the years, and Orvieto is one of our favourite places to take visitors. It helps that there is an excellent restaurant (Trattoria Vinosus) in the piazza next to the duomo.

A note on sources

These frescoes are an important landmark in Renaissance art, and the Duomo a major example of Gothic architecture, and as such you will find many references to them in art histories and online articles. There are references in Philip’s Travel Guides: Umbria by Jonathan Keats, which was particularly helpful in identifying which of the façade mosaics are later restorations. Much of what I have found on the frescoes comes from Signorelli’s Orvieto Frescoes, A Guide to the Cappella Nuova of Orvieto Cathedral, by Dugald McLellan, 1998. We bought our copy in Orvieto in 1999.

A note on the Photography

In some of the pictures of the Signorelli frescoes, I used a wide-angle lens from below, which introduced some distortion. I have attempted to correct the perspective in software, but only up to a point because of course some of the foreshortening was put there on purpose by Signorelli. If you want to get the full effect of his false-perspective tricks, you will just have to go there yourselves!

August 29, 2023April 26, 2024

The Temple on the Mountain

In Umbria, at the very top of Monte Torre Maggiore, is a site that was sacred for thousands of years. In June 2023 I resolved to make a trip there, as it was something I had had in mind for a while. Monte Torre Maggiore is the southernmost and highest peak in the chain called the Monti Martani which divides the Middle Tiber Valley from the Valle Umbra. Roughly speaking, the Middle Tiber Valley runs from Perugia in the north to Todi in the south, while the Valle Umbra runs from Assisi in the north to Spoleto in the south.

Central Umbria, with the Monti Martani inexpertly indicated. The green area around Bastardo is the Martani Hills, an olive and wine growing area. Source: Google (click to open in Google Maps).

My desire to see the place came from reading a book titled simply Umbria by an English journalist called Patricia Clough, in which she describes heading up the mountain to the very summit, where she found the remains of a temple that dates from pre-Roman times. She makes much of how hard it was to find, and the difficulty of distinguishing it from some medieval remains a bit further down the mountain, but these days it is on Google Maps which solves both problems. “Pagan Sanctuary”, says Google – adding, a bit superfluously, “(ruin)”.

To get there one heads for a town called Cesi which is spectacularly located on a steep mountainside. It is however difficult to find a good spot from which to photograph Cesi, but if I ever get one I will update this post. Once in Cesi I turned off the car’s satnav and relied on Google Maps to find the road – which turned out to be steep, narrow, and in appalling condition even by the standards of Umbrian rural roads. Uncomfortably aware that my leased Peugeot didn’t have a spare tyre, just one of those silly repair kits, I crawled up the mountain in first gear, easing the car into and out of potholes when I couldn’t go round them. It took half an hour or so, and I only passed two cars. One, stationary in a clearing, had a couple of shifty-looking fellows in it who looked at me with suspicion. I decided they must be drug dealers. A bit later I passed a couple of lady carabiniere in one of their little green forestry patrol 4WD Fiat Pandas. The driver mouthed a friendly “buongiorno” to me as we passed, which I took to mean that what I was doing was neither illegal nor extremely foolish. Carabinieri carry military-grade weapons (they are in fact part of the military) so I assumed they would be a match for the drug dealers. In the event I saw nothing in the local online newspaper about a shootout on a lonely mountain road, so maybe I was wrong about them being drug dealers.

Sant’Erasmo

After having passed an astronomical observatory which appeared to be mothballed, about a third of the way up I reached a flat spot with somewhere to park, and got out. The scent of the wildflowers – of which there were many – was very strong. Big black shiny bumblebees, and little black insects with bright red wings, were feeding from them.

From the car park a ridge went out to a flat-topped outcrop, falling almost perpendicularly on three sides to the Terni valley a bit over two thousand feet below. On the flat top of the outcrop there is a church called Sant’Erasmo that dates from the 12th Century. It seemed unused but not abandoned, as there was a large padlock on the door.

Around Sant’Erasmo I saw various large stone blocks which looked ancient – from what I have been able to find out there was a settlement here called Clusiolum in Roman times, and in the early Middle Ages a Benedictine monastery for which Sant’Erasmo was presumably the church. Little remains of the Roman town, and nothing of the monastery as far as I could see, although doubtless much is hidden under the grass. In some places Sant’Erasmo is referred to not as a chiesa (church) but as an eremo (hermitage). There is a rather roughly-built stone extension out of the side of the church which doesn’t really fit any of the conventions of ecclesiastical architecture, so I speculate that might have been the hermit’s cell.

The view was tremendous, with a near-vertical slope down to the industrial outskirts of Terni on the left, and away to the right the town of Narni, sitting beside the gorge where the ancient military road (still called the Via Flaminia) heads down to Rome.

At the end of the ridge there are the remains of a medieval tower which would also have had a tremendous view. Presumably if the garrison saw an invading army they would have lit a fire or something. I didn’t go out to the tower, partly because it looked like a bit of a scramble, and partly because there were signs saying that it was both very dangerous and very illegal to approach within 15 metres.

Sant'Erasmo Watchtower — The medieval watchtower from Sant’Erasmo. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Monte Torre Maggiore

Sant’Erasmo was very interesting, but not the object of the trip, so I climbed back in the car and kept going uphill. Shortly beyond Sant’Erasmo the road became unmetalled, and actually a lot smoother, so I made better progress. Eventually I got to where Google thought it would be a good idea to get out and continue on foot, so I found a place in which to park the car out of the hot sun, and did so. It was very steep. At first it was through woodland, then it came out onto a bare hillside with lots of white stones. It was hard going; the sun was quite fierce and the hillside continued to be steep. I was going very slowly and stopping frequently, and my smart watch kept asking if I had finished my workout. Given how hard I was gasping for air I found this rather insulting.

On another hill a couple of kilometres away members of a mountain rescue team were practising being winched up and down from a helicopter, so it wasn’t hugely peaceful. A large raptor circled overhead for a while then, presumably deciding that I wasn’t about to expire, headed away. After a while the helicopter left too, presumably deciding I didn’t need rescuing.

Eventually I got to the summit. The site is surrounded by a metal fence but there was no lock on the gate so I assumed it is just there to keep cattle out, and let myself in. It is on the highest point of the mountain so the view is indeed spectacular – almost 360 degrees from Assisi in the northeast to Todi in the northwest. To the southeast are the high Apennines of Abruzzo, range after range fading into the distance.

To the south, beyond a range of hills, are the plains of northern Lazio that lead down to Rome. Clough’s book says that locals claim that from here one could see the dome of St Peter’s in Rome on a clear day, and nowadays the tower blocks on the outskirts of Rome. That seems a bit plausible, but not in a summer heat haze.

As for the ruins themselves, they are the remains of two rectangular buildings. One has been dated to the 3^rd Century BC, and a larger one from the 3^rd or 4^th Century AD, both erected over buried remains of a much earlier structure. There is also a smaller structure made of more haphazardly-arranged stones. I have no idea if that was part of the original or dates from some later period.

Being a good journalist rather than a cavalier blogger like me, Clough chased down the archaeologist who led the excavation of the site and who explained its pre-Roman origins. The excavations apparently revealed Bronze and Iron Age traces including ritual items in a grotto nearby, but to my untutored eye what remains above ground looks all Roman – large evenly-dressed stone blocks without mortar, fragments of fluted columns and the like.

It seems that as Rome’s dominions expanded to take in Umbria the site was redeveloped in Roman style. It is well-known that the Romans would co-opt local deities into their pantheon, so a shrine on some foggy British riverside or one on a baking Syrian hilltop would be rededicated to , for example, Jupiter plus the British name or Minerva plus the Syrian name. It could be that something similar happened here, or perhaps the original deity was just extinguished. Either way, the name of that original deity is lost now.

Given what we know, assimilation seems more characteristic of Roman practice and therefore more likely. It is seen as a strength of Roman imperialism – helping to encourage the locals into the new dominant culture, and presumably preventing local sacred sites from becoming centres of resistance.

In due course, something analogous happened with Christianity. It was not as explicit as pagan Roman syncretism, because the whole point of the Judeo-Christian god was that you were not allowed any other ones (although with the Trinity, the Virgin Mary, apostles, martyrs and other saints, in practice there was no shortage of additional subjects for veneration). What happened instead was that sacred sites continued to be co-opted, but the object was replacement rather than assimilation. Pagan temples were replaced by Christian churches on the same sites. Temples to Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, were frequently (or always? I don’t know) replaced by churches dedicated to the Virgin Mary.

Detail of the façade of the medieval church of Santa Maria in Cammuccia in Todi, Umbria, built on the site of a Roman temple of Minerva, and re-using material from that temple. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

That did not seem to have happened in the case of the temple on Monte Torre Maggiore. I haven’t seen any references to a Christian church on the site, and Clough’s archaeologist source suggests that the temples may have been violently destroyed. Whether that was part of the suppression of paganism, or was the result of war or earthquake, I do not know.

Sources

As I said, the inspiration for my visit to Monte Torre Maggiore, and the source for most of the information on the temple is Umbria by Patricia Clough, Haus Publishing, London, 2009. Although not a long book, it ranges across several aspects of living in Umbria, from history and culture to food and home renovation. I recommend it to anyone interested in the area.

I have found very little else – there is a brief mention of Sant’Erasmo in Cadogan Guides: Umbria (2009 edition), and nothing at all in the usually comprehensive Umbria, a Cultural Guide by Ian Campbell Ross. Online there are cursory mentions on a few tourism and outdoor walking sites, and only the stub of a Wikipedia page. It is an unusual experience for me to think that I might be making a substantial addition to the amount of online material on a subject.

August 5, 2023April 7, 2024

Cospaia – the Accidental Republic

Not long ago I went for a drive up to the northern tip of Umbria, in the Upper Tiber Valley near the town of Sansepolcro, not far from where Umbria, Tuscany and Marche all meet. Why? Well firstly because it was quite hot, so the prospect of spending much of the day in an air-conditioned car had its attractions. But the main purpose was to visit a place called Cospaia, whose history sounds like something out of a Peter Sellers film.

Pliny the Younger

But before I got to Cospaia I set the GPS for a town called San Giustino, where there is an archaeological site I wanted to see – the villa of Pliny the Younger. The nephew and adopted son of – you guessed it – Pliny the Elder, this Roman historian did the right thing by history. Possibly knowing that attribution of ownership to a building was going to be difficult two thousand years later, Pliny the Younger took the precaution of having his initials moulded into the bricks of which his villa was to be made (not “PTY” but “CPCS”: Caius Plinius Caecilius Secundus).

PTY’s main contribution to history is the large number of his letters which survive, in some of which he describes the death of his uncle (PTE) who was killed while trying to organise the rescue of people from Pompei. PTY’s detailed descriptions of the eruption of Vesuvius, which he witnessed from across the bay, are the main source of contemporary information about what happened, and as a result that type of volcanic eruption is still technically known as “Plinian”.

It’s mildly embarrassing to acknowledge that I first encountered PTE not at school or even in a book but in an episode of the classic BBC radio program, The Goon Show. It was called “The Histories of Pliny The Elder”, featuring Caractacus Seagoon, Brutus Moriatus et al. Spike Milligan obviously paid attention in history lessons.

I wasn’t expecting much of the villa, having looked at online descriptions, and indeed this is a site that was excavated several years ago, and has been fenced off and locked ever since.

Colle Plinio — What remains of Pliny the Younger’s Villa. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Supposedly many of the finds from the excavation are now on display in a museum in a nearby town, but I couldn’t find it. Still, it was nice to look around at the countryside, and imagine PTY sitting there looking at something like the same view after a hard day’s letter-writing. Actually, he was also a lawyer and a magistrate in Rome, so he only spent his holidays here.

Pliny the Elder, on the other hand, was a polymath who, in addition to several military histories that have not survived, wrote an enormous work of natural history, really the first of its kind. Last year I was overjoyed to find that in his Naturalis Historia he mentioned the grape variety known as “Grechetto”, and described it as “peculiaris est tudernis”, or “typical of Todi”. You can still buy a bottle of Grechetto in the supermarkets of Todi.

Cospaia

Checking out PTY’s villa didn’t take long, so from there I headed off to Cospaia, a small village which had about 250 inhabitants in the 15th Century, and I’d guess a bit fewer now. And Cospaia, despite its modesty, became an independent republic. By mistake. And stayed that way for almost four hundred years because no-one could be bothered fixing it.

Back in the 1400s the Pope of the day (Eugenius IV) was running short of cash. The neighbouring Republic of Florence (later Grand Duchy of Tuscany), run for all practical purposes by the very wealthy Cosimo de’ Medici, had cash to spare. So in 1440 an agreement was reached whereby the town of Sansepolcro and its territory would be sold to Tuscany, and officials on both sides were set to work to establish where the new border should run, and draw up the treaty which would formalise it.

Rivers make obvious and unambiguous boundaries, provided there is no confusion about which river is intended. But in central Italy, any little dry creek bed tends to be called Rio. And in Cospaia there are two, about 500 metres apart, either side of the village. You can see where this is going, can’t you? The Papal cartographers selected the one nearest to them, and the Florentine cartographers assumed their instructions referred to the one nearest to them. The result was that Cospaia ended up neither in the Papal States, nor in Tuscany.

It is at this point that one thinks of the 1959 Peter Sellers film The Mouse That Roared, about the fictional independent duchy of Grand Fenwick that declares war on the United States. In the film about Cospaia I can see Alistair Sim as Eugenius IV, and maybe Alec Guinness as Cosimo de’ Medici. And of course Peter Sellers as the Mayor of Cospaia. Or maybe Peter Sellers could have played several of the main parts, as he did in The Mouse that Roared, and Dr Strangelove.

One can see him wandering over to the newly-built Papal border post. “Are we in your territory?” “No”. Then over the hill to the Tuscan border post. “Are we in your territory?” “No”. So like Asterix and his indomitable Gauls they declared the independent Republic of Cospaia.

Cospaia from below, with a perfectly legal field of barley. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Anyway, the mistake was soon noticed, but the negotiations had been difficult and no-one felt like re-opening them just yet, for the sake of possession of a little place that no-one much cared about.

But less than a hundred years later, along with syphilis and a lot of silver and gold, the Spanish started importing tobacco from the New World. The Pope, finding scriptural reasons, banned tobacco altogether in his territories and made its import a crime punishable by excommunication. The Tuscans, like most other European jurisdictions, simply levied a massive excise on it. Cospaia, faced with neither eternal damnation nor a large tax, saw its opportunity, and the few acres between its ambiguously-named streams became a lucrative tobacco monoculture, with the crop smuggled into both its neighbours through the fields and woodlands.

People say that Italian bureaucracy is slow to act, but eventually all the smuggling became too irritating, and act it did. After a mere 386 years it swung into action and renegotiated the treaty, placing Cospaia in the Papal States for another forty years or so, until Italian unification divested the Vatican of its secular dominions. But the Papal Government had by then decided that smoking was not a grave sin after all, and allowed Cospaia to continue cultivating tobacco in return for a cut of the proceeds.

These days Cospaia is a pretty, sleepy little place, dreaming of past glories. But reminders of those past glories are everywhere. The main street is the Via Della Repubblica, there is a Tobacco Road, and signs to a “smugglers’ trail”. Above the door of the village church there is a dedication not to some patron saint, but to “perpetual and established liberty”.

I wandered through Cospaia and took a few photos. After that I drove up the Apennine slopes and through the pass of Bocca Trabaria into Marche. As I ascended via many a hairpin bend, passing panting cyclists and daredevil motorcyclists on the wrong side of the road, the temperature dropped about five degrees which was most welcome. The views were not great – after a couple of still days the central Italian valleys quickly fill with heat haze.

But it was quite heavily wooded – these bits of the Apennines are not high enough to be above the treeline as they are in Abruzzo. Apparently in ancient times the forests were a source of timber for Roman shipbuilding, with the logs floated down the infant Tiber towards Rome. It seems this would have been a major source of income for Pliny the Younger’s villa, down in the valley below.

Note: this post is intended to make a pair with another about the border area, describing when the Florentines and Perugians built a pair of border forts, and gave them rude names.

Sources

A good recent book about the two Plinys is In the Shadow of Vesuvius, A Life of Pliny by Daisy Dunn. The title is doubly misleading, as it is only partly about the eruption, and it is in fact a biography of both Plinys, PTE and PTY. I can only assume that it was the publisher’s marketing department that made the decisions, but I can recommend it anyway.

References to Cospaia and its accidental independence can be found in Umbria, A Cultural Guide, by Ian Campbell Ross, in Umbria by Patricia Clough, and most entertainingly in Philip’s Travel Guides – Umbria by Jonathan Keates, with photographs by Joe Cornish.

July 21, 2023May 19, 2024

Paleochristian Churches III – Three Umbrian Gems

Welcome to the third episode in my series on paleochristian churches (from, as always, a purely secular perspective). The preceding two are about Santa Costanza and Sant’Agnese in Rome and Ravenna. This time I propose to show you three paleochristian churches in Umbria, two of which, despite not being in Rome, have been described as among the oldest examples to survive in Italy.

Sant’Angelo, Perugia

This church (also referred to, more correctly, as San Michele Arcangelo) lies a few hundred metres northwest of the Etruscan/Roman walls of Perugia. It sits just inside the medieval walls, but since the church dates from the fifth or sixth century, it predates those walls and would originally have been outside the town.

It is an easy walk up a gentle slope from the Porta Etrusca to the church, past the Università per Stranieri (university for foreigners) and passing a few Chinese restaurants on the way.

The church sits in a little park, the main users of which, the last time I was there, were sunbathing locals and their dogs. The only other visitors to the actual church were a young tourist couple, who obviously had similarly nerdy interests to mine, as we later encountered each other in the otherwise deserted archaeological museum, and exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

Depending on when in the fifth or sixth centuries it was built, the church would have seen its first use before the fall of the empire, or later during the period of Ostrogothic rule, or later still during the ruinous Gothic Wars in which the Eastern Empire sought to re-establish its rule over Italy but ended up fatally weakening that rule. Or it possibly even dates from the period of the Lombard conquest of Italy. Yes, it was a pretty busy time. If you want to read more about this tumultuous period, I recommend my posts on Ravenna at the Fall of the Empire, A Return to Ravenna, and The Lombard Invasion and the Byzantine Corridor.

The church itself, being circular, is more typical of the late Roman period than of medieval times when the cross-shaped plan became ubiquitous. In fact, with its ambulatory vault it is reminiscent of the 4^th-Century Basilica of Santa Costanza in Rome, of which I wrote in the first post of this series.

The central dome is supported on a ring of sixteen columns – one source I have says that these were scavenged from multiple Roman sites, another says they were all from the same pagan temple, possibly on the same site. While I am not an expert, it seems to me that there are too many differences in style and execution for them to have come from the same original building. But whatever their provenance they are clearly of higher-quality craftsmanship than the rest of the church.

Sante'Angelo, Perugia — Sant’Angelo, Perugia. Interior showing column capitals. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

There are traces of 14^th-Century frescoes on the walls – 700 years ago may seem pretty old to you and me, but when they were put there the church was already eight or nine hundred years old.

Apparently in the 15^th Century, the church was converted into a small fort. I don’t know whether that would have required deconsecration, but it is certainly back in use as a church today. This may date from a restoration that occurred in the late 1940s.

San Salvatore, Spoleto

If you have read some of the related posts on this site you will know that after the Gothic Wars, the Langobards (Lombards), a displaced Germanic people, entered a weakened Italy from the north-east and quickly overran the peninsula, with the exception of Rome, Ravenna and the “Byzantine Corridor” which linked them. One of the main centres of Lombard power was the Duchy of Spoleto.

Just outside the old town of Spoleto, you will find the church of San Salvatore. At the time of writing (2023) it is unfortunately closed to allow the building to be strengthened against earthquakes. The authorities have however placed a sheet of toughened glass in the main doorway so you can peer into the interior. We previously visited there in 2015 and I took some pictures on my phone – some of those are reproduced here, and in due course I will return and take some better ones.

San Salvatore, Spoleto. Nexus 6P phone camera (click to enlarge).

According to Professor Ian Campbell Ross in his Umbria: A Cultural Guide (Oxford, 2013), the Lombards built little in stone themselves, having only a few years before been footloose wanderers through Europe with their cattle and wagons. This makes any survivals from their period all the more precious. Also according to Ross, the date of the original church on this site (and how much of that original remains) is the subject of scholarly dispute, but it may have been as early as the 4^th Century, well before the fall of the Empire and the arrival of the Lombards.

What is not disputed is that the Lombards rebuilt or renovated the church in the 8^th Century, and also that the internal structure makes use of columns and architraves that were originally part of Roman temples. Whether these were incorporated in the original building, or during the renovations, is I believe unknown. My dilettante observation is that the pillars appear to be load-bearing, in which case they are integral to the building’s structure. So if they were incorporated in the 8^th Century, then it must have been a complete rebuild. If it was only a renovation, then they may date from earlier and have been part of the original building.

Roman remnants are also incorporated in the façade – since this is not integral to the main structure they could definitely have been added at the time of the Lombard renovation in the 700s.

These days San Salvatore is the chapel of the municipal cemetery; by definition a quiet and reflective place. It seems that over the course of the 20th Century a series of restorations removed various internal baroque accretions and restored the dignity and austerity of the original, for which we must be grateful.

The Little Temple of Clitumnus

Let us finish with what is probably the oldest of these three examples. The Tempietto sul Clitunno is truly a remarkable survival, located near the Springs of Clitumnus (Fonti di Clitunno). That name would ring a bell to classically-minded readers, and also to others perhaps, as it crops up in later literature.

These days Clitunno is the name given to a little river that runs south through the Valle Umbra, one of several which, since the medieval draining of the valley, run in largely artificial channels. In ancient times though, Clitumnus was a river god whose shrine was located where a series of springs burst forth from the base of the hills. It was apparently a very sacred and beautiful place, where the cold, clear and pure waters were used to purify the white oxen being prepared for sacrifice. The poets Propertius and Virgil celebrated it in verse, and Pliny the Younger wrote an extensive description in one of his many letters. Later, Byron devoted several lines of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage to it, in which – not untypically – he manages to work in a reference to a naked nymph.

The Fonti del Clitunno. The springs issue from the rocks in the centre of the photograph. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Nowadays the fame of the springs, at least among Italians, is due to their having been the subject of a 19^th-Century poem by the nationalist poet Giosuè Carducci in which he hails “green Umbria”, (although he never called it the “green heart of Italy”, as the poem is universally misquoted in tourism material).

Carducci memorial — Fonti del Clitunno, early 20th-Century memorial to Giosuè Carducci. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

And it must be said that it is hard to feel any echoes of ancient sanctity as the place now has the feel of a pleasant urban park, accentuated by the main road running past and the mothers with young children who know that the cold spring waters cool the air and make it an excellent place to come and stroll on a hot day. The poplar trees described by Pliny have been replaced by willows. Perhaps early on a misty autumn morning the atmosphere might be more evocative.

A few hundred metres up the road is a small building built on classical lines, the tempietto or little temple. For a long time it was misidentified as one of the ancient temples and shrines mentioned by Pliny, but it is quite far away from the springs, and in any case even a superficial examination reveals it to be a coarsely-built late Roman structure incorporating parts scavenged from earlier Roman temples. I have seen suggestions that those parts came from the original precinct of Clitumnus, and it seems plausible – why carry such things any further than you need to?

Tempietto sul Clitunno. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

So it was probably never a pagan temple, having been built as a Christian church. But to me this pretty little building is almost as interesting as an actual pagan temple, not least because it is not really all that much newer than a pagan temple would be. The central part, a barrel-vaulted chapel, dates from the late 4^th Century, which makes it seriously old, a hundred years or so before the traditional date of the fall of the western Empire.

A couple of hundred years later, a façade assembled from the scavenged Roman material was added, giving it the appearance it retains today. This was during the period of Lombard rule, leading to the tempietto having been declared part of a series of UNESCO sites in Italy associated with the Lombards (San Salvatore in Spoleto, above, is another).

According to the information displayed at the site, the outer pairs of columns are from the Imperial era (2^nd Century AD) while the inner pair and the tympanum – the triangular bit – are from the Augustan era (1^st Century AD).

In the picture below you can see how the finer work of the re-used earlier Roman elements contrasts with the rougher work of the late-imperial building, particularly where the decoration under the eaves continues around from the front to the side.

Inside, in the apse behind the altar, there are frescoes of Christ and Saints Peter and Paul that have been dated to the 8^th Century, so they are pretty damn old really, despite being four hundred years younger than the building itself.

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As I said in the first in this series of articles, one of the attractions of these buildings is the sheer implausibility of their survival – from wars, earthquakes, misguided redecorations or simply falling apart through old age. All three of these Umbrian churches are miraculous in that way; and all three snooze away in their respective settings – Sant’Angelo on the edge of Perugia, in its park with the sunbathers and dog walkers, San Salvatore in Spoleto’s municipal cemetery, and the tempietto nestled inconspicuously beside the main road from Spoleto to Assisi. Go there and lay your hands on the stones – and touch history.

July 16, 2023January 27, 2024

Renaissance Exuberance in Perugia

A visit to two different, but memorably-decorated churches in Perugia – the Oratory of St Bernardino, and the Basilica of San Pietro.

There are many excellent things to see in Perugia, and other reasons to visit too: good restaurants, not too crowded, parking fees that are not extortionate by Italian standards, and free escalators and lifts from car parks up to the historic centre. The Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria has fine examples of Umbrian Art, and the Museum of Archaeology (to be the subject of a future post) has fascinating Etruscan artefacts.

But for most historically-minded visitors to Perugia, one of the main impressions they take away with them is of the group of magnificent gothic public buildings[1] which together form the Palazzo dei Priori, at the end of the Corso Vannucci, near the duomo (cathedral) and the Fontana Maggiore. As I discussed in my post on The Buried Streets of Perugia, one reason this part of town is so well-preserved is because of the Papal conquest in the early 16^th Century, and the subsequent expropriation of most revenue to Rome. The architecture stayed as it was because there was no money to change it – the money went to Rome where many fine old buildings were “modernised” in the baroque style. In architectural history, the hard times of earlier ages can sometimes be posterity’s gain.

All that being so, today I would like to talk about a couple of – in my view under-appreciated – buildings which are covered in exuberant Renaissance decoration, one on the outside, and one all over the inside. Both are in easy walking distance from the historic centre, but because the centre has so much to offer, many visitors never get to them and you can admire them in peace.

The Oratory of St Bernardino of Siena

Let us start with the one that is decorated on the outside. It is the Oratorio di San Bernardino, part of a complex which includes the larger church of San Francesco al Prato, nowadays associated with Perugia University.

Although he came from Siena, Bernardino preached all over central Italy, and was particularly active in Perugia, where you can see a special pulpit they built for him on the side of the duomo. I don’t know if non-Catholics are supposed to have favourite Catholic saints, but if I were allowed to, Bernardino would definitely not be one of mine. He preached fiery sermons against Jews, homosexuals and gypsies, sometimes leading to violence against them, and his views on women seem to have been regressive even by the standards of the early 15^th Century. He is associated with the start of a period of witch-burnings that was a stain on European history for over two hundred years.

In iconography, he is always rather appropriately represented as having a pinched, disapproving face, and since this seems to be based on contemporary portraits, that must indeed be what he looked like. Anyway, I don’t want to give offence, so let us move on to the charming little oratory that the Perugians started building in his honour in 1452, only eight years after his death and two years after his canonisation.

It seems that Bernardino is credited with having pacified the warring factions in Perugia (see my post on Tough Guys in Art – the Baglioni of Perugia) and it is for this reason that he was popular there.

To complete the building, the Perugians commissioned a Florentine sculptor called Agostino di Duccio to create a façade in polychrome, showing The Glory of St Bernardino.

Oratorio di San Bernardino, Perugia — The Oratory of St Bernardino, Perugia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

And glorious it is, with cream and pink marble, and blue lapis lazuli creating a most agreeable pastel effect. Apparently there was gold there too once, but whether this was deliberately removed or just flaked off I don’t know. It must have been magnificent when new.

At the top there is a Virgin and Child, below which you can see the words AUGUSTA PERUSIA, the title given to the city in antiquity by the Emperor Augustus (see my post on The Ancient Gates of Perugia) and the date 1461, when the façade was completed.

In the centre, we see the saint surrounded by angels, below which is a frieze commemorating the attested miracles that would have been needed for his canonisation. That is also where the sculptor signed his name – OPUS AUGUSTINI FLORENTINI LAPICIDAE.

My favourite parts are the panels either side of the two doors, where there are several angel musicians. Most of the musicians are showing the expected decorum, but one seems to be auditioning for the role of lead guitarist in a thrash metal rock band.

Inside the church is a complete contrast; very simple and austere. I don’t know if it has always been thus, or whether, as in so many cases, a modern restoration has removed baroque accretions to bring back the dignity of the original. But if baroque excess is your thing, there is a chapel behind the altar you should visit.

The altar itself is a Christian sarcophagus of the late Roman period. It was re-used to house the remains of Giles of Assisi, one of the companions of St Francis.

On the wall you can see hanging a gonfalone or banner, commemorating the deliverance of Perugia from an outbreak of plague in 1464. The Madonna is shown protecting the city from divine wrath in the form of two armed angels and a particularly angry-looking Christ. At the bottom, another armed angel (I think it is the Archangel Michael) is driving away the figure of death with a spear. The interceding saints are on either side of the Madonna, with St Bernardino at the lower left. You can see what I mean about his pinched face.

Gonfalone, Oratorio di San Bernardino, Perugia — *Gonfalone* (banner) of St Francis, Oratory of St Bernardino, Perugia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

The Abbey Church of San Pietro

This basilica, to the south-east of the historic centre of Perugia, is most definitely not a Renaissance building. Parts of it date from the 10^th Century, replacing a 4^th-Century church which was in turn erected on an Etrusco-Roman religious site. It was the church of a wealthy and powerful monastery (now the department of agriculture and environmental science at the university).

Monastery cloister, San Pietro, Perugia, now part of the university. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

It has a distinctive tower on a 12-sided base, dating from the 13^th Century, long a Perugian landmark. In fact in the National Gallery of Umbria there is a series of 15^th-Century paintings by Benedetto Bonfigli showing incidents in the life of the Patron Saint of Perugia, St Herculanus, ending with the transfer of his remains to San Pietro. Despite Herculanus having been an historical figure from the 6^th Century, Bonfigli charmingly paints it all as having occurred in the Perugia of his own day, in which the tower of San Pietro is easily identified.

Bonfigli Sant'Ercolano — Transfer of the body of St Herculanus, by Benedetto Bonfigli (ca 1420-1496) showing the tower of San Pietro. Galleria Nazionale Dell’Umbria, Perugia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

It seems that like many powerful monastic establishments, the Abbey took sides in secular conflicts, which sometimes saw it being attacked, damaged and restored. In the 16^th Century a period of reconstruction and decoration of the basilica began which continued into the 18^th, and in the course of this every single available surface was covered in frescoes, oil paintings and wood carvings. Although the quality of the art is variable, the overall effect is overwhelming.

Basilica di San Pietro, Perugia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

Behind the altar, the choir stalls are of intricately carved and inlaid wood, with many grotesque – and distinctly non-religious – subjects.

Choir stalls, Basilica di San Pietro, Perugia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

The church also holds a collection of manuscript volumes of Gregorian Chant, some beautifully illuminated.

Music book, Basilica di San Pietro, Perugia — Music book, showing the *Agnus Dei* from the end of one mass, and the *Kyrie eleison* from the start of another. The reason they were so big is that the singers didn’t have their own copies, so had to be able to read them from a distance. Basilica di San Pietro, Perugia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

In 2022 we attended a performance here of Claudio Monteverdi’s Vespers of 1610 by a group from Monteverdi’s home town of Cremona. It was beautifully performed, and in a most evocative setting.

[1] Note: in architectural terms, “gothic” refers to the style of the late Middle Ages, characterised by pointy window arches and other decorative features. It has nothing to do with the Goths, confusingly.

May 7, 2023October 21, 2024

Perugino Comes Home

An exhibition in Perugia, marking the 500^th anniversary of the death of Perugino, Umbria’s most famous Renaissance artist, brings together paintings from all over the world.

Perugino self-portrait — Perugino, self-portrait, or at least that is how it was described in this exhibition. In the Pitti Palace in Florence, where it normally lives, it is described as a possible self-portrait, or a portrait of possibly Perugino, possibly by Raphael. It certainly looks like other pictures of Perugino. Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens (click to enlarge)

We met the painter Perugino in my post on Tough Guys in Art – the Baglioni of Perugia. In that article I made the observation that he deserves to be more famous, and blamed the Tuscan chauvinism of the art historian Giorgio Vasari. Contemporary accounts certainly show him to have been held in very high regard, and no less a person than Isabella d’Este of Mantua, that most demanding of art patrons, worked very hard to get him to accept a commission, of which more later.

Of course the Umbrians are just as parochial as the Tuscans, and are very loyal to their boy – especially the Perugians. “Perugino” means “the guy from Perugia”, which isn’t quite true but he was from a town not far away and certainly spent a lot of time working in Perugia.

Perugino died in 1523, and to mark the occasion the National Gallery of Umbria in Perugia has assembled an exhibition, not just from their own collection, but with works on loan from many other Italian galleries, as well as galleries in France, Britain and America.

The exhibition also features artists who were influenced by Perugino and developed the “Umbrian Style” further, such as Verrocchio, Ghirlandaio, Pinturicchio and Signorelli. And of course the most famous of Perugino’s pupils, Raphael.

For me, the exhibition gave a somewhat different appreciation of Perugino’s work. This is because most Perugino works that one sees in Umbria are frescoes – paintings on fresh plaster just after it has been applied to a wall. But in this exhibition the loaned works are mostly oil paintings, or egg tempera. Painting in oils was a technique which Perugino was instrumental in introducing to Italy after its development in Flanders.

And therein lie a few insights (for me at least; I’m obviously not an art historian). Apart from the different materials, there are fundamental differences between fresco and oil. Firstly, the audience. Something that is fixed to the wall of a church is very much a public piece; obviously intended to generate reverence. Hence the beauty of Perugino’s frescoes, the clear pastel colours, the idyllic landscapes and the characters in stereotypical poses.

Perugino Adoration, Montefalco — A very conventional Perugino fresco – *Adoration of the Shepherds* in the Museo di San Francesco, Montefalco, Umbria. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

An oil painting, depending on the circumstances in which it is commissioned and displayed, can be less formulaic, more individualistic, more cerebral.

Perugino Portrait of a Young Man — Perugino, *Portrait of a Young Man*. Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens (click to enlarge).

Even when using oils to paint devotional paintings, there is a difference. When painting frescoes, you have to work fast, before the plaster dries. An oil painting can be done more slowly with more consideration, and even altered halfway through if the painter changes his mind. To me, all this explains the fact that the oils in the exhibition show greater individuality, and better demonstrate just how good Perugino really was.

Perugino Altarpiece — Perugino *Altarpiece with Saints Jerome, Francis, John the Baptist, Mary Magdelene and the Blessed Giovanni Columbini*. *Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens* (click to enlarge).

Furthermore – and rather prosaically – by definition an oil painting on canvas or wood is more portable than something painted directly onto a wall. This explains why an exhibition such as this is an unusual opportunity to appreciate the breadth of Perugino’s talent. Many of the finer works have been dispersed over the last five hundred years – either sold to wealthy collectors and then re-sold or donated to foreign galleries, or in the case of Napoleon, simply looted.

Perugino Galitzin Triptych — Perugino, “Galitzin” Triptych. Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens (click to enlarge).

I love the background detail in many of Perugino’s paintings. The landscape in the Galitzin Triptych above is beautiful, as is the one in the Prayer in the Garden, below. There is also a lot of other business going on – on the left, Judas approaches with soldiers and priests, while more reinforcements arrive from the right. I’ve seen Perugino’s idea of Roman soldiers elsewhere, notably in a Martyrdom of St Sebastian in the town of Panicale above Lake Trasimeno. They are rather strange, but in a way the feathers and curly bits do actually remind me of some ancient Roman decorative illustrations.

Perugino Prayer in the Garden — Perugino, *Prayer in the Garden*. Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens (click to enlarge).

One thing I learned is that Perugino’s later and uniformly beautiful Madonnas are supposedly all portraits of his own wife. If that is true he was a lucky fellow, but he would not have been the only Renaissance artist to marry one of his models. At least, unlike the wife of Filippo Lippi, Perugino’s wife wasn’t an absconded nun, as far as I know.

Perugino Madonna della Consolazione — Perugino, *Madonna della Consolazione*. Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens (click to enlarge).

Perugino Marriage of the Virgin — Perugino, *Marriage of the Virgin*. Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens (click to enlarge).

I mentioned Isabella d’Este earlier. She apparently pestered Perugino for ages for a painting. Eventually he agreed to a commission, then tried to explain missed deadlines with various poor excuses. Finally he produced something which is easily the weakest piece in the exhibition. The Lotta tra Amore e Castità (struggle between love and chastity) is a group of separate illustrations of stories from Ovid’s Metamorphoses – just figures in a landscape with no visual unity. It was also painted in tempera (egg-based paint) rather than oils, so it lacks punch. Isabella was not pleased.

Perugino Lotta tra Amore e Castità — Perugino, *Lotta tra Amore e Castità*. Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, Fujifilm XF 16mm lens (click to enlarge).

A note on the photography

As in many exhibitions, this one had very subdued lighting to protect the artworks. The appropriate way to photograph them would therefore be to set up a tripod and take long exposures; obviously that was not going to be permitted.

So I needed to use a hand-held camera and high ISO settings, which introduces digital noise. I was also using my small Fujifilm X-Pro3 camera, which while nice and light was a less suitable camera for the task than my medium-format Fujifilm GFX 50R would have been. Since noise in digital photography at high ISOs is partly random variations between one pixel and the next, a larger sensor equals smaller pixels relative to the size of the image, so noise is less obvious.

There were some workarounds available. I underexposed each shot by a few stops then applied exposure compensation later in Capture One software – I’m not sure how successful that was (edit: actually it was a bad idea). During post-processing I also used an external program called Topaz DeNoise AI which tries to smooth out the parts that should be smooth while retaining sharpness where sharpness is intended. Below is a screenshot showing a before and after comparison from that software.

Topaz DeNoise AI screengrab — Screenshot from Topaz DeNoise AI showing before and after treatment (click to enlarge).

Here is a link to the National Gallery of Umbria’s web page on the exhibition. I don’t know how long it will stay up after the exhibition closes though.

January 10, 2023November 19, 2023

The Ancient Gates of Perugia

Perugia is a very ancient town. One very effective way to appreciate just how old is to look at a couple of remarkably-preserved town gates. This post adds a little more to the stories I have already told about Perugia.

Like many similar Central Italian towns, Perugia acquired more than one set of walls over the centuries. The original – inner – Etruscan walls had eight gates. Most of the surviving gates in the inner wall show their ancient origins in the form of Etrusco-Roman travertine blocks of the earlier structures at the base of later medieval gates.

However two gates have survived from antiquity in something like their original condition, and each tells quite an important story from Perugia’s past.

The Porta Marzia

In my post on The Buried Streets of Perugia I told the story of how Pope Paul III Farnese subdued the independently-minded Perugini, how he commissioned the architect Antonio Sangallo to build a huge fortress to dominate the town, and how Sangallo, in his haste to meet the papal deadlines, simply roofed over part of the old town to make a foundation for the fortress.

Had Sangallo carried out his task to the letter, one of the casualties – in addition to the Baglioni quarter of town – would have been a surviving Roman gate, the Porta Marzia (the gate of Mars) dating from the 3^rd Century BC. Why it is called that is not known – plausible hypotheses include that there was a temple of Mars nearby, or that it was named after someone called Vibio Marso who paid for its construction.

It is certainly an elegant structure, as the photograph shows. Above the arch, and below the line of columns, you can see the inscription Augusta Perugia (explained below) and along the top you can see the inscription Colonia Vibia. This latter is a reference to Perugia having been granted the status of Ius Coloniae by the emperor Vibius Trebonianus Gallus who was a local boy, but whose reign only lasted from AD 251 to 253.

Perugia, Porta Marzia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Whatever its origins, it remained in pretty good condition in the 16^th Century. Unfortunately it stood in a place destined to be destroyed to make way for the foundations of Paul III’s fortress.

Paul is unlikely to have been too concerned about its loss – too many Medieval and Renaissance popes, looking at a well-preserved ancient building, would simply have ordered that any bronze be stripped and recast as cannon, and any marble be burned to make lime for cement. And if the loss of the Porta Marzia caused pain to the Perugians, then so much the better – as I discussed in the earlier article, Paul seems to have been the type to hold a grudge.

Fortunately Sangallo, like many architects of the era, had been taught to revere the architecture of antiquity and could not bring himself to destroy this particularly fine example. So he had it disassembled, moved and reassembled as a sort of façade on the outside of a bastion beneath the fortress. The distance moved was only about four metres, but it would still have been quite a lot of work. Posterity thanks you, Messer Antonio.

For the first few hundred years after the construction of the fortress, it seems that the Porta Marzia would not have been much more than a bit of decorative masonry. However now you can walk through it, into the old streets of the Baglioni quarter, then up an escalator into the centre of town.

The Porta Etrusca

Once you have come up the escalator into the centre, you need to walk the length of the old town from south to north, along the Corso Pietro Vannucci (the real name of the painter now known as Perugino).

Perugia, Corso Vannucci. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

You will pass a good many cafes, restaurants and chocolate shops, including the outlet for the “Perugina” chocolate company. You will also pass the complex of magnificent Gothic buildings that houses, among other things, the Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, until you reach the duomo (cathedral).

Perugia Duomo — Perugia, the Duomo. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Once past the duomo, you can take the road to the left that heads downhill to the Porta Etrusca, but we would recommend taking the road uphill to the right that takes you there via the top of the walls, with an impressive view over hills to the north, beyond which is the Upper Tiber Valley. The photograph below shows that view shortly before a late summer thunderstorm broke.

Perugia stormy weather — Stormy weather in Perugia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Whichever way you go, you will eventually make your way down to the level of the road that runs around the outside of the inner set of walls. There, looking out over Perugia’s Università per Stranieri (University for Foreigners), you will find the Porta Etrusca.

Perugia Porta Etrusca — Perugia. Porta Etrusca and the Università per Stranieri. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge).

This is a remarkable piece of architecture by any standard, not least for the various eras and events of Perugian history manifest in its stones.

Perugia (ancient Perusia) is first recorded as one of the 12 confederated Etruscan cities, at the north-eastern limit of the original Etruscan heartland on the border with the Umbri, a Latin people. Over time, as in other such centres, the Perugian Etruscan civilisation did not fall to Rome as such but became gradually Romanised to the point where it faded away. The local Etruscan noble families Latinised their names and became Roman aristocrats – the Emperor Vibius Trebonianus Gallus mentioned earlier came from such a family.

After the assassination of Julius Caesar, Perugia made the mistake of backing Mark Antony against Octavian, which saw the city captured and sacked in 40 BC. Octavian, as the Emperor Augustus, rebuilt the city and named it Perusia Augusta after himself.

The next time the Perugians really needed their city walls was during the Gothic Wars in the 6^th Century AD, when the Ostrogoths under Totila eventually captured the city, killing Bishop Herculanus who had led the defence and negotiated the surrender. Now as San Ercolano and the city’s patron saint, he is presumably still keeping an eye on the place. Interestingly, the patron saint of Todi, a bit further south, was also that town’s bishop during the Gothic Wars.

During the Guelph-Ghibelline wars of the Middle Ages, and right up until the final defeat of Perugia by Paul III in the 16^th Century, solid defences would presumably have been a high priority for the town’s governing council.

With all that in mind, let’s have a close-up look at the Porta Etrusca.

The massive unmortared travertine blocks that make up the lower part are Etruscan, around 2,300 years old, but looking fairly decent for their age. Then, just where the arch begins, the Etruscan blocks are replaced by more evenly-cut Roman masonry. And on the arch are carved the words Augusta Perusia, dating it to after the reconstruction of 40 BC.

Continuing upward, there is an ornamental frieze on which, if you look carefully, you will see the words Colonia Vibia, dating from after the granting of that title by Emperor Gallus in the 3^rd Century.

Now let us move a bit further away to a spot from which we can appreciate the whole structure. The contrast between the rougher Etruscan stone and the more even Roman work is easier to see in this picture.

Look at the top right, where there is a section of quite poor-quality medieval stonework, looking as if it might have been done in a hurry. Was that a hasty repair as the Gothic army approached? No doubt there is an archaeologist somewhere who knows, but I have been unable to find a reference. If I ever do I will update this post.

And then finally at the top there is an elegant 16^th-Century loggia. I find it remarkable that from here you can take in, at a single glance, a couple of thousand years of history (a bit more, if you include the electronic bus sign). I really enjoy bringing visitors here. Another attraction, a few metres up the street, is a shop called Augusta Perusia which sells excellent handmade chocolates. We approve of the name, and indeed the product.

August 5, 2022November 19, 2023

The Palazzo Trinci in Foligno II – More Jewels of the High Middle Ages

In addition to its secular artistic gems, the Palazzo Trinci in Foligno contains some wonderful religious art and a “Gothic Staircase”.

In my first post on the Palazzo Trinci I gave some of the history of this remarkable building and its contents, particularly the allegorical frescoes in what is known as the “Hall of the Liberal Arts”.

When contemplating works like these, dating from the late 1300s and early 1400s it is obvious that, whatever the simple stories they once taught schoolchildren, Lorenzo de’ Medici didn’t wake up one day in Florence in the 1470s and decide to start the Renaissance. That intellectual awakening had been under way for at least a century, and it wasn’t just in Florence, or even in Italy. As with most things in history it was a gradual process, and the glories of Leonardo and Erasmus didn’t appear out of the blue. Real historians have always known that, but things tend to get simplified for the rest of us.

For now, let us just admire the art. And if the Hall of the Liberal Arts were the only thing to see in the Palazzo Trinci it would be well worth the visit. But it isn’t the only thing to see.

The “Gothic Staircase”

Let us start with the extraordinary internal gothic staircase. I’m not sure if the famous 20th Century Dutch artist M.C. Escher ever visited Foligno, but I’m sure that we are not the only visitors who thought that this looked like something in one of his prints.

Palazzo Trinci Gothic Staircase — The “Gothic Staircase” in the Palazzo Trinci, Foligno. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

Palazzo Trinco "Gothic Staircase" — The “Gothic Staircase” in the Palazzo Trinci, Foligno. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

As I said in the earlier article, the Palazzo was not designed as a single building, but had its origins as a number of smaller separate dwellings that were consolidated into a greater one. One effect of this was to leave a large internal space that would once have been an external courtyard. Ugolini III Trinci decided to fill the space with the staircase. The decorations – under the Gothic arches and the trompe l’oeil decorations on the walls – make it clear that this is not merely a prosaic means to access the higher floors, but the focal point of the Palazzo.

The Private Corridor

Like many important families in Italy, the Trinci arranged private access to the duomo (Cathedral) – in their case in the form of an elevated corridor. You can see it in the photograph below.

Trinci Private Corridor — External view of the private corridor linking the Palazzo Trinci with the Duomo, Foligno. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

Inside, the decorations are a little confusing. This is because there was originally a fresco depicting The Ages of Man – a common theme. This was later covered by a new fresco depicting The Nine Heroes (or The Nine Worthies) – another common 14th Century theme, but the former Ages of Man fresco was recreated on the opposite wall. Then at some point part of the Nine Heroes fresco has fallen away, exposing part of the original Ages of Man.

The Nine Heroes theme comes from a French text from 1312 – the first three are from the Bible, being Joshua, David and Judas Maccabeus. The next three are from the Greek and Roman world – Hector of Troy, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. The final three are called the “Heroes of Christendom” and are King Arthur, Charlemagne and Godfrey de Bouillon.

I must admit that I had to look up who Godfrey was, but he was one of the leading knights in the First Crusade, who became King of Jerusalem at the conclusion of the crusade. I can’t show you a photograph of his likeness in the Palazzo Trinci because it has been completely destroyed. Instead here is one in which I think the first is Caesar, the second may be Hector, and the third is definitely King Arthur. Identification is hindered by the fact that they were all portrayed in contemporary 14th Century armour, and one is expected to recognise them from the heraldic devices on their shields.

The Chapel

I’ll finish with the best bit; the chapel in the Palazzo Trinci is a little jewel box. It has been fortunate to avoid as much earthquake damage as was suffered elsewhere in the building, and being a consecrated place probably helped it avoid some of the vandalism perpetrated by papal authorities on some of the secular decorations.

Palazzo Trinci Chapel — The chapel, Palazzo Trinci, Foligno. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

The chapel is dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and every inch of walls and vaulted gothic ceiling is covered with frescoed scenes from the Virgin’s life (with Saint Francis getting a brief appearance as well).

As with much art of this period, a constant pleasure is the way everyone is in wildly anachronistic but gorgeous contemporary costume.

July 26, 2022June 21, 2024

The Ponte Fonnaia on the Via Flaminia

Tucked away in an Umbrian wood is a two thousand year old bridge – the Ponte Fonnaia – that bore the legions northwards from Rome on the Via Flaminia.

This is intended as a brief postscript to Carsulae – On the Legions’ Road to Rimini. In that original post we visited the ruins of the Roman town of Carsulae, and I indulged in some flights of fancy inspired by Rudyard Kipling. We ended the post with an imagined legion marching away through the north gate of the town, and disappearing into the woods along the Via Flaminia, the great military road that linked Rome with north-east Italy.

Then more recently a friend told me about an intact Roman bridge a few miles north of Carsulae, so I decided to go and find it.

Finding it turned out to be very easy – it is close to an exit from the E45 motorway near the town of Massa Martana. Although at first when I got to the spot I couldn’t see any bridge. It turned out that the area in which you park your car is almost on top of it.

Unlike the Roman Bridge at Pesciano, which is showing the effect of recent restoration, the Ponte Fonnaia looks agreeably old and atmospheric.

The bridge takes the road across a small river – a torrente – called the Naja or Naia which flows down into the Tiber near Todi. It is dry in summer, so you can actually walk under the bridge.

According to the signage at the site, and a web page published by the local municipality, the original bridge was built at the same time as the Via Flaminia, that is around 220 BC. However the structure that is there now dates from a campaign of repairs and upgrades to the road that occurred in 27 AD in the reign of Augustus.

If you do walk under the bridge and look carefully you will see that the stones are inscribed with letters, some of which are Roman numerals (in many cases they are hard to make out due to age).

I have read that this is because Roman military engineers took a very organised and standardised approach. When the stones were quarried, they were cut to size at the quarry, and inscribed to show their intended location in the finished bridge.

The stones were then shipped to the building site where they could be quickly assembled like an IKEA bookcase, and the construction team could move on to the next job. I do not know whether this is a hypothesis or historically attested fact, but it seems very plausible – we know that Roman military engineers were strong on standardisation.

To the north of here, the Via Flaminia is mostly hidden under modern roads. But to the south, in the direction of Carsulae, it remains a quiet unmade country road, as in the photographs below. It isn’t hard to imagine our imagined Roman legion appearing around the bend, swinging along on the march.

July 1, 2022February 15, 2024

Foligno: The Palazzo Trinci and the Hall of the Liberal Arts

The Palazzo Trinci in Foligno has a chequered history but preserves some of the greatest examples of late Medieval humanist art.

If you are in Umbria visiting towns like Perugia, Assisi or Spoleto, you might not consider adding Foligno to your itinerary. It doesn’t sit prettily on top of a hill, to start with, and with its valley-floor location it is surrounded by industrial areas. So for us at first Foligno was somewhere we went when we needed shops. This turned out to be a mistake – the historic centre has some wonderful medieval buildings, and as I posted here it hosts one of the more impressive historical re-enactment festivals. It also features a remarkable building and museum in the Palazzo Trinci, of which more later.

Being flat gives Foligno a different character to that of its Umbrian neighbours. The locals get around the historic centre on bicycles, and this makes it feel a bit like a northern Italian town – say Cremona or Treviso. Its being flat might also give your calf muscles some relief after a series of visits to Umbrian hill towns.

Foligno duomo — Foligno Duomo. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

A brief History of Foligno

Like many other towns in Umbria, Foligno – ancient Fulginium, or Fulginiae – was founded by the Umbri in prehistory and absorbed into the Roman state in the Third Century BC. It was the point where the eastern and western branches of the Via Flamina reunited after passing either side of the Martani hills, and would also have been where the road from Perugia joined the Flaminia, so it would have been at an important crossroads.

Foligno Palazzo Trinci — Part of a mosaic floor from the Roman town of *Forum Flaminiae*, on display in the Palazzo Trinci museum, Foligno. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

After suffering the usual despoliation at the hands of invaders in the Dark Ages, Foligno recovered and for a while became an independent player in the Guelph vs. Ghibelline power politics of Central Italy. In due course it was absorbed into the Papal States like every other town in the region.

The Trinci Family

From the 12^th to the 15^th Centuries, political evolution in central and northern Italy often took the same sort of path. Towns and cities developed the institutions of self-government – administration, courts, a militia or army. In many places one or more families would become wealthy and powerful, but would exercise that power through domination of those institutions and patronage rather than assuming power formally.

Families would seek advantage over rival families, and cities over rival cities, by allying themselves with one of the two “superpower” factions – the Papacy (the Guelphs) or the Holy Roman Empire (the Ghibellines).

Events in Foligno followed that conventional course. In the early 1300s the Trinci family were rivals with the Anastasi family for control of Foligno. Originally Ghibellines, the Trinci switched sides to the Guelphs in order to gain the assistance of Perugia and Spoleto to run the Anastasi out of town. For the next century and a half the Trinci ran Foligno until they fell out with the Papacy, at which point a papal army took the town, the last of the Trinci line was imprisoned and murdered, and a papal governor took over.

The Palazzo Trinci

Like other de facto Italian rulers at the time such as the Medici, the Trinci built an imposing palace in town, right next to the “official” city government buildings.

Or rather they didn’t exactly build it. They acquired an existing palace which had been created by merging several existing residential buildings, and then they renovated it. And what renovations they were. A grand gothic façade (unfortunately replaced by a neoclassical façade after earthquake damage in 1832), an absolute jewel box of a chapel, a private covered passage linking the palace to the Duomo (cathedral) next door, and a magnificent Gothic style internal staircase linking three floors of the building. All of those I will deal with in another post, because today I propose to talk about the so-called “Hall of the Liberal Arts”.

A Miraculous Survival

But first I should observe how miraculous it is that the Palazzo Trinci and its artworks should have survived at all, after the damage it received from war, the violence of nature and the malice and ignorance of humanity.

Major earthquakes damaged the building in 1477, 1703 and 1832. The roof fell in during a storm in 1899. And in 1944 bombs fell on the buildings at the rear of the complex, and on the town hall just in front.

More damage came through deliberate actions. After Foligno was brought under direct papal rule the Palazzo Trinci became the seat of the papal governors, and many of the frescoes associated with the Trinci were defaced. In the 1470s Pope Sixtus IV moved his residence to the palace during an outbreak of plague in Rome – and ordered that all surviving references to the Trinci be removed and replaced with references to him. Not only that but in one inscription he even claimed that the splendour of the palace was his own doing!

Worse was to come. In the late 18^th Century the papal governor – a man of obvious taste and discrimination – decided that the place was looking a bit old-fashioned and had all the frescoes whitewashed over. Part of the building was converted to a jail, with inadequate sewage. Items from the archaeological collection were sold to wealthy foreigners. Even after Italian reunification and the end of Papal rule the building was to suffer further insult, being allowed to deteriorate further while housing shops, a theatre, the police headquarters and the Guardia di Finanza.

Rehabilitation of the building started towards the end of the 19^th Century and the frescoes were uncovered and partly restored in the 1930s and 1950s. However in the 1980s the roof fell in again and it was only after the 1990s that a decade-long restoration brought the building to its current state in which it became the municipal museum.

The Hall of the Liberal Arts

The high point of the Trinci fortunes came at the end of the 1300s and the beginning of the 1400s when the head of the family was Ugolini III Trinci. After conducting successful campaigns in central Umbria on behalf of the Papacy he received many honours and rewards, and life in the Palazzo Trinci started to look a bit more like that of a court.

Men of letters and artists were attracted there – people who think the Renaissance started later and in Florence might say it was a bit early to call them “humanists”, but the whole thing has a Renaissance feel to it. Two particularly noteworthy associates were the poet Federico Frezzi and the artist Gentile da Fabriano.

Frezzi wrote a laudatory poem called Quadriregio which praised Ugolino and made references to the Trinci’s claims, made by all great families at the time, to origins in mythological antiquity. In particular the Trinci traced their line back to Romulus, and the story of Romulus was illustrated by Gentile da Fabriano in one of the halls, including the story of the Trojan woman and Vestal Virgin Rhea Silvia who was made pregnant by the god Mars and bore the twins Romulus and Remus (and was then executed for betraying her Vestal vow of chastity).

Execution of Rhea Silvia — The execution of Rhea Silvia, Palazzo Trinci, Foligno. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

In the photograph above, the ochre drawings visible where the plaster has fallen away (known as “sinopia”) have not been added by modern restorers. They are the drawings by the original artist before the wet plaster was applied, over which they would then quickly paint. They only become visible if the plaster is damaged and falls away.

The traditional execution method for an unchaste vestal was suffocation by being buried alive, hence the pit to which she is being dragged. It seems an odd way to celebrate a woman one is claiming as one’s ancestress, by having a large picture of her execution in the house, but tastes change. In any case the artist’s depiction of everyone in contemporary late 14th-Century dress makes it very interesting.

Gentile da Fabriano was a leading exponent of the late-Medieval style known as “International Gothic”. He was employed to decorate a large hall in the Palazzo – then the library, it is now known as the “Hall of the Liberal Arts” after his frescoes. Although Frezzi’s Quadriregio is lost, it is thought that much of Gentile’s work is derived from the poem.

The main feature of the hall is seven portraits – personifications of the seven liberal arts. These were divided into two groups. The early arts (known as the Trivium, or three paths) were Grammar, Logic and Rhetoric. The later arts (the Quadrivium, or four paths) were Arithmetic, Geometry, Music and Astronomy.

Palazzo Trinci Rhetoric and Mathematics — Palazzo Trinci, Rhetoric (L) and Arithmetic (R). Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

By the way, when the Quadrivium was introduced, there was some resistance from older scholars. Younger scholars responded by suggesting that the Trivium was superficial and lightweight in comparison. “Trivial“ therefore became a term of intellectual abuse. The Palazzo Trinci frescoes do not weigh in to the debate other than to put the Quadrivium closer to the centre of the composition, implying that they are further up in the hierarchy.

But in the centre of the composition, and therefore queen of all the disciplines, was Philosophy. This, alas, was damaged beyond repair at some point. We are fortunate that in the 1770s a scholar called Ludovico Coltellini sketched various parts of the frescoes, including the head of Philosophy – a beautiful crowned woman – and his notebook survived.

Palazzo Trinci Filosofia — Sketch of Philosophy by Ludovico Coltellini, 1770s. Phone camera (click to enlarge)

The fact that Philosophy was still intact in the 1770s suggests that the damage probably occurred in the earthquake of 1832.

Palazzo Trinci Astronomy — Palazzo Trinci, Astronomy (detail). Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Each liberal art is represented by a female figure, sometimes attended by another figure, either a student or practitioner.

Palazzo Trinci Geometry — Palazzo Trinci, Geometry (detail). Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Below are Music and Logic. Music is playing a portative organ and a chime of bells, and she is clearly getting into it, or as a former conductor of ours used to say, “giving it some welly”. Logic is an older woman holding snakes. Not sure why, although Cristina Galassi (see “further reading”, below) suggests that this suggests the sophisticated deception of words. Maybe using logic to defeat deception is like wrestling with snakes.

Palazzo Trinci Music — Palazzo Trinci, Music. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

Palazzo Trinci Logic — Palazzo Trinci, Logic. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Grammar is a teacher instructing a child, holding the book for him as he traces the words on the page.

Palazzo Trinci Grammar — Palazzo Trinci, Grammar. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

The Lombard Invasion and the Byzantine Corridor

The late Sixth Century saw some extraordinary developments in Italy. Almost the entire country was overrun by the Lombards, except for a narrow strip of territory – the “Byzantine Corridor” between Rome and Ravenna. You can still see where, in the modern landscape, the “Corridor” ran.

In my post about Ravenna at the Fall of the Empire I wrote of the invasion of Italy by the Goths, the partial reconquest by Byzantine forces, and briefly mentioned the subsequent invasion by the Lombards. This post picks up the story, and looks at how it played out in central Italy.

The Byzantine forces under Belisarius and Narses had successfully regained much of Italy from the Goths for the Byzantine Emperor Justinian. Obviously the conflict is not entirely forgotten in Umbria, going by this wine label I found:

Belisarius Grechetto — A bottle of Grechetto wine named after the Byzantine General Belisarius. The wine was very nice. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

But the period of the Gothic War of 535-554 was absolutely ruinous for Italy – not just due to military action. In 536 the Earth suffered the worst climate event in recorded history when a volcanic eruption (the location is uncertain) caused two years of severe global cooling followed by drought. That was on top of existing climate change as, due to changes in the solar cycle, the world left the “Roman Warm Period” and entered the “Medieval Cool Period”. Crops failed and famine was widespread. Then came the so-called “Justinian Plague” in 540-541 (probably bubonic plague). All that was on top of the spread of malaria from the south.

Deliberate debasement of the currency (these days they call it “quantitative easing”) which had been going on for many years, reduced people’s purchasing power. Depopulation, impoverishment and a general breakdown in administration were inevitable. The population shrank, education almost ceased, technologies were forgotten, the great cities emptied, productive agricultural land reverted to swamp or woodland, health and life expectancy declined, and things were generally horrible. Revisionist modern historians avoid using the term “Dark Ages” to refer to the centuries after the fall of the empire (presumably to avoid offending people who identify as Visigoths and Vandals) but the Dark Ages sound pretty dark to me.

And while the war left the “Roman” Byzantines nominally in charge, it was a pyrrhic victory. The attenuated power of the local representatives of distant Byzantium – the Exarchs of Ravenna – was not up to the task of resisting the next threat.

The Lombards

And the next threat was the Lombards, or in their own language, Langobards or Longobards. If you agree with me that it sounds a little bit like the English words “long beards”, you are absolutely right. The Langobards came to the notice of history in what is now southern Sweden, Denmark and northern Germany, where they were speaking a language closely related to Anglo-Saxon. And it seems that they did indeed have long beards, or at least the men did, so that is what they called themselves.

After a few hundred years of drifting southwards, and under pressure from other aggressive populations to the east, the Lombards (as I will now refer to them with their Italianised name), found themselves in what is now Austria and Slovakia around 568 AD. They entered devastated and depopulated Italy across the Julian Alps (in modern Slovenia) and were virtually unopposed. A modern town close to where they entered Italy is Cividale del Friuli in the far northeast, which has some Lombard archaeological remains and an excellent museum of Lombard culture which I highly recommend.

The “Ponte del Diavolo” in Cividale del Friuli, with the Julian Alps (in Slovenia) visible in the distance. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, CFV-50c digital back, Zeiss Sonnar 250mm lens (click to enlarge).

Lombard Jewellery in the National Archaeological Museum, Cividale del Friuli. Nexus 6P phone camera (click to enlarge).

As we saw earlier, thanks to the devastation caused by the Gothic Wars, the Lombards were pretty much pushing at an open door. But nevertheless the speed of their expansion through Italy was extraordinary. Only two or three years later almost all of northern Italy was under their control (a much larger region than the modern “Lombardy”) and Lombard duchies had been established further south in Tuscany, Spoleto and Benevento.

Here is a map of Italy after these duchies were established.

Byzantine and Lombard Italy (Wikimedia Commons; click to enlarge).

You will see that the nominally Byzantine control of Rome continued, that the Exarchate of Ravenna was threatened, and that they were connected by a narrow strip of territory. Italian historians call this the Corridoio Bizantino or “Byzantine Corridor”.

Conflict and Truce

In Umbria, as the Lombards extended their territory westwards from Spoleto, they captured the Via Flaminia, cutting the Byzantines off from the historic military route between Ravenna and Rome. But somewhere in the Martani Hills the Lombards stopped, and the Via Amerina, not far to the west in the Tiber Valley, remained under Byzantine control. It was this road, originally a series of pre-Roman provincial roads between towns, that became the narrow thread linking Ravenna and Rome through hostile country: the Byzantine Corridor.

At first the corridor was created and defended by force of arms. Later, a truce between Lombard and Byzantine/Papal authorities regularised the borders, but there were probably a few skirmishes from time to time.

So how narrow was the corridor? In places very narrow indeed, it would seem.

Linguistic Evidence

Working out where the edges of the Byzantine Corridor lay is difficult; they didn’t put up signs beside the roads. But as with Anglo-Saxon and Celtic place-names in Britain, one form of evidence for boundaries, and hence the extent of Lombard dominion in Italy, is linguistic.

A few years ago it occurred to me to wonder about the origin of the word borgo, common in Italy and meaning a small town, or an area on the edge of a larger town. This is clearly not of Latin origin, but the same Germanic word that you find in Hamburg, Gothenburg, Peterborough, Canterbury and Edinburgh. And lots of other burgs, borgs, boroughs and burys. What was such an obviously Germanic word doing in Italian?

It turns out that borgo and several other Italian words associated with locations are indeed Germanic. Some might have been derived from Gothic or Frankish, but most are probably Lombard.

Another such word is gualdo. The letters “gu” in Italian were used in Italian to render the initial “w” sound in Germanic languages, such as “Gualtiero” for “Walter”. So if you see an Italian word beginning in “gu” followed by a vowel, it probably has a Germanic origin. Gualdo comes from the same origin as the German wald meaning wood or forest, as in Schwartzwald for “Black Forest”.

There are a number of places in Italy either called Gualdo, or with names containing that word. They all seem to be in areas that were once part of Lombard dominions. While such places were presumably named for being in or near woodland, the term is also associated with military outposts, suggesting that they would have been on the borders of Lombard territory.

In the Martani Hills in Umbria is a pretty little town called Gualdo Cattaneo. From the linguistic evidence just discussed, this may well have been an outpost in wooded country on the edge of Lombard territory, in this case the Duchy of Spoleto. I understand that the earliest surviving records are from after the period of the Byzantine Corridor, but the name tells you that the area was certainly Lombard, so the idea that this was originally a border outpost is appealing. The photograph below, taken from the south, shows that it was on elevated ground facing west into Byzantine territory – exactly what you would expect of such an outpost.

Distant view of Gualdo Cattaneo. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF100-200mm R LM OIS WR lens (click to enlarge).

The picture below, taken from a bit closer, shows the defensive situation of the town, even if the current fortifications are clearly from the 14th Century or later (rounded fortifications generally post-date the introduction of cannon to warfare; cannon balls are more likely to bounce off them).

Gualdo Cattaneo from closer up. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, Zeiss Planar C 80mm lens, 6×6 cm film back, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

The Byzantine Corridor Today

The photograph below shows the Middle Tiber Valley, looking north from Todi towards Perugia (I recommend you click on it to open a larger version in a new window). It is up this valley that the Via Amerina ran, and so you are looking at the actual Byzantine Corridor. Today’s pretty agricultural landscape must look very different from the semi-wilderness of the 6th Century though. The Via Amerina more or less followed the route now taken by the E45 motorway, clearly visible on the eastern side of the river, but back then it would have threaded between swamps and woodland, and passed through the ruins of Roman-era towns by then abandoned.

This photograph really helps one envisage just how narrow the “Byzantine Corridor” was, here in central Umbria. Gualdo Cattaneo, on the edge of the Lombard Duchy of Spoleto, is in the hills at the right of the photograph, about 12 kilometres from the motorway. To the left of the Via Amerina is the Tiber (marked by a double line of trees), and beyond it steep hilly country. Further west still was the Lombard Duchy of Tuscia, or Tuscany.

Here is the same area on a map. The E45 motorway runs down the middle, following approximately the same route as the ancient Via Amerina. Gualdo Cattaneo is on the right. The town of Deruta through which the road passed had been completely destroyed in the Gothic Wars and Lombard invasion – indeed its very name derives from Latin words implying ruin.

That puts it all in perspective. Up and down this valley would have come Byzantine troops, and Imperial and church officials, trying to maintain contact between Ravenna and Rome. They would have hurried from the protection of one fortified town to the next, keeping an eye on the nearby woodlands for signs of an ambush by Lombard troops, or maybe a party of leftover Goths.

South of Todi there seems to be some uncertainty over exactly where the Corridor ran. I’ve done a bit of poking about in the hills there, and I’ll make that the subject of a separate post in due course.

June 7, 2022October 8, 2024

The Buried Streets of Perugia

The Rocca Paolina, or “Fortress of (Pope) Paul” was a symbol of oppression in Perugia for centuries. But its builder inadvertently saved a medieval streetscape for future generations.

One of the articles on this site that gets the highest number of views is Tough Guys in Art – the Baglioni of Perugia. Google moves in mysterious ways so I can’t really explain its popularity, but where I ended that article is where I propose to start this one.

To recap briefly, in the 15^th and early 16^th centuries the famously bellicose Perugians were ruled by a famously violent family, the Baglioni. When they were not slaughtering each other they managed to commission some fine works of art by artists like Perugino and Pinturicchio.

As I said at the end of that article, eventually the Baglioni fought each other to exhaustion. The Pope of the day (Paul III, formerly Cardinal Alessandro Farnese) saw his opportunity and took the town by force, beginning three hundred years of direct papal rule marked by economic, intellectual and artistic impoverishment.

Steep economic decline isn’t much fun for those experiencing it. But it does have the perverse benefit for more fortunate later generations of freezing a town or a landscape at the moment anyone stopped spending money on it. One reason the Cotswolds region in England is such a perfect jewel today is because the decline of the wool trade preserved it as it was. And so it was with Perugia, Todi, Spoleto and other scenic towns in Umbria – once all the revenues of the area were expropriated by Rome, things mostly just stopped.

Rubbing Salt into the Wound

Even a Pope like Paul III needed to manufacture some sort of excuse to attack a city, and the casus belli he used was Perugia’s refusal to pay an extortionate salt tax. These days we think of salt as a seasoning that is bad for our blood pressure, but for most of European history access to salt was the difference between survival and starvation. It was what you used to preserve the remaining food (often a slaughtered pig) in winter to give yourself a meagre source of protein through the hungry months until spring. You also need it to make cheese, and to preserve vegetables in brine. Salt was one of the first goods to be traded in prehistory, and control of salt production brought power. In the Papal States the production of salt was a government monopoly, so when Paul III banned the importation of competing cheap good-quality salt from Tuscany, then jacked up the tax, and jacked it up again, he knew exactly what he was doing, and the effect it would have. These days we would call it economic warfare.

Arezzo Pieve di Santa Maria — Killing the pig in December, Pieve di Santa Maria, Arezzo. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

A brief aside on unsalted bread

By the way, it is very common to read that the reason modern Umbrians make such insipid-tasting unsalted bread is because it started as a protest against the tax. Umbrians are taught this in school and will repeat it to you earnestly. With all respect to my Umbrian friends, I find this implausible. Firstly because the amount of salt necessary to season a loaf of bread is considerably less than that needed to turn a pig into salami and ham or to preserve things in brine, so it would not have added all that much to the cost of the loaf, and would not have saved them much money. Secondly, they make equally horrible unsalted bread next door in Tuscany, which was not part of the Papal domains. Thirdly, there is some evidence that unsalted bread was a feature of the region long before Paul III came along – in a 12th-Century poem, the exiled Florentine Dante complains “how salty is another man’s bread”.

Another argument, that salted bread isn’t needed because Umbrian food is already salty enough, doesn’t stand up to analysis either. Food is salty everywhere in Italy. I think it is just that they make lousy bread in these parts, and being parochial Italians, have convinced themselves that their way of doing it is the right way. I live part of the time among the Umbrians and love them, but in this they are wrong. You can find an article by someone who is similarly sceptical here. (NB: In a tacit admission, most Umbrian bakers now sell salted bread. Just be sure to ask for “pane salato“. I may be imagining the slightly reproachful air with which they hand it over.)

The Conquest of Perugia

Anyway, the commander Paul III chose to subdue Perugia was Pierluigi Farnese, who just happened to be Paul’s illegitimate son (plenty of cardinals had mistresses in those days). Paul legitimised Pierluigi to allow him to become the head of the Farnese family, but apparently Pierluigi still had a chip on his shoulder from being mocked about his origins, creating an attitude problem which he tended to take out on defeated populations.

Once Perugia had submitted in 1540, Paul ordered the architect Antonio Sangallo to build a huge fortress at the southern end of the town. There were various factors at work here, both symbolic and practical. Firstly, the new Rocca would dominate the approaches to the town and the road from Rome. Secondly, it decisively moved the centre of power away from the northern end of town, where the lovely Gothic buildings that symbolised the city’s historic independence may still be seen. Illustrations show that the Rocca was huge, and did indeed make everything else in Perugia look insignificant.

The *Rocca Paolina* in the 19th Century by Giuseppe Rossi (public domain)

Thirdly and probably most important to Paul (who seems to have been the sort to hold a grudge), building it there required the destruction of the quarter of the city where the Baglioni lived, and which had been their power base. It seems that Paul took a personal interest in the construction of the fortress, visiting Perugia several times during its construction to check on progress.

Sangallo was under pressure to proceed quickly, and fortunately for us he took an inspired short cut. Instead of demolishing the Baglioni quarter, and using the rubble and other landfill to create the foundations for the Rocca, he decided to use the intact stone buildings themselves as the foundations – using brick vaulting to fill in all the spaces between them. And so it was that streets, buildings and towers were preserved but hidden, the open sky was replaced by echoing brick vaults, and everything disappeared into darkness and silence for three hundred years.

The following two photographs are of plans displayed in the Baglioni quarter today. The first shows the Baglioni quarter of Perugia as it was in 1540, with the polygonal outline of the Rocca Paolina superimposed over the streets. The second, from 1820, shows the completed Rocca, with the Baglioni quarter invisible beneath it.

Rocca Paolina 1 — Plan of the Baglioni quarter of Perugia in 1540, with the polygonal outline of the Rocca superimposed. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge)

Rocca Paolina 2 — Plan of the Baglioni quarter of Perugia in 1820, with the Rocca completely covering it. Fujifilm X-Pro 3 camera, 35mm lens (click to enlarge)

Later Years

The Perugini were not particularly fond of their Rocca, not least since Paul placed an inscription on it explaining that the Rocca was put there to chastise them for their insubordination. Over time the government of the Papal States became more and more oppressive, and the Rocca was used as a political prison. It is therefore not surprising that it was partially destroyed by the Perugians during the Europe-wide uprisings of 1848, nor that it was subsequently rebuilt on the orders of Pope Pius IX as he swung from his initial reformist inclinations into the most obdurate reactionism.

Eventually in 1860 the Papal troops were expelled and Perugia became part of united Italy. I have read a story that afterwards the Perugians turned out with their hammers and chisels and demolished the Rocca Paolina by hand, stone by stone. I also read that as they did so, an old man would come along every day, and sit in silence watching them. When someone approached him and asked why, he said that he had spent much of his life in there as a political prisoner.

When the citizens had finished the demolition job, the reverse symbolism was completed when some fine Renaissance-style palazzi were erected on the site, to house the city, provincial and regional governments (Perugia became the capital of the newly-created region of Umbria). So the locals had in a sense taken back control. They rubbed it in further by erecting an equestrian statue of King Victor Emmanuel II. The statue is as bombastic and overstated as its equivalents everywhere else in Italy, but in in this case the inscription “King Liberator” might have been genuinely felt.

Statue of King Victor Emmanuel II, on the site of the Rocca Paolina. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Surrounding the seats of local government there are now some pleasant gardens, a statue of the artist Perugino, and a few bars, hotels and gelaterie. Just up the road is the outlet shop for the Perugina chocolate manufacturer. The casual visitor might be forgiven for missing the darker side of the site’s history altogether.

Prefettura di Perugia, on the site of the Rocca Paolina. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Meanwhile, beneath the ground, the old Baglioni quarter slept on, until excavations started in the 1930s which were completed in the 1960s. Thousands of people a day pass along those medieval streets, entering them from the escalators that take people up from the public car park in Piazza Partigiani. It is a very satisfying way to enter Perugia.

Under the Rocca Paolina. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

This story is continued in my post on The Ancient Gates of Perugia.

May 27, 2022October 31, 2024

The Via Amerina in Umbria

The Via Amerina was originally formed out of pre-Roman provincial roads, then it became an important local artery. For years it lay forgotten in the central Italian countryside, before being reinvented as a route for modern “pilgrims”.

This is the first of two or three articles I have in mind about the Via Amerina, a road which in antiquity led north from Rome to the town of Amelia in Umbria (ancient Ameria, from which the road took its name). From there it continued northward to Todi and Perugia, then ran westward to Chiusi.

What was the Via Amerina?

I’ve written a few times about the mighty military road called the Via Flaminia where it passes through Umbria. The Via Amerina is of a lesser order, and I ought to explain the difference.

The great consular roads like the Via Flaminia, the Via Appia, the Via Cassia and the Via Emilia were a means to deliver military force anywhere in the empire or on its boundaries. A capability a bit like – sort of – a modern aircraft carrier task group. They were planned, built and maintained with power projection in mind, and they famously ran as straight as topography would allow. They are called “consular” roads because they were named after the consul in whose administration each was started. The consuls were the chairmen of the Senate and also army commanders, so they could be expected to think and plan strategically.

A road like the Via Amerina, by contrast, would not have been centrally planned. Instead it grew out of existing roads between towns, which would already have been old when Rome rose to power. Since it served the needs of commerce and administration its importance was recognised by its being given an official name, and being maintained and upgraded at public expense.

When complete, each consular road had a separate public office solely responsible for its maintenance, while lesser roads like the Via Amerina were grouped together with other roads for maintenance purposes under different officials. And they were not straight; they meandered from town to town just like the ancient trackways on which they were based.

Despite its originally non-military status, after the end of the Roman Empire the Via Amerina had a period of great strategic importance as part of the so-called “Byzantine Corridor”; that is a subject for a later post. Update: here is that later post.

The Via Amerina in Central Umbria

Here in central Umbria, the Via Amerina ran north from Todi, along the eastern bank of the Tiber to Perugia. These days that part of the route seems to be mostly covered by modern roads and I have not found many references to its northern remnants. But to the south, between Todi and Amelia and beyond into Lazio it wanders through places that later main roads did not follow, so traces of it remain – in some cases even the original basalt flagstones.

A scholarly type has gone to the effort of creating an Umbrian Via Amerina route for the ArcGIS geographical information system – you can find it here.

In the photograph below, taken towards the south from Todi, the wide road that runs up the hill is not the Via Amerina. In post-imperial times towns and villages migrated to the high ground for defensive purposes and to reduce the threat from malaria, and so new roads followed them, but in Roman times settlements were more likely to be in the valleys. The Via Amerina followed the wooded valley of the little river Arnata, to the right.

Looking south from Todi to the route of the *Via Amerina*, which followed the wooded valley to the right. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

These days identifiable sections of the Via Amerina form part of a “St Francis” walking trail between Assisi and Rome. I’m not sure why St Francis or any of his followers would have needed to come this way, and wonder whether it has been chosen because of its beauty, and because following a more strictly historically accurate route that is now shared by a motorway would be less enjoyable. In any case, a tourist industry has grown up to cater for people who want to feel that they are retracing the steps of medieval pilgrims, and that is a very good thing. An example of a travel blog written by someone who did one of these excursions (with some nice photos) can be found here.

If you decide to head south from Todi, along the route that a Roman traveller would have taken, one of the first things you encounter (with a bit of searching), is a fontana or spring that would always have been here, but in its current form dates from 1201 AD. Todi sits on a plug of permeable rock up through which water that originally falls on the Monti Martani is forced, creating multiple freshwater springs that emerge high above the level of the valley. I’m sure that much of the traditionally healthy properties of such springs are due to the fact that coming up from far below the ground and being filtered through the rocks meant that the water was less likely to give you a fatal dose of dysentery. On the way up through the limestone the water picks up quite a lot of calcium, and a rather pronounced taste.

The Fontana di Sant’Arcangelo is very pretty, despite being hidden away in a suburban area full of 1970s apartment blocks. Of course, if it were still in its original surroundings in farmland it would be even more attractive, but the fact that you have to hunt for it (and in my case, ask directions from a lady going for a walk with her daughter) adds a certain attraction.

Down in the valley the route of the Via Amerina is quite clearly marked, and we followed smaller and smaller roads until we were driving along the valley floor on a pleasant unmade road through oak woods and with wildflowers along the edges.

There are a few chapels and other buildings from the early Middle Ages along the route, but they are either ruined or have been heavily renovated. There are also castles on many high points around, showing that the road continued to see enough use to make it worth defending. Many of them look habitable – I read that some of these castles were bought and renovated in the 19th Century by wealthy local families, and some of them are clearly undergoing a new series of renovations, presumably with the intent of using them as hotels, convention centres or spas. Some of the smaller castles round here have been bought and renovated by wealthy foreigners either as private dwellings or as AirBNBs.

Castello di Fiore and Castello di Belfiore — Castello di Fiore (right) and Castello di Belfiore (left), above the route of the Via Amerina. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Torre Olivola on the skyline above the route of the Via Amerina. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

The Roman Bridge at Pesciano

I was hoping to find a bridge dating from the late Roman period, where the Via Amerina crosses over the River Arnata near the village of Pesciano. I had made a couple of attempts to get to it since I first read about it in 2018, but had been defeated by atrocious roads and ambiguous maps. This time I approached from the Pesciano Road, drove as far as I dared, then parked the car in a clearing and continued on foot for a couple of kilometres.

The road descended through oak woods and between newly-mown fields to the river, where I came to a junction with the Via Amerina.

Road to the bridge at Pesciano. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Antica Via Amerina signposts. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Turning left I continued for a few hundred metres to where there was a ford across the river, obviously used by farm vehicles, then a bit further on I found the bridge.

Roman bridge at Pesciano. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Between 2007 and 2013 the local authorities repaired the bridge, and it must be said that it still looks rather starkly new, especially from downstream. I managed to find a photograph of the bridge before renovation on this website and I have to confess mixed feelings. The romantic in me warms to the old ivy-covered partial ruin, like something out of an 18th-century veduta painting.

On the other hand, this is surely not the first time since antiquity that the local authorities have repaired the bridge, so the bridge in its pre-2007 state would not have been any more authentic than it is now. And in due course it is certain that the ivy, the weather and the occasional earthquake would have converted the partial ruin into a complete ruin. In another ten or twenty years no doubt the elements will have weathered the new stonework, and the bridge will continue to carry modern-day pilgrims over the waters of the Arnata for a few hundred years before the next repairs are due.

April 29, 2022November 19, 2023

A Town Called Bastard

In central Italy, nestled in the green rolling hills of Umbria, is a town called Bastardo – “Bastard”. Yes, really.

If you were in Umbria at any time in the last two millennia, travelling north on the original route of the Via Flaminia, the old military road from Rome to Ravenna, at some point you would have to cross from west to east from the Middle Tiber Valley to the Valle Umbra.

The two valleys run north-south, and are separated by a range of hills called the Colli Martani. In the south, near Terni, the hills are high and steep and appropriately enough known as the Monti Martani. Only about halfway up, a bit north of Carsulae, do the mountains descend into hills and form a saddle which wheeled traffic and marching legions might have crossed without major delays.

Near Bastardo — In the Martani Hills near Bastardo. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

So that’s where the Roman military engineers put the road, and where generations of travellers followed. And while today the heavy traffic thunders along either the E45 or SS3 motorways, around here the route of the old Roman road is mostly followed by the modest (and badly pot-holed) Strada Regionale 316.

The empire fell, the legions demobilised for ever, and for hundreds of years the only marching feet on the road were those of invaders – Goths, Vandals, Lombards, Byzantines, Germans, French and Austrians. And French and Germans again.

But there were still the tramping feet of pilgrims, and the plodding hooves and rumbling cart wheels of trade. And so it was that three or four hundred years ago an entrepreneurial person of uncertain parentage decided to open a coaching inn and stables at a crossroads. If that innkeeper’s name and the name of his inn are known then I have been unable to find them. But in any case it seems that everyone just called it Osteria del Bastardo, or “Inn of the Bastard”.

In time, other businesses and dwellings sprang up around the inn. These days it is a town which clearly makes a decent living from servicing the agricultural area round about.

Around the outskirts are businesses which look as if they would be able to sell you a piece of farm machinery, or repair it, and as you approach the town you are likely to get stuck behind a huge tractor towing a complicated-looking piece of farm equipment. In line with its comparatively recent origins, there do not seem to be any particularly old buildings in town. There is a baroque-style church at the eastern end of the town, but it is built of rather modern-looking bricks (by “modern”, I mean some time in the last three hundred years).

In the 1920s, somehow the Osteria bit was dropped, and the officially-gazetted name of the town is now simply “Bastardo”.

Approaching it from the south the SR 316 does a bit of a dog-leg, but there is a narrow, perfectly straight lane that cuts the corner, and which I was delighted to see is called Via Flaminia Vecchia (the Old Via Flaminia).

Bastardo Via Flaminia Vecchia — Bastardo, Via Flaminia Vecchia. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

I have not been able to identify the site of the original inn, but it was presumably near the main crossroads, and there is a “Hotel Bar Dany” there which, although occupying a building from the 1960s or 70s, is at the very least a spiritual successor to the Osteria del Bastardo. I suppose I could have gone in and asked if Dany was descended from the original bastard, but there would have been too much potential for misunderstanding.

Bastardo, Hotel Bar Dany. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

The Colli Martani around here are attractive and gently rolling, mostly covered in grapevines and olive trees. The wines are pleasant enough and good value, and DOC status has been granted to wines made from locally-grown Sangiovese, Grechetto, Trebbiano and Vernaccia grapes. One enterprising winemaker has called his wine Rosso Bastardo, and while its claims to worldwide fame are probably a bit overstated, I’m sure something called “Bastard Red” would sell all right in Australia.

Rosso Bastardo. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

Apparently every now and then some high-minded citizens try to build support for renaming the town to something a bit more dignified, but these efforts have never quite succeeded, and so it remains a town called “Bastard”.

April 27, 2022November 19, 2023

Et In Arcadia Ego

Finally, after two and a half years of COVID exile, we are back in Umbria.

This is not meant to be a travel blog, or a current affairs blog, but sometimes the present does rather impose itself. I read and write about history partly because I like the sense of perspective one gets from looking at distant events like pestilence and war, but those things have crept rather closer recently.

It is a strange feeling being back. On the one hand, things are familiar – like the Saturday morning porchetta van in the piazza. Yet on the other hand, things are subtly different. Instead of the former devil-take-the-hindmost scrum at the porchetta van, there was the sight of a group of Italians voluntarily forming a queue.

One reads that Italy and the Italians have been changed in other ways by COVID. Government services have supposedly been simplified and made available online. This may be true for the central government, and for regional and local governments in Rome and Milan, but not here in Umbria. Going by the experience of trying to renew my parking permit for the centro storico, the processes are as old-fashioned and unnecessarily complicated as ever.

Old friends no longer greet one with a kiss on both cheeks, this is true, but instead of a distant Anglo-Saxon nod, we get big hugs.

There are sad undertones too. Where are the charming old couple who lived up the street? We haven’t seen them. Did they survive? We note that a familiar shop is closed, and friends tell us that the proprietress committed suicide.

But the sun is shining gloriously down on the Tiber Valley, people are smiling and turning out to community events like the Bersaglieri band concert on Liberation Day, and the swallows have returned, swooping and darting all day as they feed up after the long flight from Africa.

During the long gloomy Melbourne winter lockdowns I produced fewer posts, but longer and somewhat more didactic ones. My plan now is to write more briefly, and more often. I have a project in mind to explore parts of one of the local Roman roads – not the Via Flaminia, but the Via Amerina, which in one of its urban manifestations is the road we take to the supermarket.

It is wonderful to be back.

December 4, 2021November 19, 2023

Take this! Oh yeah? Take that!

In the sleepy countryside on the border between Tuscany and Umbria, the towers of Beccati Questo and Beccati Quello testify to past conflicts. And quite possibly the locals’ sense of humour as well.

This is a continuation of my previous post on Lars Porsena of Clusium, but I decided to make it separate so as not to complicate a post about the ancient Etruscans with something about medieval and Renaissance water politics. It will however be quite short.

Edit, August 2023: this post now has a companion piece – Cospaia, the Accidental Republic.

Before unification in 1861, the various Italian states were separate countries with their own rulers, laws and, to varying degrees, languages. It is hard for modern visitors to register this as they flash past a sign saying TOSCANA beside the autostrada, but 18th-Century grand tourists were well aware of it. South of Siena, travellers from Florence to Rome, on leaving the Grand Duchy of Tuscany and entering the Papal States, would have to unload all their luggage for customs inspections, show passports, pay duty on goods, and possibly have books confiscated if the border guards suspected they might be heretical Protestant tracts.

Earlier on in the Middle Ages, territories might be associated with city-states and could be much smaller than they became later. In central Italy, Siena, Florence, Perugia, Assisi and similarly-sized towns were all independent and frequently at war. What would have been just a customs post in the 18th Century might have been a border fort in the 12th.

Sitting on such a border, between the territories of Siena and Perugia (in modern terms, the regions of Tuscany and Umbria) and just near the town of Chiusi, is a lake of the same name. Today Lago di Chiusi is fairly small and rather attractive, surrounded as it is by the rolling country of the Valdichiana. In prehistoric times the lake was huge and covered all the low-lying area, while in antiquity as now the waters of the area were carefully managed to drain them away from agricultural land.

Lago di Chiusi, seen from the campanile of the Chiusi Duomo. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Sonnar CF 150mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge)

By the early Middle Ages however, the water management system had gradually broken down until the area flooded again, converting a large area of productive farmland into malarial swamps and closing some important overland routes. The latter was one reason for the rise of the more westerly road that became the Via Francigena. Water drained out of the swamps in two directions, northwards into the Arno or southwards into the Tiber. This dual drainage meant that the area was strategically important to both Florence and Rome.

Water Politics

In the 14th Century, starting near the town of Arezzo, people – often monastic communities – began to build dykes and canals again to try and harness the waters, mainly for power for mills. Such efforts were piecemeal and done without much understanding of the overall hydrology of the area, and they usually made the situation worse in other parts of the valley.

Unfortunately, as people’s understanding of the science and engineering improved, this knowledge was often used for military purposes. During a war between Florence and Pisa, Leonardo da Vinci came up with a plan to divert the course of the Arno away from Pisa and thus destroy its commerce (it didn’t work).

In the Valdichiana, Papal and Florentine forces created or destroyed earthworks and canals in order to cause flooding in each other’s territory, or deny water to agriculture. As late as 1598, a major flood in Rome was blamed – probably unfairly – on works in the Valdichiana undertaken by the Medici.

So it will come as no surprise that, as dry ground emerged from the receding swamp, fortified towers started to appear at various points. The first we know of was built by Siena in the 13th Century, and its belligerent purpose was made clear by the name it acquired: Beccati Questo!, or “take this!”.

Not surprising either that when the Perugians erected their own tower a short distance away, it was known as Beccati Quello!, or “take that!”.

The original Sienese tower had to be rebuilt a couple of hundred years later, and the new Renaissance one is much smaller and daintier than the medieval Perugian tower which still stands – albeit not entirely vertical. Perhaps the soil beneath was not yet dry enough to make a stable base to build on.

Beccati Questo, with Chiusi behind. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge)

Beccati Quello. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge)

I have not been able to find reports of the towers featuring in any military actions. It would seem that the main use of the towers over the centuries until Italian unification was to collect tolls and customs duties.

Beccati Questo and Beccati Quello — Beccati Quello (L) and Beccati Questo (much smaller, R) with Chiusi behind. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge)

Now they sleep in the Valdichiana, surrounded by canals, dykes and, in summer, fields of sunflowers. The road which they once guarded is now a quiet back road . The tolls have not gone away though – they are now collected as you exit the motorway.

October 25, 2021May 18, 2024

Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the Nine Gods He Swore

The Etruscans were pervasive in Central Italy, but their legacy was largely overwritten by the Romans. Three years ago we visited a recently discovered Etruscan tomb in Sarteano, and then went on the trail of Lars Porsena of Clusium.

Who were the Etruscans?

If you had asked me a couple of decades ago what I knew of the Etruscans, my answer like Gaul would have been divided into three parts. First, they lived in the area now known as Tuscany, which derives its name from them. Second, they spoke an unknown language unrelated to Latin. Third, Rome had been ruled by Tuscan kings until they heroically overthrew the last one, Tarquinius Superbus, ushering in the Republican Period. I then might have quoted a couple of half-remembered lines from Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome, the part about Horatius defending the bridge that begins:

Lars Porsena of Clusium, by the nine gods he swore
That (something something something) should suffer wrong no more.

Not surprisingly, it turns out that things are bit more complicated than that.

Firstly, it is true that they started out in what is more or less modern Tuscany, although their original homeland extended eastwards into what is now Umbria, to the Tiber River and Perugia. At its widest extent their civilisation extended north into the Po Valley as far as Mantua, and to the south it reached down to Campania and Naples, so it well and truly included Rome. On that southern border they came into contact with the Greek colonies in Italy, absorbing many cultural influences.

As for the language, it is tantalising how little we know of the Etruscans’ culture, given how much we know about where they were, when they were, and what other cultures they interacted with, several of which were literate. We know that their language was indeed not Indo-European, and that it (and they) therefore probably pre-dated the migration of Aryan peoples into Europe. We also know more or less how it sounded because when the Etruscans became literate they adopted a version of the Greek alphabet, albeit written from right to left. In fact, in most of the museum exhibits I have seen, they even flipped the Greek characters into true mirror-writing, which makes it look odd indeed until you work out what is going on (note 1).

Etruscan inscription from near Perugia, National Archaeological Museum of Umbria. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

But they left nothing but funerary inscriptions, and a tiny number of other documents recording religious rituals or commercial contracts, a couple of which are actually in parallel Etruscan and Latin language versions.

Finally, they left no descriptions of themselves, and the only descriptions we have are from early Greek writers, or Roman historians writing many generations later, which included the bits about the Etruscan kings of Rome. Given that Rome defined much of its early history by stories of wars in which the Etruscans were the bad guys, the traditions on which those historians – mainly Livy – were relying were probably not entirely objective. And like all such societies in that era, the great battles and glorious victories they celebrated were probably not much more than cattle raids. Finally, the Etruscan civilisation didn’t fall as such. Instead it was gradually romanised until it became indistinguishable from that of Rome, and faded away.

But it isn’t just that Etruria became Roman; some aspects of what we think of as Roman culture have Etruscan origins. It turns out that certain words which modern European languages inherited from Latin, including the English person and military, are thought to be derived in turn from Etruscan originals, so there are some distant modern echoes of that otherwise vanished language.

Chianciano and Sarteano

In June 2018 we were staying in the southern Tuscan town of Chianciano while waiting to hear whether our offer on an apartment in Umbria had been accepted. Chianciano is divided into a charming little medieval hill town and a newer town (Chianciano Terme) on the eastern slope of the range of hills that divides the Valdichiana from the Val d’Orcia. Chianciano Terme, as the name implies, is a spa town. It is mostly composed of mid-20th Century hotels catering for elderly patients who came there to take the waters for their livers. It’s a nice place and in particular the old town has some lovely views eastwards across the Valdichiana to the Umbrian hills. A particularly good place to look at the view was from the balcony of the Bar Pasticceria Centro Storico (below).

When the new town was being built they uncovered quite a few Etruscan tombs, and Chianciano now has a decent little museum in which to display the contents.

We have to admit though that a better Etruscan museum is in a town called Sarteano, about halfway between Chianciano and Monte Cetona, a few kilometres south.

As is almost always the case, the Etruscan remains around Sarteano are mostly tombs. When a few finds were turned up in the mid 19th Century, the aristocrat on whose land they were found financed some excavations which were scientific enough by the standards of the day, but proper archaeology as we understand the term had to wait until after the Second World War.

And the finds are still happening. One of the most spectacular occurred in 2003, and Lou had established that by paying a bit more on top of the price of the museum ticket, you could actually make a visit to that site on Saturday mornings. So we duly paid, and the following Saturday morning we made our way to the site following the directions given by the museum attendant (head out of town until you see a bunch of car dealers, then turn left just after the Rover sign). The road became a dirt track, then we eventually bumped to a halt in a field and got out to investigate.

The first thing to say is that it is in an absolutely splendid location, augmented in this case by the fact that it was a flawless summer’s morning, with all sorts of flowers growing around, the air heavy with their scent, and resonant with the sound of bees and birds. We were standing on the broad shoulder of a range of hills that runs north-south and which separates the Valdichiana from the Val d’Orcia. Behind us to the right was the tall conical peak of Monte Cetona. Ahead, to the east we looked down into the Valdichiana which is a patchwork of fields and vineyards thrown over low rolling hills. On one such hill in the middle distance to the left was the town of Chiusi (the ancient Clusium of “Lars Porsena of Clusium“), in the distance was Lake Trasimeno, and on the distant skyline were the Apennines.

Chiusi from Sarteano Etruscan necropolis. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

The area appears to have been a necropolis, or burial area, and it seems to have been used for a period of several hundred years, stretching into the 1st Century AD. At one end of the excavated area is an oval structure of travertine stone which looks like a stage, which the archaeologists, plausibly enough, have decided was a stage, presumably used for pre-interment ceremonies. The entrances to the tombs are long passages cut into the hillside and lined with travertine; as the whole area is on a slope the passages can cut into the earth while being mostly horizontal themselves.

Over the next quarter of an hour a dozen or so more visitors arrived, then there was a hallooing from a bit further down the hill which turned out to be coming from our guide. She was an archaeologist who had taken part in the 2003 excavations herself and been present at the discovery of the tomb we were about to see.

The tomb we had come to see is called the Tomba della Quadriga Infernale (Tomb of the Infernal Chariot) because of the frescoes. That they have survived at all is quite lucky. Some finds inside date from the early Middle Ages and suggest that it was actually used as a dwelling in that period. Or perhaps a refuge in times of war, as even by the standards of the time it can hardly have been a salubrious place to live. Then – in the 1940s, they think – grave robbers broke in and did some frightful damage to one of the frescoes. Fortunately much of the entry passage was buried by then, and the earth protected the other paintings.

We split into two groups to go in; Lou and I were in the first group. All the other people in our group were Italians, so our guide spoke in Italian, but very clearly and not too fast so we were able to follow most of what she said. Of course, we had visited the museum a couple of days earlier, so the vocabulary was familiar. You were allowed to take photos without flash, so I did, but just on my phone.

All the surviving paintings are on the left side as you go in. If there were any on the right, they might have been destroyed when the tomb was used as a dwelling in the Middle Ages. The first is what gives the tomb its name – it is a demon driving a chariot, drawn by a team of lions and griffins.

Sarteano Etruscan Tomb. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

He is heading towards the entrance of the tomb, which leads scholars to conclude that the charioteer is heading back to the world of the living after having carried a dead soul down to the underworld, in order to pick up the next passenger. This in turn leads those scholars to identify the demon with Charon, although we are more familiar with him as a boatman ferrying souls across the Styx. You can tell he is a demon, apparently, because of his large lower canine tooth, his red hair and white face. They didn’t mention the rouged cheeks and lipstick.

Beyond the demon in the chariot is a picture of two men – one old and one young – embracing. The explanation back in the Sarteano museum had been that the younger one is the recently deceased, greeting his long-dead father in the underworld. The guide did at least acknowledge the other possibility that they were lovers – accepted enough in ancient Greece and therefore presumably possible in ancient Etruria.

Then at the back of the tomb there was a three-headed serpent and a hippocampus or sea-horse. There was a sarcophagus at the end of the tomb which had been smashed up by one of the later intruders, and later reassembled by the archaeologists. Some human remains had been found among the bits, which on analysis had been found to be those of a male in his sixties.

Sarteano Etruscan Tomb. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

There were several extraordinary things about all this. One was that the paintings had survived at all after more than two thousand years. Another was that they had survived in such good condition. And another was that we could just wander in there and look at them – no hermetically sealed system, no sheets of perspex between us and the paintings, and no ultrasonic alarms to prevent you getting too close. Although given that one lady almost backed into the charioteer before being warned off by the guide, maybe that might have been a good idea.

It was also fascinating to think that when we were first in these parts at the end of the 1990s, the tomb had yet to be discovered. Afterwards Lou and I lingered up above in the sunshine, admiring the view which – minus the odd high-speed railway line – was pretty much as the Etruscans would have seen it, and pondered how much else might be beneath our feet.

Chiusi

Chianciano is quite close to the town of Chiusi, which as I said is the Clusium of the ancients. In the first twenty years or so of our visits to Italy, Chiusi to us was a motorway exit on the way north from Rome Airport to the Val d’Orcia in Tuscany, and a handy shopping centre and supermarket at a place called Querce al Pino, called – significantly – Centro Etrusco. If, instead of continuing towards Montepulciano you turn east towards Città della Pieve, you go through the modern town of Chiusi Scalo which is fringed by light industry and some now shabby-looking 1950s social housing.

Once we had worked out that there was more to Chiusi we paid a couple of visits to the old town, which has much to recommend it. It is pleasantly compact and neat, up on the hilltop where those Etruscans once decided to make a home. Being close to such tourist drawcards as Orvieto, Montepulciano and Pienza it has never really cracked the foreign tourist market, but in many ways this is no bad thing. One can only buy so many fridge magnets.

We have a definite tendency, when turning up in towns for the first time, to do so on unsuitable days. In this case we got a double because not only was it market day (where do they put markets? In the car parks) but also the annual feast day of St Mustiola, one of the patron saints of Chiusi. So the market had extended hours, and later when we tried to get into the duomo there was a mass going on. However we got lucky and found a parking spot and wandered around a bit.

We walked up to a little park which is on the site of the old acropolis and which is full of various bits of antique stonework turned up in the 18th and 19th centuries and too heavy, or not good enough, to sell to foreign collectors.

The Etruscan Museum is quite large, and worth a visit. Around the town, Etruscan and Roman remains are everywhere. Several buildings have obvious ancient stonework incorporated in their walls, and next to the duomo there is an Etrusco-Roman cistern of which the base is Etruscan and the upper part Roman. The whole thing has been converted into a bell tower for the duomo by the addition of some medieval brickwork on the top. You can climb it for excellent views of the town and the surrounding countryside.

Nearby there is the entrance to something called Il Labirinto di Porsenna of which we took a guided tour. The story of Lars Porsena’s tomb being hidden under Chiusi and protected by a labyrinth goes back a long way, being mentioned by the Roman historian Pliny the Elder. So when the “labyrinth” was rediscovered in the 1920s people were quick to make the association. The truth is a bit more prosaic: it is in fact a system of aqueducts and drains that made up the town water supply in antiquity. The townspeople put it to good use in the 1940s as air-raid shelters.

There are other signs of Etruscan influence. The main street is called Via Porsenna and I was hoping to find a “Lars Porsena Bar”, but we did not find one. We did at least eat at a little restaurant called “Osteria Etrusca” where one of the pizza toppings was called “Pizza Etrusca” and consisted of sausage and gorgonzola cheese. No doubt its authenticity is based on scholarly research, although the menu omitted any citations.

I have enough material to do a separate post on Chianciano one day. And we are not finished with the Etruscans either, because the following year we visited the town of Tarquinia in the northern part of Lazio, which has an extensive Etruscan necropolis.

note 1: In the excellent National Archaeological Museum of Umbria, in Perugia, I saw an inscription in the Umbrian language, which unlike Etruscan is Indo-European and in the same linguistic family as Latin. It used the Latin alphabet, but was written in mirror-writing like Etruscan.

August 22, 2020November 19, 2023

Reasons to be Thankful

On a hillside in Umbria, a quiet chapel contains countless tiny memorials to deliverance from peril – the ex-votos of the Santuario della Madonna dei Bagni.

An ex-voto is a votive offering in thanks for divine intervention. It might take the form of a small model of a body part that was afflicted by disease or injury, or a picture of an incident in which someone was was healed, or injury or death was averted. It might even take the form of a motorcycle helmet that had protected the wearer in an accident. These tend to be found in chapels, churches and cathedrals in Italy. In the case of pictures, the interceding saint is usually shown as well. Frequently the letters P.G.R. appear, short for per grazia ricevuta – “by grace received”, or “for favours received”.

That this is deep-rooted in our culture is shown by the large number of votive objects that have been recovered from wells and springs known to have been sacred to pagan deities or demigods (and for that matter, have you ever thrown a coin in a wishing well or fountain?). The continuation of this practice into the Christian era has been described as the pragmatic appropriation of pagan practices by the early Church, in the same way that they built churches on the site of pagan temples. But if it is such a fundamental impulse, it may be that people were going to do it anyway, whatever the church fathers thought.

I’ve wanted to do a post on ex-votos for a while, but a couple of things have inhibited me. One reason is that if I put phrases like per grazia ricevuta in these articles then various algorithms will group this site with religious websites, which is already happening due to some of the historical, artistic and architectural subjects I have covered. So be it, but I fear that those who come across this site by that route will be disappointed.

A more important reason for caution is that I am worried that any treatment of this subject will come across as condescending. And it is hard not to smile indulgently when you see an ex-voto of a child surviving a fall from a merry-go-round through divine intervention, like this one in a museum in Taormina in Sicily.

You can find votive pictures like these in many museums and galleries across Italy, typically folk museums and small municipal galleries, and of course the churches in which they were originally displayed. Most of the pictures which accompany this post are from a particular church – the Santuario della Madonna dei Bagni in Umbria. It is located south of Perugia, in rolling hills which descend to the middle Tiber valley, just near the town of Deruta. The name “dei Bagni” apparently refers to mineral springs nearby.

The story of the sanctuary’s origin is that in the early 17th Century a wandering Franciscan friar found a pottery fragment depicting the Virgin and Child lying in the road. He picked it up and placed it reverently in a young oak tree. Over the following decades the tree grew around the image and fixed it in place, making a natural version of a roadside shrine. Travellers who prayed there, either to seek divine assistance, or to give thanks for assistance received, would often have left ex-votos.

It is the proximity to Deruta that makes this place special. Then as now, Deruta was a centre for glazed pottery, and not surprisingly one of the things that Deruta’s potters would make you was an ex-voto illustrated to your requirements. Traditional Deruta ware, with its folk designs and its cheerful primary colours, is not much in fashion at the moment, as it doesn’t really go with contemporary design taste. But one thing you can say about it is that kiln-fired and glazed ceramic is a good deal more durable than pictures painted on bits of wood. The style and appearance of the pictures have changed little over the centuries – for they are still being offered by the faithful. In deference to the story of the origin of the sanctuary, the image of the Virgin and Child in the pictures appears in an oak tree.

In 1687 the present church was built to house the shrine and growing collection. Since most of the pictures bear dates, many can be seen to predate the building of the church, and perhaps even started their lives attached to that oak tree.

Santa Maria dei Bagni — Behind the altar at Madonna dei Bagni. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge)

Behind the altar, behind a pane of glass, a piece of oak is preserved. It would be wonderful if it were from the original tree of the story.

This man, being possessed, was liberated by recourse to the Blessed Virgin, 1678. Santuario della Madonna dei Bagni, Deruta. Phone camera (click to enlarge).

These days the main road is the busy E45 motorway, and the trucks that thunder through its concrete channel are thankfully a bit further away from the church than the old road.

As you look at the illustrations you will be struck by how the details remind you that these are real things that happened to real people.

Giovanni Bresciano is attacked by corsairs, 1551. Church of Saints Vittore and Corona, Feltre, Veneto. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Planar 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

As I said, it is hard not to smile indulgently at some of these, and feel a bit superior when seeing mental illness ascribed to demonic possession, and recovery from it attributed to miraculous intervention.

For five years, this woman was tormented by four spirits that were telling her to drown herself, 1668. Santuario della Madonna dei Bagni, Deruta. Phone camera (click to enlarge).

Or at the modern kid on the motor scooter who has had an accident when racing the traffic lights (honest officer, the light was still amber, just look at this ex-voto). Other contemporary disasters include car accidents, close encounters with trains, and the crash of a light aircraft.

But then you might reflect that in some ways it is not the metaphysical explanation that is important. It is the fears and hopes and gratitude of real people that you are seeing recorded before you, whether it is the husband whose wife has survived a dangerous childbirth, or the wife whose husband has returned safe from the wars.

And if in that moment of empathy you find yourself wiping away a tear, then you might have just received your own gift of grace, in some sense.

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Postscript: we returned to the Santuario in September 2022, and sure enough, found an ex-voto giving thanks for a family’s survival of the COVID pandemic.

July 4, 2020November 1, 2024

Valnerina: The Green Heart of the Green Heart of Italy

Umbrians will tell you proudly that their region is “il cuore verde d’Italia” (the green heart of Italy), and moreover that the phrase, ubiquitous in promotional material, comes from a poem by Giosué Carducci. Even the comprehensive Wikipedia entry on Umbria says so. Well, all I can say is that it’s always a good idea to check original sources, because I did, and that is not actually what Carducci wrote. In fact, in the poem Le Fonte del Clitunno, what he says is “Salve, Umbria verde” (hail, green Umbria). Whether he considered it the heart, liver or spleen of Italy cannot be determined on that evidence.

Having said that, looking at the picture of the town of Vallo di Nera above, you can see why he would have said it, had he only thought of it.

And one can forgive the Umbrians for wanting a slogan with a bit of cachet. After all, when Umbria came into existence as a region of the newly-unified Italy in 1860, it was largely for administrative reasons, and the first time that the name had been used to denote a discrete region since antiquity. Not for them were the Renaissance glories of neighbouring Tuscany. Instead the period between the fall of the empire and the Risorgimento first saw the various towns and cities absorbed into the Lombard Duchy of Spoleto, then fighting each other in the interminable proxy wars of the Guelphs and Ghibellines, then picked off one by one by the Papacy.

I have read that, even today, Umbrians are less likely than any other Italians to define themselves by their region. They are more likely to say that they are from Perugia, Terni, Assisi, Spoleto or so on.

Umbria is defined by its valleys and rivers. South of Perugia is a large horseshoe-shaped valley that was once a huge lake, then a swamp, then fertile farmland. The western lobe is the valley of the Tiber river, and the the eastern is that of the Clitunno. The third main river in Umbria is the Nera, which is further east yet, into the Apennines. We met it earlier where it flows through the gorge of Narni before it joins the Tiber.

Map of part of Umbria, (source: Google Maps) with the course of the River Nera approximately marked, from where it rises in the Apennines to where it flows into the Tiber near Orte (click to enlarge).

The Nera has two very different personalities. Downstream, it flows from east to west past the city of Terni, through a broad floodplain, now partly industrialised. Upstream, it flows roughly from north to south in a steep valley in the Apennines. That valley has the happy title of Valnerina, or the “valley of the little Nera”. The valley also indicates a geological fault line, which was bad news for some of the towns here in 2016.

The Nera river as it flows past the town of Piedipaterno in the Valnerina. Canon EOS-3 35mm camera, Canon 28-135mm IS lens, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

And the Valnerina is charmingly beautiful. The river winds through steep gorges, the hillsides covered with thick woodland. Towns, villages, abbeys and monasteries perch on hilltops in defensible positions, or tumble down the slopes behind fortifications.

The town of Castelsantangelo sul Nera, before the earthquake. Alas, it looks rather different now. Contax G1 35mm rangefinder camera, Zeiss Planar 45mm lens, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

Unhappily, being on one of the Apennine fault lines, the towns of the Valnerina have suffered major damage repeatedly from earthquakes, most recently in 2016. It is a tribute to the stoicism and grit of the inhabitants that most towns have been rebuilt many times over during their recorded history.

Castel San Felice, Valnerina. Horseman 45FA large format camera, Nikon Nikkor-W 150mm lens, Horseman 6x12cm rollfilm back, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

The great currents of history have largely passed the Valnerina by. The big powerful towns like Spoleto and Perugia are further west where the country is flatter and wealthier. The local saints tend to be hermits and founders of monasteries. They were attracted there, one assumes, precisely because one was less likely than elsewhere to encounter an invading army on one’s way down to the narrow floodplain to harvest some turnips for dinner.

Cerreto di Spoleto, Valnerina. Horseman 45FA large format camera, Rodenstock Sironar-N 180mm lens, Horseman 6x12cm rollfilm back, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

We stayed in the Valnerina during an unusually cold and wet June. The compensation was that in the mornings the valley filled with mist and was at its most mysterious and beautiful.

April 13, 2020June 13, 2024

Tough Guys in Art – the Baglioni of Perugia

Renaissance Perugia was as violent and as full of art as was Florence. But it doesn’t occupy the same hallowed place in art history. One reason is that it is admittedly hard to compete with Donatello, Michelangelo and Botticelli. Another is that Florence (as part of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany) stayed independent, more or less, up to the Risorgimento, and its rulers kept on collecting art, while Perugia finally fell to Papal domination and suffered an inevitable decline.

And a further subtle but influential reason is that the story of Italian Renaissance art which most of us absorb, from whatever source, is essentially that first told by a bloke named Giorgio Vasari in the 16^th Century. And old Giorgio, who was from Tuscany, was as parochial as any Italian. So to be admitted to membership of the pantheon he created in his seminal Lives of the Artists, it helped a lot to be Tuscan. Others tended to be damned with faint praise, even someone like Raphael, who had the poor judgement to have been born in Urbino and trained in Perugia, and who then compounded the offence by moving to Rome. And if other Italians weren’t good enough for Vasari, it’s not surprising that he understates the profound affect on Italian art of Flemish painters like Van Eyck.

Note: I had been contemplating writing this post for some time, but could not proceed because the Baglioni Chapel in Spello was closed for post-earthquake repairs for three years. The chapel reopened in late 2019 and I was able to take some photographs, but now I have the problem that a couple of the reference books I really ought to consult are in our bookcase in Umbria, and we are stuck in Australia because of the coronavirus. I might also need to revisit the Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria in Perugia to check a couple of things. So I’ve decided to forge ahead with what I have to hand and make a few sweeping assertions from memory. When in due course I can return to Italy and check those sources, I will update this post.

Note, May 2022. I am back in Italy now, but the gallery in Perugia is closed for renovation. I have at least managed to correct the attribution of the painting about Saint Bernardino, below.

Note, August 2022. The gallery is finally open again, and much improved by the renovations.

Perugia’s most famous painter was named Pietro Vannucci, but he is so closely associated with the place that he is referred to in art history as “Perugino”, which means “the guy from Perugia”. This is cause for a certain amount of resentment to this day in the place he actually came from, a town a bit further west near the border with Tuscany, called Città della Pieve.

Perugino was a major influence on what is often referred to as “The Umbrian School” of painting, with serene-looking saints and Madonnas in pastel colours set in idyllic landscapes. While most of his surviving pieces are frescoes, he was a pioneer of the use of oil paints in Italian art. It is one of the wonderful things about Umbria that you can stop at a local parish church and see, unprotected on the wall, a work of art that, were it to be the centrepiece of an exhibition in Australia, would be behind an inch of toughened glass and cost $50 to see.

Perugino – Adoration of the Magi (fresco), Church of Madonna delle Lacrime, Trevi, Umbria. Nexus 6P phone camera, perspective corrected in Photoshop (click to enlarge).

After beginning his career in Perugia – where he trained the young Raphael – Perugino worked in Florence and Rome before returning to his native Umbria. While in Florence he had a feud with Michelangelo which would have set Vasari even more against him (although the list of contemporaries with whom Michelangelo did not feud would be short). Vasari also accuses Perugino of atheism, for which there does not appear to be any other evidence.

Perugino is sometimes criticised for the uniformity of his work, and it is also true that some of his stuff, particularly the backgrounds, was probably done by his apprentices. But much of his work that survives was for local Umbrian churches. Compared to the sort of thing they might have been able to acquire before then, Perugino’s beautiful faces in beautiful landscapes, and his geometrically accurate perspective, would have been breathtakingly modern and exactly what they wanted their parishioners to see and be uplifted by. However as we shall see below, when working for a wealthy patron (and doubtless being paid accordingly) Perugino was capable of producing very individual pieces.

Now for the violence promised earlier. Even by the standards of those days, the Perugians were famously bellicose, having long-standing quarrels with many of their neighbouring towns. During the endless rivalries between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines in the Middle Ages, those towns sometimes chose the opposite of whichever faction Perugia happened to adhere to at the time, just so they could be on the other side. When Perugia switched sides, so did they, in the other direction.

It cannot be unrelated that paintings of the era, whatever religious event was being depicted, often had bands of armed men or even acts of violence occurring elsewhere in the picture. The picture below, probably by Pierantonio del Niccolò del Pocciolo, is notionally about Saint Bernardino healing a young man who had been gravely wounded in an attack. But the attack takes up much of the canvas, with the saint and his patient visible in the distance through a window.

Bonfigli — Detail of “Saint Bernardino Restoring Giovan Antonio Tornano to Health After He Was Wounded in an Ambush” by Pierantonio del Niccolò del Pocciolo, Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

In the 15^th and 16^th Centuries, the dominant family in Perugia was the Baglioni, whose behaviour sounds like something out of Game of Thrones, right down to one half of the family massacring the other half at a wedding. At this point I will quote from one of my favourite books on Umbria, the result of a collaboration between an excellent writer and an outstanding landscape photographer.

“Perugia’s story during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries is almost a parody or a pastiche of our wildest fantasies of violence and passion in Renaissance Italy… The ne plus ultra of savagery, egoism and tyranny was reached with the rise, during the early 1400s, of the Baglioni family. Everyone was afraid of them, but even the many who hated them admired their physical courage, and their beauty was a legend throughout Italy. Where they walked, crowds gathered to marvel at their handsome faces and lofty stature. Their very names – Gismondo, Astorre, Grifonetto, Atalanta, Zenobia – have the dimension of romance. Many were put to death in the appalling sequence of murders and revenges known as il gran tradimento (‘the great betrayal’) which took place in 1500, when Grifonetto tried to wipe out his entire clan and was himself killed by order of his cousin Gianpaolo.” – Jonathan Keates, Philip’s Travel Guides – Umbria, 1991, with photography by Joe Cornish, p.52.

Gianpaolo Baglioni (1470-1520) was a condottiero (mercenary captain) and Lord of Perugia who, like several nobles in the Romagna, fought for Cesare Borgia on the grounds that it was better for them to be on his side than not. When it became obvious that being on his side was no protection from his ambitions, Gianpaolo and the others changed sides. Unlike most of the others, Gianpaolo survived the experience.

If you are visiting Perugia there are a great many excellent things to see – I shall make them the subject of another post one day – but one thing that no-one should miss is the Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria which, not surprisingly, contains some fine specimens of the Umbrian School. One large and grand painting in oils is an Adoration of the Magi, attributed to Perugino. It is known to have been commissioned by the Baglioni family, and given both that and the very individualistic depictions of the three kings and their attendants, it has been plausibly speculated that they are actual portraits of members of the Baglioni. One youthful face at the far left of the group, looking straight out at the viewer, is thought to be a self-portrait by Perugino, and it certainly looks similar to an authenticated self-portrait of an older, pudgier Perugino in the Collegio del Cambio, just down the street.

Perugino Adoration — Perugino, Adoration of the Magi (oil painting), Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

In the detail below, it certainly looks as if the principal king is someone used to giving orders, and given that no-one else in Perugia would have been doing so at the time, the idea that these are indeed members of the Baglioni family is an attractive one.

Perugino adoration detail — Detail of Perugino’s Adoration of the Magi. Those depicted are believed to include members of the Baglioni family, with the exception of the young man in a red cap at the extreme left, thought to be a self-portrait of Perugino. Photographic data as above (click to enlarge).

The ancestral lordship of the Baglioni family included the pretty town of Spello, a bit further south from Perugia along the Central Umbrian Valley, between Assisi and Foligno. The old town spills down the hill towards the valley floor in a most picturesque way, and you get a delightful view of it to the left as you head down the SS75 towards Spoleto. It has nice restaurants and bars, some with excellent views of the gap in the mountains through which our old friend the Via Flaminia heads northeast.

One of the most remarkable places to visit in Spello is the Baglioni Chapel in the Collegiate Church of Santa Maria Maggiore. The church was damaged in the 2016 earthquakes and only reopened in late 2019 – even then you had to pick your way through scaffolding to get to the chapel.

The chapel is decorated with frescoes by another painter of the Umbrian school – Pinturicchio, both a contemporary and student of Perugino. Naturally, that’s not his real name. He was born Bernardino di Betto, but was called Pinturicchio (“little painter”) because he was short, and he was a painter. Those names are so inventive, it beats me how they came up with them. But since he signed a couple of works with that name he was presumably at least resigned to it. He did quite a bit of work in Rome, and probably his most famous work is in the Piccolomini Library in the duomo of Siena.

Pinturicchio Annuciation — Pinturicchio, Annunciation, Cappella Baglioni, Spello. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c Digital Back (click to enlarge).

There are three superb frescoes by Pinturicchio in the chapel – an Annunciation, an Adoration of the Shepherds (with the Three Kings queueing up to wait their turn in the background) and a Christ at the Temple.

Pinturicchio Adoration — Pinturicchio, Adoration of the Shepherds, Cappella Baglioni, Spello. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c Digital Back (click to enlarge).

Off to one side in the Annunciation, Pinturicchio has included a framed self-portrait hanging on the wall of Mary’s cloister.

Pinturicchio Adoration detail — Pinturicchio, Adoration of the Shepherds (detail), Cappella Baglioni, Spello. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c Digital Back (click to enlarge).

The chapel was commissioned by the local bishop, Troilo Baglioni of that ilk. I have seen a reference to the commission supposedly having been to commemorate the end of the period of conflict within the family which featured the gran tradimento, and the dates would certainly fit. And there are features of the frescoes which further support the hypothesis – if you look past the beauties of the main subjects, in the background there is a Renaissance Italian countryside ravaged by war. Bands of armed men wander the countryside. On a distant hilltop a corpse hangs from a gibbet. It is beautiful, but there is a slightly nightmarish quality to it as well.

Pinturicchio Annunciation detail — Pinturicchio, Annunciation (detail), Cappella Baglioni, Spello. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c Digital Back (click to enlarge).

Many of the characters playing bit parts – shepherds, kings and the like – are depicted with such individuality that it seems almost certain that they are portraits of real people. And among the crowd observing Christ at the Temple, we find Troilo Baglioni himself. He may have been a churchman, but he was also a Baglioni, and in an age when bishops, cardinals and even popes led armies and despatched assassins (let’s face it, the Pope at the time was Alexander VI Borgia) Troilo looks like someone who could take care of himself.

Pinturicchio Troilo Baglioni — Pinturicchio, Christ in the Temple (detail showing Troilo Baglioni), Cappella Baglioni, Spello. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c Digital Back (click to enlarge).

Eventually the Baglioni fought each other to exhaustion, and in 1535 the Papacy saw its chance and took Perugia by force, beginning a period of severe authoritarian rule, and three hundred years of intellectual, economic and artistic impoverishment. There are other interesting stories to tell about Perugia, and more photographs to show, so this will not be my last post on the subject. (Note: it wasn’t. “The Buried Streets of Perugia” was added in June 2022.)

But standing before the Pinturicchio frescoes in the Baglioni Chapel in Spello (and the Perugino in the gallery in Perugia) is a many-layered experience. You are looking at art of great beauty and undoubted piety. But it also depicts real people who were players in desperate and violent personal and political dramas, and the landscapes in which they fought. And it was painted by people who were there at the time. And you are standing where they stood.

Note: in June 2024 we revisited the Baglioni Chapel, to find that the church management has imposed a ban on photography, probably related to the fact that there is now a souvenir shop next door. In any case, I feel I should point out that the photographs included here were taken before any restrictions were imposed.

March 14, 2020July 30, 2024

A Nation of Shopkeepers

This is an affectionate photographic tribute to the shopkeepers of italy, most of whom were forced to close this week because of COVID-19.

So there I was, unable to get back to Italy for the foreseeable future and worried about the people we know there. Then I saw the news about most shops being closed, which depressed me further, but then I realised it had given me an idea about something else to celebrate about Italy. It might cheer me up a bit, and I hope it cheers you up too.

The Italian genius for design manifests itself in various celebrated ways. The fashion houses of Milan. Alfa Romeo and Ferrari. The classic Vespa. The Piaggio P.180 aircraft. It isn’t enough merely to be fit for purpose. – it must be beautiful. (In fact thinking back to my much-loved Alfa 159, sometimes form clearly had taken precedence over function). But it isn’t just the highly-paid designers. Deep down, every Italian is a stylist. You can tell by the way they dress for the evening passegiata. And in every market and every shopping street, you can tell by the care with which they arrange the displays of merchandise for maximum effect on stalls and in shop windows.

The architecture can be a delight too – especially the way that a vintage shopfront is carefully maintained for decades.

Italians are famously individualists. Not always a good thing, when it comes to following public health directives. But the pride that people take in themselves and their own enterprise really comes out in their shops. I’ve already posted a photo essay on the market at Padua, which you can look at to see the displays of fruit, fish and meat.

So here is an affectionate tribute to shopfronts and shop window displays, dedicated to all of their proprietors, and what they are going through right now. Things may not always be done in the most refined taste, indeed sometimes they are positively idiosyncratic, but in every case they have been done carefully.

We start in the town of Norcia. Apart from being the birthplace of St Benedict, it is famous for its smallgoods manufacturers. So much so that salumerie throughout Italy often refer to themselves as Norcinerie.

The first three of those pictures were taken with my favourite 35mm camera of all the many I have owned. The Contax brand originally referred to cameras made by the branch of Zeiss that stayed in the old East Germany. The brand was bought by the Japanese Kyocera company, and they produced a couple of absolutely beautiful little rangefinder cameras, with superb genuine Zeiss lenses. If they would bring out a digital version I would buy it like a shot. Being small and light, the Contax G1 is great for candid street photography, such as the following two taken in Via Garibaldi in the Arsenale quarter of Venice.

Via Garibaldi, Venice. Contax G1 35mm rangefinder camera, Zeiss Planar 45mm lens. Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

This next is also from Venice, and is of course a shop in a Venetian context. Not a candid street snap, as it was taken on a large format camera on a tripod.

Rio S Barnaba — Greengrocer’s “shop”, Rio San Barnabà, Venice. Horseman 45FA large format camera, Nikon Nikkor-W 150mm lens, 4×5″ film back, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

The island of Burano, in the Venetian lagoon, is famous for its brightly coloured buildings. Here is a butcher’s shop.

The town of Sulmona is in the rugged region of Abruzzo, surrounded by high mountains. It is famous in Italy for the production of confetti for weddings and other celebrations. Now in Italy confetti are not bits of coloured paper to throw at the happy couple. They were originally hard sugared almonds – not the sort of thing you would throw at anyone. These days “confetti” include all sorts of hard candies, many garishly coloured. The maker pictured below specialises in making sunflowers out of them.

In Naples, the colour and glow of shops, especially a baker like this, make a particular contrast to the gritty streets outside.

Napoli Via Tribunali — Baker’s shop in Via Tribunali, Naples. Hasselblad 500C/M camera, Zeiss Planar 80mm lens, 6c6cm rollfilm back, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

The picture below is from Bologna, which is generally thought of of a gastronomic centre. Needless to say, it has several excellent (and expensive) food shops, which clearly feel obliged to have window displays that match the reputation.

Bologna salumeria. Contax G1 35mm rangefinder camera, Zeiss Planar 45mm lens. Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

Here are four very elegant shop fronts. A cafe and tobacconist in Urbino, another confetti outlet in Sulmona, a butcher’s in Spoleto, and an electrical parts shop in Bologna.

Urbino Caffetteria — Caffetteria Fratelli Boni, Urbino. Fujifilm GFX-50R camera, 32-64mm lens (click to enlarge).

Sulmona confetti — Confetti Rapone Panfilo, Sulmona. Hasselblad 500C/M camera, Zeiss Planar 80mm lens, 6x6cm rollfilm back, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

Spoleto Macelleria — Macelleria Giovanni Luna, Spoleto. Hasselblad 501C/M camera, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge).

Bottega della Luce, Bologna. Hasselblad 501C/M camera, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge).

Here are two very traditional shops. Another salumeria, from Verona, and “Everything for the Home” from San Quirico d’Orcia in Tuscany.

Salumeria Albertini — Salumeria G. Albertini, Verona. Hasselblad 501C/M camera, Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50C digital back (click to enlarge).

Tutto per la Casa, San Quirico d’Orcia. Canon EOS-3 35mm camera, 28-135 IS lens, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

And I will finish with two of my favourites. The first is from the town of San Zeno in Montagna, high up above Lake Garda. The second is the town of Castiglione del Lago, a fortified town sticking out into Lake Trasimeno in Umbria. They are my favourites because they include the proprietors. Bless them, and all the shopkeepers of Italy.

Castiglione del Lago. Hasselblad 500C/M camera, Zeiss Planar 80mm lens, 6x6cm rollfilm back, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

Note, added 2024: I said earlier that I wished I could find a digital equivalent of the Contax G1 35mm camera. A year ago I bought a Fujifilm X-Pro 3 and I must say that does give me much of the same kind of feeling when using it.

December 30, 2019September 14, 2024

Castelluccio and the Piano Grande

Nestled among some of the highest parts of the Apennines in eastern Umbria is the Piano Grande. Not a grand piano, but a “great plain”, surrounded by the peaks of the Monti Sibillini, in the national park of the same name. At the northern end of the plain is the little town of Castelluccio (literally “little castle”), perched in a very picturesque way on a small conical hill, dwarfed by the massive slopes around it. We love this place.

I had been meaning to write a post on this area for a while, because although it has no momentous historical associations that I know of, it is very beautiful and I have taken many photographs of it over the years. But it took me a while to bring myself to do so, because the act of writing it was going to be tinged with sadness. In 2016 the town was so badly damaged by an earthquake that 60% of the buildings were rendered uninhabitable, the population was evacuated and access prohibited for several months.

However some cafes and restaurants have now reopened in temporary accommodation, and although this is not really a tourism blog, I urge you to visit. Visit in late spring or early summer to see the beautiful wildflowers that carpet the floor of the plain, and spend some money there, because they need it.

When you are there, be sure to try the local speciality, a stew of lentils from Castelluccio and pork sausages from nearby Norcia (also, alas, damaged in the earthquake). It is the lentils that made me finally decide to get around to doing a post on Castelluccio, because as I write it is the 30^th of December. A traditional new year’s eve good-luck dish in Italy is lentils, and the lentils of Castelluccio are the most highly prized in Italy. So it seemed appropriate, somehow.

They must in any case have been hardy folk who lived here. Winters are hard at this altitude, and trees only grow on a few sheltered slopes. In winter the roads can be closed by snow.

In late spring, when poppies have already appeared in the lower Umbrian valleys, up here there is still snow on the peaks, and crocuses are only just appearing. In high summer though, when the lower altitudes are sweltering, you can drive up here and see flowers that disappeared weeks ago down below.

Wildflowers on the Piano Grande in summer. Canon EOS-3 35mm camera, Canon 28-70mm lens, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

Castelluccio flowers — Cornflowers and poppies growing among the lentils in July 2024. Fujifilm GFX-50R camera, 100-200mm lens (click to enlarge).

There are only three roads into the piano grande. If you come from the north, you pass a series of fortified villages that pour down steep valley sides, often with a fortress at the topmost point, forming a typical teardrop shape. The road winds upwards and then you finally crest a ridge and see the plain before you, with Castelluccio in the middle distance.

If you approach from the east, you will leave the town of Ascoli Piceno on the coastal plain, but not before trying their famous stuffed and fried olives (gosh, this really is a tourism post). When we took this route it was in summer and the slopes were covered with poppies and wild cornflowers.

(By the way – if you look closely you will see that the copse of trees in the distance on the left is planted in the shape of a map of Italy. I didn’t notice it myself for a while, either.)

But the best way to approach is from the south. That will take you through the Valnerina (the valley of the little Nera River) and the town of Norcia. I will stick my neck out and say that this is one of the prettiest places in Italy – a big call, I know. I have some good photographs of the Valnerina that I will save for a separate post. Also for Norcia.

Edit: you can now find the post on the Valnerina here.

After leaving Norcia, you will drive up winding roads on the side of steep hills and enter the Piano Grande through a pass at its southern end. For us, since it is where we first saw it, this is the classic view.

Update: we visited the Piano Grande again in July 2024 to show the flowers to friends. By now the destroyed buildings have been mostly removed and the process of rebuilding has started. Most of the shops are still in temporary accommodation though. Later we had lunch in Norcia nearby, where the recovery process seems further advanced, although the shops in the central square are still closed, with most business operating from premises outside the walls. It is still worth a visit though, if only to show these hardy people from the high country of Umbria that they are not forgotten, and to buy some of their excellent prosciutto and salami.

November 17, 2019November 19, 2023

The Serious Business of Dressing Up – Part II

Lest anyone need more evidence that dressing up to take part in historical festivals in Italy is taken very seriously, I provide the following exhibits.

Foligno, Giostro della Quintana 2019

The first four photographs were taken at the Giostro della Quintana (“Joust of the Quintain”) which has been held twice a year in the Umbrian town of Foligno since its revival in 1946. The joust (where mounted lancers try and hit a target on a rotating wooden dummy) is preceded by a parade in costume. I took these photographs in the park in which the participants were forming up.

Foligno is located, somewhat unusually for this region, on the valley floor rather than perched on a hilltop or halfway up the side of a mountain. That means it has spread out a bit and the outskirts are quite industrial (which also means it was bombed during the Second World War). So our visits to Foligno had been restricted to shopping trips to the outskirts, until friends recommended we take a look at the centre.

That turned out to be good advice. The centre of Foligno has lovely buildings, nice restaurants, and cheap parking. And being flat, you can wander around it with less effort than in most Umbrian towns. It also has a museum (the Palazzo Trinci) with extraordinary frescoes and a staircase that could have been designed by M.C. Escher. I plan a separate post on all that one day. Edit: I have now posted two articles on the Palazzo Trinci. You can find the first here and the second here.

My readers, being all very educated, will have noticed that the Renaissance costumes in these photographs are consistent in both period and authenticity, unlike in some festivals where the concept of – say – “medieval” can be a bit elastic, as is how the participants’ trousers are held up . This consistency is not the result of careful selection of the photographs; they are all consistently based on Renaissance originals, and consistently this good.

You can find more on the actual joust here.

Todi, La Disfida di San Fortunato 2019

The remainder of these photographs were taken at the annual festival of the patron saint of the town of Todi, also in Umbria. I wrote about the 2018 festival here. The grand parade in Todi is preceded by various events, including an archery competition between the town districts, flag-tossing, and a competition between drumming groups from various towns in the region.

Todi San Fortunato — La Disfida di San Fortunato, Todi 2019. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Sonnar 150mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

Some of the drumming groups were very good indeed, but the prize went to the local team (admittedly a popular decision).

Although some Renaissance (and later) themes appear in the parade, here the emphasis is on the medieval, and specifically the High Middle Ages, because let’s face it, the costumes were more fun then than earlier.

San Fortunato Todi — La Disfida di San Fortunato, Todi 2019. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Sonnar 150mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

However just because the costumes are a bit flamboyant, that does not mean that the participants are not extremely serious about it.

Indeed, sometimes it seems that there is an inverse relationship between the exuberance of the costume and the demeanour of its wearer.

There is one group of participants who have trouble maintaining the regulation straight face, and that is the children, because they are all having such tremendous fun.

August 20, 2019November 19, 2023

The Serious Business of Dressing Up

Watching one of the countless Italian events where people get dressed up in historical costume is great fun for tourists. But here’s the thing – most of the time they aren’t really doing it for you, they’re doing it for themselves.

Yes of course, events like the Palio in Siena are big tourist drawcards, but by all accounts the municipal rivalries on display are no less intense for that. And for every big event there are dozens if not scores of smaller local ones. Few are genuine survivals from antiquity, but many have been bolted on to things that are, such as the commemoration of a town’s patron saint, or a Good Friday recreation of the Passion.

Moreover, there seems to be a difference between the way these things are approached in Italy and in English-speaking countries. While living in England several years ago we saw an historical re-enactment which was clearly exemplary in its attention to historical detail – in costumes, weapons and military tactics. In Italy things can sometimes be a bit more approximate – the costumes worn by participants in a “medieval” festival might range from the 13^th to the 17^th Centuries.

But, with great respect to the English lot, they do seem to come from a more narrowly-defined (dare I say nerdy?) group than do their equivalents in Italy. In Italy you might find your neighbour – a carpenter during the week – walking solemnly along dressed in a monk’s cowl. Or the chap who wins the archery contest is the accountant who helps you work out your annual property tax. Or the gonfaloniere (banner carrier) in the parade is your plumber. Or the beautiful damsel in the flowing dress is the girl who serves your morning coffee at your favourite bar in the piazza. In other words, in Italy you get the sense that a broader section of the local community is involved. And thoroughly enjoying itself, to boot.

Here are four vignettes of this – one from Como in Lombardy, one from Rome, and two from Todi in Umbria.

Como, 2017

We had been staying in Cadenabbia, halfway up the lake, and had caught the hydrofoil down to Como for the day. The main object of the visit was the 11^th-Century Lombard-Romanesque Basilica of Sant’ Abbondio, which involved a pleasant walk through the length of the historic centre of Como.

On the way back to the ferry terminal we heard the characteristic sound of a group of drummers some way off, and before long we came across a group of drummers and sbandieratori – those people who do the complicated displays with flags, including tossing them into the air and catching them.

Como Sbandieratori — *Sbandieratori* in Como. Hasselblad 501 C/M with Zeiss Distagon 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

They were accompanied by a leather-lunged individual who, in breaks between drumming and flag-tossing, announced the forthcoming highlights of the medieval fair that was on that weekend. He in turn was accompanied by a small serious-looking child in a white smock and skullcap, and large spectacles. The effect (hopefully intended) was of some sort of miniature Doctor of Physick.

The flag-tossers were not the most expert, and a couple of times had to run into the crowd to catch the flags before they landed on spectators, but no-one seemed to mind very much.

Buon Compleanno, Roma, 2015

We were making our way into the city from our digs in Trastevere, intending to visit the Aventine Hill (one of the Seven Hills of Rome^tm). On the way, near the church of Santa Maria in Cosmadin, I pointed to a crowd in the distance and observed that there seemed to be an awful lot of tourists down there. Lou’s eyesight was better than mine in those days and she thought that it looked more like some kind of political demonstration.

At that point we realised that it was at least seventy years since political demonstrations in Rome involved people marching in ranks wearing polished helmets, carrying weapons, and axe-heads in bundles of sticks. In fact, what we had stumbled on was the annual celebration of Rome’s traditional birthday. By tradition, Rome was founded on the 21st of April, 753 BC. That made the following Tuesday the 2768th birthday of the city. So instead of fascists (OK, some of them were being fascists but in the ancient sense) what we were seeing was a large number of historical re-enactment societies from all over Italy – and there are a LOT of them – descending on Rome to take part in a parade.

Centurion — A centurion. Google Nexus phone camera (click to enlarge).

Several of the societies clearly took it very seriously indeed. They had adopted the legion that was raised in their own area and had put enormous effort into authentic recreation of the armour and weapons of the era. Others were a bit – well – cardboard, but everyone was having a jolly good time.

There were lots of legionaries, chanting the Latin version of the Romans, united, will never be defeated, a fair few gladiators, a handful of foederati (barbarian allies), and lots of vestal virgins.

A group of senators dressed in their scarlet-trimmed white togas came past. I gave them an “ave” which they solemnly returned.

Festa di San Fortunato, Todi, Umbria, 2018

Saint Fortunatus is the patron saint of Todi. He seems to have been an historical figure, as he was a bishop of the town in the 6th Century who is said to have persuaded the invading Goths not to attack. On the other hand it is possible that they were just put off by the prospect of the long steep climb up from the Tiber Valley below, which is challenging enough for a Fiat Panda.

Falconry — A falconry demonstration. Hasselblad 501 C/M with Zeiss Sonnar 150mm CF lens , CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

His saint’s day continues to be marked by religious observance in Todi, and there is no reason not to believe that the tradition has continued without interruption since antiquity. In recent times, the tradition has been augmented by a weekend of medieval high jinks including falconry demonstrations and an archery competition between the rioni or town districts, culminating in a grand parade.

Many of the groups in the parade were from other towns in the region, and as I said before, the definition of “medieval” was elastic enough to include costumes from eras up to the 17^th Century.

Some groups, in costumes that could have been painted by Rembrandt, looked so fine that I was prepared to forgive them the anachronism.

Several of the young women of Todi had obviously decided to go with a general medieval vibe over strict authenticity and rather than wearing long dresses, had opted for long tights and short tunics. After careful consideration, I was prepared to forgive them that as well.

Archery Competition and Sbandieratori, Todi, Umbria, 2019

Medieval archery has become quite a thing in Todi and in April there is a competition which attracts teams from all over Italy. Contestants move between various locations in the town, where they take part in different events – shooting at conventional targets, shooting at targets that move, shooting from moving saddles that mimic the movement of horses, and so on. You can see a video of the 2018 tournament here.

Todi Archery Festival — That little girl has just decided what she wants to be when she grows up. Hasselblad 501 C/M with Zeiss Sonnar 150mm CF lens , CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

There is a medieval-themed market, some of which is just stalls selling the usual local produce with the stallholders in period dress, but some of which are selling “medieval” wares of varying degrees of authenticity.

Todi medieval market — Todi, Festa di San Fortunato. Hasselblad 501 C/M with Zeiss Sonnar 150mm CF lens , CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

A group of drummers and sbandieratori is associated with the Todi archery group and they are very good.

Todi sbandieratori — Todi Sbandieratori. Hasselblad 501 C/M with Zeiss Sonnar 150mm CF lens , CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

The crowd favourites were three small girls who took part with special lightweight flags, and who took it all very seriously indeed. Each did a session with an adult (maybe her dad) in which they followed his movements with great concentration.

June 7, 2019November 19, 2023

Carsulae: On the Legions’ Road to Rimini

I’d been meaning to visit the ruins of the ancient town of Carsulae for almost a year. It is mentioned in all the historical guides to Umbria, and every time we drive up or down the E45 motorway we see the signs to it. After an unusually cold and wet May, last Friday finally promised some fine weather, and we determined to go there.

We (that is, Lou and I and you, gentle reader) had our last good look at the Via Flaminia where it passes through the gorge of the River Nera below the town of Narni, still called the Via Flaminia, but also the Strada Statale 3 (SS3), carrying heavy goods traffic. As I have said in other posts, this was the major Roman military road in central Italy. It was built in 220 BC during the consulship of Gaius Flaminius, from whom it took its name. It went north from Rome through Umbria and crossed the Apennines near Iguvium (modern Gubbio), finishing at Ariminum (Rimini). From there the roads led north, towards the frontiers of the empire.

‘When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake
By the Legions’ Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini—
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!)
And I’ve tramped Britain, and I’ve tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And I’ve lost Britain, and I’ve lost Gaul,
And I’ve lost Rome, and worst of all,
I’ve lost Lalage!’

That is an excerpt from a marching song of the Roman legions – at least as imagined by Rudyard Kipling in Puck of Pook’s Hill. It is overheard by the two children in the story as it is sung by Parnesius, the centurion of the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth Legion – the Ulpia Victrix.

I’ve just done a bit of googling on these chapters of Puck of Pook’s Hill, and needless to say various po-faced modern scholars have written papers on the bits that Kipling got wrong – apparently he overstated the height of Hadrian’s Wall by several feet. But there is something about the books you read as a child that penetrates deeply, and when it dawned on me that the Via Flaminia was in fact the “Legions’ Road to Rimini” of my childhood, the memories came straight back. I realised that when I imagine a legion swinging along on the march – the tramp of sandalled feet, the sound of metal armour on leather, the smell of sweat and dust – it is not some academically impeccable history that created those impressions for me, but Kipling. And I’ve always remembered that a legion marched a set distance each day. As Parnesius explains to the children:

“A Legion’s pace is altogether different. It is a long, slow stride, that never varies from sunrise to sunset. “Rome’s Race—Rome’s Pace,” as the proverb says. Twenty-four miles in eight hours, neither more nor less. Head and spear up, shield on your back, cuirass-collar open one handsbreadth—and that’s how you take the Eagles through Britain.”

And through Italy too, of course.

The original route of the Via Flaminia led due north from Narni. Later, a more easterly alternative route was added which took in Interamna (Terni) and Spoletum (Spoleto), rejoining the original route a bit further north, but for now we will follow the original route. After crossing the plain of the lower Nera, the road starts to rise and runs over pleasant rolling country on the western side of the steep Martani Hills. There, about half a day’s march from Narni by Kipling’s reckoning, the legionaries would have come up a long hill and found themselves in the town of Carsulae. If it was on a warm day I hope that they got an early break and that there was some cool white wine available, made then as today from the local Grechetto grape variety – described by Pliny the Elder as “typical of the area”, and still available in the local supermarkets!

For much of this part of the Via Flaminia, it is followed closely or even covered over by modern roads such as the SS3 and the E45 motorway. It makes sense that they should all follow the same route in hilly country – after all, the topology imposes the same sort of constraints on modern engineers as it did on ancient ones.

However just before you get to Carsulae the old and new roads separate. The old road runs along by itself for a couple of kilometres through oak woods, and it is here that you can find the ruins of the old town.

Parking beside the modern road we walked to the archaeological site along a path through fields of young green barley, with poppies and wild orchids lining the path, and wild roses in the hedgerows.

It took some effort for me to try and mentally superimpose an image of bustling Roman Carsulae on what is now a sleepy rural scene. An oak wood has grown up within the northern boundary of the town, and a small flock of sheep and goats was grazing under the trees.

For me the best way to try and visualise it was to walk along the Via Flaminia as it goes through the middle of the town from south to north. You start by coming up a hill and then encounter the first ruins. If you turn around and look back down the hill, you are looking at the road from Rome.

Via Flaminia at Carsulae — Carsulae: looking back down the Via Flaminia in the direction of Narni and Rome. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Turn around again, and up to the left there are the remains of baths, built over natural springs. Away to the right is some slightly more modern architecture – the church of Saints Cosmas and Damiano, built in early Christian times on the foundations of an existing building, then extended in the 11^th Century using material scavenged from elsewhere on the site. Passing that, we get to the site of the forum, on raised ground to the left. Parts of it, including the entry arch, have been re-erected, which purists might object to but I don’t mind.

Carsulae Forum — Carsulae: the Via Flaminia passes the entrance to the forum. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 40mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Carsulae forum arch — Carsulae: looking east towards the amphitheatre from the forum. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Continuing uphill along the road you can see the remains of a theatre and amphitheatre off to the right, and then the road runs into the oak wood. Looking down you can see that the paving stones in the road are grooved by chariot and cart wheels, as they are at Pompeii.

Carsulae Via Flaminia — Carsulae: the Via Flaminia with wheel ruts. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

The road starts to run downhill again and you reach the remains of a substantial town gate, beyond which the road bears left into more oak woods. This is where the northbound legions would have passed on their way to Rimini and beyond. I have no idea whether the land was wooded or cleared in ancient times, but in my imagination I saw the legionaries marching away through the gate into the cool shade of the wood, to be lost from view.

Carsulae town gate — Carsulae: northern town gate. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Carsulae was abandoned by the 5th Century. The Wikipedia article says that the reason is unknown, but that it could have been destroyed by an earthquake, or during the wars and invasions at the end of the Roman era, or that it may have become impoverished after road traffic dwindled. Signs at the site say that the town was abandoned because its position in relatively open country meant that it could not be defended in troubled times.

Note, added January 2022: I am currently reading Tim Parks’ latest book The Hero’s Way in which he and a companion walk the route taken by Garibaldi and his men after escaping from Rome in 1849. It turns out that they came through Carsulae, so while my mental image of the legionaries marching away into the wood might have been a bit fanciful, the oak trees were probably there in 1849. So Garibaldi would have ridden under that arch, and led his force off into the shadows.

May 25, 2019November 19, 2023

A Visit to Narnia

We went to Narnia the other day – not in the conventional way through the back of a wardrobe, but in a Fiat Panda. Ancient Narnia, or modern Narni, is a place that illustrates the way the geography of Italy has shaped military and political strategy, and in turn the geopolitics of Italy at various critical times. It is also a pretty medieval town.

In peninsular Italy – that part south of the Po Valley – the mountains all run roughly north-south. This means it is hard to move overland in an east-west direction, and easier to move north-south, but your opportunities to do so are constrained to certain valleys and passes. Which in turn means that certain places are natural choke-points. One such – in 1944 as well as in the Middle Ages – is Cassino, between Naples and Rome. Narni is another.

Narni sits on high ground on the edge of a deep ravine through which the River Nera – a tributary of the Tiber – flows south out of Umbria into Lazio. It is literally on the edge of the ravine; houses and palaces on the western side of the old town, including the Eroli Museum, look straight down into it. To the north and east of the town is the valley of the lower Nera, which, although surrounded by mountains, contains a good deal of industrial development. On the plain around Narni is the modern industrial town of Narni Scalo, which makes getting a decent photograph of or from the old town something of an exercise in artful composition.

Narni from the Rocca Albornoz. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

To the northeast, at the other end of the valley, is the town of Terni, the provincial capital (Umbria is divided into two provinces: Perugia and Terni). Thanks to nearby sources of hydro-electricity, Terni was a centre of industrialisation and was known as “The Manchester of Italy”. Unfortunately, one of the industries was arms manufacturing, as a result of which Terni was heavily bombed during the Second World War, destroying much of its medieval centre.

Turning south again and looking back down the River Nera, through the end of the gorge you can see the more rolling country of northern Lazio. There is a road running along the side of the gorge; now carrying heavy road traffic, this is the Strada Statale 3 (SS3), which as I noted here is still known as the Via Flaminia, as when it was first built by the Romans in 220 BC. If you were a legionary marching from Rome to the northern Adriatic coast (and beyond to the eastern frontiers of the empire), this is the way you would come. And if you were a traveller in the other direction – in an army of barbarians after the fall of the empire, or a medieval pilgrim, this is one of the few roads by which you would approach Rome. If you were coming from France or Britain you would come by sea or over the western Alps on the Via Francigena.

Looking down the Nera Gorge from Narni — Looking south down the Nera Gorge towards Lazio and Rome. The road that runs along the side of the gorge is the Via Flaminia (modern SS3). Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Dominating Narni from an even higher point is a fortress or Rocca, of a type known as a Rocca Albornoz, of which there are several examples in central Italy, and of which there were once several more. This requires a bit of explanation.

Between 1309 and 1376 a series of seven popes ruled not from Rome but from Avignon. All were French. This happened as a result of some naked power politics from the French Crown, bringing the papacy under effective French control.

When a range of factors, including the influential advocacy of St Catherine of Siena, caused Pope Gregory XI to decide to end the “Babylonian Captivity of the Papacy” and return to Rome, Gregory faced several challenges. One was the re-establishment of political control over the Papal States – formerly independent states in central Italy which had been brought under secular papal rule, and which, during the exile in Avignon, had started to show renewed signs of independence.

Another challenge was how to rebuild the military capacity of the Papal States to defend themselves against invasions from the “Holy Roman Empire¹” in Germany.

Both these problems Gregory assigned to the eminently capable Spanish fighting prelate Cardinal Albornoz, a representative of the church militant if ever there was one. Albornoz built a series of fortresses in towns throughout central Italy, with the immediate purpose of subduing the local population, and the longer-term aim of defending the Papal territories against foreign incursions from the north. In time many of these became prisons and symbols of the suppression of intellectual and political freedoms under Papal rule. Apart from in Narni, you can see surviving examples of Albornoz Roccas in Assisi and Spoleto among other places. They are all similar in design, with few aesthetic embellishments as they were intended for rapid construction (the Narni Rocca went up in only five years) and were to be used by garrisons, not local aristocrats. The fact that they have square towers, not round ones, shows that they pre-date the widespread use of cannons in siege warfare (cannon balls are more likely to bounce off round towers).

Narni’s most famous son, born shortly before the papal return from Avignon, was the condottiere (mercenary military leader) Erasmo di Narni, better known to history as Gattamelata or the “honeyed cat”. After serving various rulers, Gattamelata worked for the Venetians and ended up as podestà (governor) of Padua. If you have been to Padua you may have seen the celebrated statue of him by Donatello outside the basilica of St Anthony. Incidentally, this was the first free-standing equestrian statue cast in bronze since ancient times; Donatello had to rediscover the technique.

Donatello's Statue of Gattamelata — Donatello’s statue of Gattamelata in Padua. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Sonnar 150mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

If you visit the Rocca of Narni, and are fortunate enough to have as a guide the same knowledgeable young lady that we did, she will point out where the original large stone blocks of the castle walls have been replaced with smaller, more haphazard stones. This marks rebuilding after the destruction of the Rocca, and much of the town, by the landsknechts forces of the Habsburg Emperor Charles V, part of a much greater cultural and human catastrophe – the Sack of Rome in 1527. Guarding the approach to Rome was not a good thing if the invading forces turned out to be stronger than you.

Narni Rocca Albornoz — The Rocca Albornoz at Narni. The lower, lighter stones, are original. The higher, darker stones show the rebuilding after 1527. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

We can recommend a couple of places to visit in Narni. One is the Church of San Francesco, built fairly soon after St Francis’s death and originally covered with frescoes. While we were there a pleasant chap turned up, who turned out to be a custodian. He offered to open up the richly-decorated Eroli chapel for us which was a bonus as it is normally only open on weekends. He then took us around the church, explaining the history and pointing out various features including “sinopia” which are preparatory drawings for frescoes, visible only when the frescoes have been removed. He also explained that the poor condition of the frescoes is due in part to the fact that in the 17^th or 18^th century, they were all plastered over and the church redecorated in the baroque style. This vandalism only started to be undone in the 1950s, but there is still a long way to go. If you visit there, please be sure to make a donation to the fund for restoration of the frescoes.

St Francis Exorcises Arezzo — St Francis drives out the demons from Arezzo, Church of San Francesco, Narni. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Eroli Chapel, Narni — Ceiling of the Eroli Chapel, Church of San Francesco, Narni. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Next door to the Church of San Francesco is the other place we would recommend – the museum and gallery in the Palazzo Eroli. The collection is small and eclectic – from a pair of preserved mammoth tusks, through various bits of Roman stonework, some medieval and Renaissance art, some third-rate baroque religious art, some strange re-creations of relics from the Napoleonic conquest of Italy, through to some Second World War memorabilia. There are two highlights. One is a room where there is an Annunciation of Pinturicchio and a Crowning of the Virgin by Ghirlandaio, both from the 15^th Century. The other is the view from the windows on the west side of the building, which looks straight down into the gorge of the River Nera.

Coronation of the Virgin by Girlandaio — Coronation of The Virgin by Ghirlandaio, 1486. Palazzo Eroli Museum, Narni. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

After leaving the museum we walked around the medieval town; there is an old fountain, some impressive municipal buildings and an appealing little Romanesque church called Santa Maria Impensole, built in 1175 on an older site on which once stood, according to local tradition, a temple of Bacchus. It retains some of the form and components of the older building, including a classical-style portico.

Narni Palazzo del Podestà — Palazzo del Podestà, Narni. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Narni, Church of S Maria Impensole — Portico of S Maria Impensole, Narni, showing antique Roman inclusions. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

From there we walked along the northern town wall, enjoying the sunshine after a period of indifferent weather in this part of Italy, and the view of the mountains to the north and east. There we found a restaurant called “La Gallina Liberata” (the liberated hen) where we had a lunch of traditional Umbrian cooking which was excellent value.

Narni Looking North — Looking north along the old town wall, Narni. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon 60mm CF lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

Note (¹) In the words of Voltaire, “neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire”.

May 10, 2019March 3, 2024

Of Emperors and Onions

Last Tuesday we went to a town near us called Bevagna. There had been some unusually cold weather for May, so as we bounced along atrocious Umbrian back roads in bright sunshine, through the vineyards, olive groves and spring wildflowers of the Martani Hills, we could see fresh snow on the Apennine peaks across the valley.

Apennines from Colli Martani — The Apennines from the Colli Martani. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Sonnar CF 150 lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

Bevagna sits on the north-eastern side of the Colli Martani where the hills come down to what is now a fertile plain, but which, before being drained in the Middle Ages, was marshland. Across the valley are the towns of Spello and Assisi. Like many towns here Bevagna has exceedingly ancient pre-Roman beginnings, but in Roman times it was called Mevania and lay on the western branch of a principal military road, the Via Flaminia, the route of which still runs through the town.

After the end of the Roman period, being on the Via Flaminia ceased to mean that you were on the route by which the legions marched north, but rather that you were now on the route by which invading armies marched south (more on that one day). So Bevagna would have seen Goths and Lombards in the Dark Ages. In the early Middle Ages it was part of the Lombard Duchy of Spoleto, and in the later Middle Ages it was on the route of several campaigns by the Hohenstaufen Emperors in the struggles between Papacy and Empire (whose factions were the Guelphs and Ghibellines, respectively).

During some of these later incursions, the town was largely destroyed a couple of times, so although there are a few Roman remains, including some temple pillars which survived through being incorporated into a medieval building, these days the general air of Bevagna is of the (middle) Middle Ages. It sits within a medieval town wall, the River Clitunno (the Clitumnus of the ancients) flows past, and you enter through one of the town gates. It’s very pretty, and deservedly a member of I Borghi Più Belli d’Italia.

Bevagna San Silvestro Rear — Bevagna – the rear of the Church of San Silvestro. Hasselblad 501C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge)

If you enter the town from the south you cross a bridge over the Clitunno and there below is a weir which creates a reservoir for what Lou identified as a public laundry, surrounded on two sides by a stone wall with a flat top on which to pound the clothes.

Bevagana Public Laundry — Bevagna – The Public Laundry on the River Clitunno. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

The main piazza is particularly attractive, surrounded by several medieval buildings including two 12th Century Romanesque churches – both built by a local master craftsman by the name of Binello – and a Gothic town hall from the 13^th Century. All were damaged in the 1997 earthquake which so badly damaged the Basilica of Saint Francis at Assisi, but have now been restored. On the front of the church of San Silvestro is a stone bearing an inscription saying (I think; medieval Latin is not my strong point) that the church was commissioned in AD 1195 by the Emperor Henry, and built by Binello.

Bevagna Inscription on Church of San Silvestro — Inscription on the front of the Church of San Silvestro, Bevagna. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge)

The Henry in question would have been the Emperor Henry VI Hohenstaufen, son of Frederick Barbarossa and father of Frederick II “Stupor Mundi, the wonder of the world”, who was the child of Henry’s marriage to Constance de Hauteville of Sicily. I mentioned Constance in the post on the Normans in Sicily.

San Silvestro isn’t always open, but if it is you should definitely have a look inside. It is one of the most beautiful little Romanesque churches I have seen (NB: in architecture, “Romanesque” has nothing to do with the Romans, and “Gothic” has nothing to do with the Goths.)

Opposite San Silvestro is the church of San Michele Arcangelo which has around the door some wonderful carvings of the eponymous archangel taking on the devil in single combat. The stone carvings are original; the wood carvings are relatively modern, being a mere 500 years old.

Bevagna San Michele Arcangelo — Church of San Michele Arcangelo at Bevagna. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Planar C 80mm lens, Fuji Velvia 50 film (click to enlarge).

Not far from Assisi, Bevagna is the location where St Francis is supposed to have preached his famous sermon to the birds. There is a church dedicated to the saint elsewhere in the town – at some point (presumably either in the 17^th or the 18^th century) the interior was comprehensively renovated (or comprehensively ruined, depending on your taste) in the baroque style.

Apart from its being historic and beautiful, good reasons to visit Bevagna are its gastronomy and oenology. Although the wines of this part of Umbria are not particularly famous, apart from the Sagrantino of Montefalco, they are pleasant and good value. The reds are mostly based on the Sangiovese grape, while the whites, which are very good, are made from a grape called Grechetto which I have not seen a lot elsewhere in Italy. I have read that Grechetto was the grape used to make wine round here in antiquity, but I am not sure of the authenticity of the claim.

There are some good restaurants here. I have tried a couple, but the one we will come back to is “Antiche Sere” in Piazza Garibaldi. It is a small trattoria with a limited menu, but the food is very good and made from seasonal ingredients, which is as you would expect, since it is affiliated with the Slow Food Movement . Last time we visited, in October last year, I had an omelette with black truffle and Lou had pasta with pumpkin. This time I had fresh mozzarella with Cantabrian anchovies and Lou had strangozzi pasta with freshly-gathered wild asparagus, which is much thinner than the cultivated stuff. You see people gathering it at this time of year beside the roads.

Just down the road from Bevagna is a town called Cannara which is famous for its strongly flavoured onions. The picture below is of a poster for a shop in Cannara which sells them, and which was on display in the Antiche Sere. In translation, it reads “there are more tears in a Cannara onion than in a hundred love stories”.

Note: I updated this post in June 2022 to include the interior shot of the church of San Silvestro.

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Catherine of Siena

Cardinal Gil Albornoz

Sir John Hawkwood

Odds and ends

Further Reading

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The Duomo

The Interior and the Cappella Nuova

The Frescoes

The Rule of the Antichrist

The Apocalypse

The Resurrection of the Flesh

The Damned in Hell

The Elect in Paradise

The Zoccoli

A note on sources

A note on the Photography

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Sant’Erasmo

Monte Torre Maggiore

Sources

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Pliny the Younger

Cospaia

Sources

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Sant’Angelo, Perugia

San Salvatore, Spoleto

The Little Temple of Clitumnus

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The Oratory of St Bernardino of Siena

The Abbey Church of San Pietro

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A note on the photography

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The Porta Marzia

The Porta Etrusca

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The “Gothic Staircase”

The Private Corridor

The Chapel

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A brief History of Foligno

The Trinci Family

The Palazzo Trinci

A Miraculous Survival

The Hall of the Liberal Arts

Further Reading

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The Lombards

Conflict and Truce

Linguistic Evidence

The Byzantine Corridor Today

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Rubbing Salt into the Wound

A brief aside on unsalted bread

The Conquest of Perugia

Later Years

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What was the Via Amerina?

The Via Amerina in Central Umbria

The Roman Bridge at Pesciano

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