Garden Tour II - Borghese Gardens

 On yet another frigid January day, I am loving looking back at my visit to Rome's Borghese Gardens. The temperature in Rome was in the high 20's, and I was wilting from the walk from my stay down Via Corso to Piazza del Popolo. I  have fond memories of discovering this spot with travel companions Mary and Sandra, new friends I met on our 2023 hill towns group tour. Making good friends certainly put paid to my notion that I might feel left out as a solo traveller.

But back to October 2024. The lovely host at my little inn had insisted I get to the Pincio lookout. I love a high vantage point over a city. And the promise of an historic garden atop the lookout. Garden visits have always been a priority in a large city, a much-needed antidote for too much ... muchness.

So, several water fountain stops later, I made it to the piazza, and found the long hot stairs to the oasis of green at the top of the Pincian hill. My destination: the upper terrace in the photo below, with the little tourist heads poking up above the balustrade.

But before we leave this spot, I want to record something I just learned - the obelisk, one of the 13 in Rome, is Egyptian. It was erected by Emperor Hadrian as part of a memorial to his beloved Antonius. There's a story I learned at Hadrian's Villa - another post for another day. What an astonishing little piece of history - and 1st century BC logistics - this moving of obelisks.

And maybe a note about the Fountain of Dea Roma, the kind of  grouping that leaves me cold. The goddess Roma, allegorical Tiber and Aniene rivers, the she-wolf with Romulus and Remus were created in 1823. I looked that up, just for you.

But the gardens. All 80 hectares; that's 197 acres, twice the size of two North Marysburgh farms. This 'green lung' of Rome was created in 1606 as the pleasure gardens of  the owner, Cardinal Scipione Borghese, nephew of Pope Paul V. I admit to a certain impatience at these historic princes of the church, usually members of the family of the current pope, amassing wealth, taking power for granted, wanting more of each. 

The Cardinal's humble dwelling, the Borghese Palace, now houses the fabulous Borghese gallery. Scipione was an ambitious collector and patron of Bernini and Caravaggio so you can imagine the treasure trove within. Not only was I 'galleried out' at that point, but also I needed green time, so I kept that visit for another list. Here's a walking tour which I will enjoy virtually until then.

So, once I made it up the Porta Pincio stairs (the Spanish Steps being the alternative) I was in my happy place. Incidentally, Mary, Sandra and I made it to the top of the Spanish Steps,but we didn't venture further. Next time.

I am still putting together my mental map of central Rome, and am regularly surprised at how close favourite destinations are. Maps help, but navigation is challenging; the network of via, corso, largo, calle and stairs- and those inviting unnamed passages - is mind-boggling.

I don't think I would have liked the original formal gardens as much as I love the naturalistic English garden style to which they were converted in the nineteenth century.  The estate was purchased by the state and opened as a public park in 1903, after some turns of fortune over the centuries, outlined here. As an example: areas of the original formal gardens were reduced to growing potatoes and cabbages for the poor during WWII.

But back to my walk. Here is the Piazza del Populo viewed from the Terrazza del Pincio, where I became one of the little heads poking over the balustrade. 

My goal was to find less domesticated places - no statues and fountains. The list of trees in this urban 'wilderness' is astonishing. Among my favourites, more Italian to me than even the iconic Tuscan cypresses, are the umbrella pines of Rome (cue Respighi). Cedars, oaks of various kinds  and plane trees....some wonderful ancient specimens here.

I'm just going to enjoy my photos and my memories of this hot afternoon in Rome. There were avenues of trees lined with quiet benches, and places where I could be completely alone. 

There were also the distractions of rental segways and tandem bicyles with the attendant screaming, taxis and golfcarts, huge gelato stand lineups. It's a busy park. The list: 2 major museums, 14 buildings, 20 monuments, 35 fountains and over a thousand pieces of sculpture, many ancient. No I didn't count, this inventory is thanks to this digital archive.

This water clock, a hydrochronometer, was set up here in its fairy-tale setting, after its success at the Paris Universal Exhibition in 1867. Its inventor was the Dominican mechanical engineer friar Giovanni Battista Embriaco.  Lots more here, a really lovely read. His day job was as spiritual director of the Dominican convent next door to Sopra Minerva, which is where we came in, with post number two on this blog.

There were novelties which I didn't seek out,  the replica of Shakespears's Globe theatre being one. 

I did have a delightul peaceful al fresco lunch and beverage at Casina del Lago. Can't find the original purpose of the structure. 

Didn't get to call these two by name.

Nor did I rent a rowboat and paddle past the 1780/90 Temple of Aesculapius. I kept company with a  lovely white heron (egret?) immune, like me, to the flirting and giggling going on around us, reflected in the little lake.

In the distance, the Temple of Diana 1789. And a pedicab.2024.

And the trees, the reason I walked all this way. And I can't wait to do it again.

I Gatti di Roma

 

I came upon Largo di Torre Argentina as I was finding my way home along Corso Vittorio Emanuel II after dark, from a late appointment at the Vatican. Despite my hurry-home nerves (landmarks don't look the same at night) the dramatically lit ruins stopped me in my tired tracks. 

Largo is a "sacred area" archeological site opened only in 2023. Turns out the ruins were not far from my room next to Piazza della Rotunda. Nevertheless, it took some doing to find them again the next day! 

Time didn't permit a visit, but I spent a long time on the piazza above, with its marvellous interpretive panels. This site protects and explains an astonishing complex of four ruined temples from the Republican era, and the Theatre and Curia of Pompey, where Julius Caesar was assassinated! Here's a fabulous site about the site.

And here I met - at a distance, which is the way they like it - the feral cats of Largo di Torre Argentina.

If you play 'Where's Waldo' you can see the occasional cat in these photos. They are part of the 150 or so in residence at any one time. 

The Torre Argentina Cat Sanctuary gained momentum during the 1950s when cat-loving theatre types began feeding the felines. Their goal is to spay and neuter but also to feed, provide medical services and arrange adoptions. 

Here is a link to theirwebsite which contains cat stories, adoption opportunities and media coverage. From here you can make donations or arrange a virtual adoption.  I have developed a soft spot for goofy Bossanova.

Reforming Zeal

 

My last formal history courses were in high school. I don't remember much. I do recall the day a smart classmate asked a show-offy question about terms on our French revolution study list: "Who was General Will?" Always admired her cheeky cleverness.

 I learn most of my history from the study of the art and architecture of each era. Last night I watched an episode of Kenneth Clark's Civilisation series.  It led me through the Reformation and its aftermath, the religious wars that raged through Europe for the next century.

To this point, I had been tutored in the architecture of the Counter-Reformation, the Catholic Church's push-back - the mightly Baroque. "See, we're the greatest church, after all!" (no offense intended by my over-simplication of the times.)

 One fact hit me like a blast from a bombard. In the so-called 'religious wars' (actually largely about money, land and power) that followed Luther's stand at the doors of Wittenburg church, the destruction of art - mostly religious at the time - was beyond comprehension. 

Whitby Abbey

Think of the dissolution of the monasteries - the English countryside is blessed with their picturesque ruins. They don't quite convey the hatred and ignorance and violence of the time. Here's a helpful essay if my history's a bit weak for you.

This is the line that hit me hardest in my reading. From this Cambridge university article found online, I read with horror: "It is believed that up to 97% of English religious art was destroyed during and after the Reformation." And here's an old article from The Guardian, sharing a sense of dismay at the failure to save the rare extant examples.

Reading about all this took me back to a bucolic bit of England visited with a member of my English family. Down a leafy lane lies the tiny medieval (Anglo-Saxon with Norman upgrades) church of St. Nicholas, at Oddington in Gloucestershire.

Among other breath-stopping details - the Jacobean pulpit, the Norman window openings, the fifteenth century font, the primitive stone bench used for sharpening arrows - the church wall displays a Doom Painting (think a medieval Last Judgement and you get the intent if not the style.)

In Oddington church prevails that "atmosphere of antiquity": intense cold, damp, stillness and something indefinable. Maybe the presence of centuries of the faithful in their certainties and confusion. 

My brother in law explained how rare and wonderful the fresco was - surviving damp and renovations and the depredations of the Restoration and later Puritan eras, uncomfortable with church 'art.' I believe he said it had been rescued from beneath a coating of whitewash.

If you find this fascinating, you will want to explore the church's story more fully in this profile in Great English Churches. Not as stuffy as you might think. The writer quotes Black Adder.

And lest you think there aren't many of these incrediblty rare Doom paintings in England, here's more info at this site. (Sixty in case you're wondering.)

Is anyone still with me? I've been on walking tours that sometimes disintegrate as bored or distracted participants fall away from the group. I'm remembering a particularly bad one in Siena...

Snow Day Escape

 

As the snow falls today and my mind and heart are preoccupied with my dear UK family, I am drawn back to this day in May at the incomparable National Trust property Snowshill Manor, in Gloucestershire. Of the impressively symmetrical sixteenth century country house I have little information, as this visit was all about the gardens.

 My host recounted that the home's interior was chockablock with the collections of the eccentric Charles Paget Wade  The National Trust corroborates. Wade's motto says it all: "Let nothing perish."

The property displays Arts and Crafts sensibilities, the garden growing outwards from the house,  which makes it especially delicious. 

Owner Wade used the talents of architect M.H. Baillie Scott in the  early 1920s to create the garden. Local builder William Hodge likely did the heavy lifting.

As my hosts soaked up the sun on an ancient stone bench, I scampered up and down steps marvelling at the beauty - there's something especially appealing about changes in elevation used well by gifted garden designers. 

And in the distance, the soft hills of the Cotswolds. It was tricky to give them proper attention while negotiating and loving the steps, terraces, walkways, pond, stone walls and the Well Court with its Venetian wellhead.

I loved hearing that Wade lived in the Priest's house, while developing the property and collections, to which the house was dedicated. Here's more from the NT if you're so inclined. Below is the Sancta Maria Byre, elevated from a cow shed. Note the religious statue above the door.

If I were inclined to take selfies, here I would inflict on you one taken in the Garden Court, me with a goofy grin a mile wide. Such a place of delights. 

 At the end of our delightful visit, we met at the bottom of the 2 acre garden, and a personable fellow took us by golf cart back to the entrance, bumping along a tree-canopied lane. I could imagine a child driving a small herd of sheep, in another century.

Lost in Time

 

I'm still lost, honestly.

I spent one long October afternoon, guided and solo, wandering the Roman forum, trying to find myself. 

During my week in Rome I made several trips along Via Fori Imperiale, with the outstanding viewpoints looking down on the Forum. I thought I was getting oriented, spotting some favourites.

Then with our clever guide, we time travelled a long hot afternoon, storm clouds and sun duelling for control.

By way of orienting myself from this new vantage point I kept track of my daily landmarks, sticking up above this ancient place, layers of time: the flamboyant white Victor Emmanuel II monument with its rooftop horses, and the yellow brick Capitoline Museums, to which I later time travelled via narrow brick stairs up from the Forum to Michelangelo's magnificent square.

I am a history nerd; I expect eventually to figure out the chronology of eras, if I try hard enough. Today for example I've been digging back into the succession of English kings and queens, prompted by a video series about the royal art collections I stumbled upon on BBC Select this week. I've lost my head over Charles I and his passion for collecting.

But back to the problem at hand. The forum So many layers. The buildings of this one forum alone span 1400 years, of kingdom, republic and empire.

The foundations of medieval buildings don't clear the picture at all. They pop up everywhere, built among and with the stones of the ruins. Perhaps one day we'll dig deeper?

Maybe I should just be satisfied by recognizing a few favourites.

 Like the Arch of Titus, photo awkwardly composed to obliterate a few hundred of us gawpers.

Like San Lorenzo in Miranda (below) a Baroque church of the early 1600s built inside the columns of the second century temple of deified Roman emperor and empress Antonius and Faustina.

There's a nice seventeenth century painting of the scene on this site. It reminds us that the area was then called 'campo vaccino', used as pasture for livestock. No respect. And the 17 metre high marble columns and attic did survive the plunder of so many nearby structures as a result of that church adopting the site.

It all became a bit clearer when we made our way up the long stairs to Palatine Hill, pausing a moment to enjoy the garden. From the edge of the hill, we looked down on all that astonishing history, and it became a bit clearer. Perspective.

So, I am still lost. But maybe I should just be satisfied that I got to be there, sitting on a wall in the heat, looking about me. So many layers. Makes my little worries about big events transpiring in January 2025 seem insignificant indeed. Perspective is indeed everything. 

This fine little Smart History video explains the confusion in 7.2 entertaining minutes.

Been there, done that

Duiring the past two years, I have been fortunate to visit a number of important galleries and museums. There I have made a personal connection with art-works that have been part of my life since undergrad art history, and likely before, thanks to a mother who encouraged our reading and learning, 

I have been short-of-breath and weak-kneed before well-known and well-loved works at the Uffizi, the National Gallery and Courtauld in London, the Vatican Museum and a good number of Florentine palazzi. So fortunate. Not bad for a little girl from 'the County', yes?

I have not been alone at these times, however. I have struggled with the selfie crowds. Now, far be it from me to impugn others' motives for visiting, but the oppressive throngs of people putting themselves or others into the frame with famed works of art was ... a challenge. 

I tried to laugh, to shut it all out, to find my own moment with a work. One especially funny experience was watching a group of  totally unselfconscious girls primping and posing for phone photos in the mirrors of the mind-boggling Florentine Baroque Mirror Gallery at the Medici Palace. "I'm ready for my close-up Mr. DeMille."

I remember another laughably frustrating episode at the National Gallery last spring. How hard could it be to get close to VanGogh's Sunflowers? Try impossible. Queues for a photo with the bouquet. Why? Maybe because we have all seen this image forever and everywhere. And a photo beside the sunflowers matters. "As seen on TV" has power.

Back at the Uffizi, I had to nudge myself to remember to find it all amusing, and find my own way to connect with Botticelli's Primavera. I found the simple act of standing at far right or left of works (not the ideal photo vantage point, which kept the crowds at bay) gave me a surprisingly intimate connection. "You'll let me stand this close?"  But then, I took the photo. The photo is proof that I was there. A physical memory. Is that why we do this?

I am pondering in public here, always risky. I'm looking for wiser heads than mine to explain it. Maybe I'll dip into John Berger. Not sure this 'Why we see art in museums' LINK helps, but it's there for you to decide.

Awe happens anyway. You know, when I found my solo corner beside the Botticelli, in a spot no-one else wanted, awe happened. And that's good enough for me.

Upon finally getting to the Pantheon

 
On a group tour of Rome in fall 2023, our guide wrangled us through the crowds of visitors, pointing out the Pantheon as we shuffled past. "What?! We're not going in??" Well, no, we didn't. The Pantheon has been on my bucket list since second year undergrad art history. And not to go?? 

I believe that moment was the catalyst for plans that formed over the subsequent winter months. I would go to Rome. Me, solo. I would book to see all the treasures I wanted, and enjoy them, on my own time, at my own speed. In my own company. And I did, and it was all that I'd hoped, and more.

As it turned out (well, it was planned), my small hotel was a two-minute walk from the Pantheon. I visited the piazza most days.  I used the Pantheon as my landmark as I found my weary way home from daily walkabouts. I ambled through the passeggiata crowds, enjoyed al fresco dinner in a cafe with the night-lit portico looming above. I joined a guided tour and went inside!

I won't try to describe it. Or capture its history. There are loads of experts out there.  I'll just try to capture what moved me.

altar of St. Paul

The Pantheon (a temple to all the gods) was built by Agrippa in 26 to 25 BC; Emperor Hadrian, who usually gets credited, was in charge of the 118-125AD reconstruction. The Pantheon is one of the very few ancient Roman buildings that has survived almost intact. 

And that, as is often the case, was because it was converted to a Christian church in 609AD. That didn't stop the building from being pillaged for building materials, as it had been since the middle ages. Even in 1631 Pope Urban VIII had the gilded bronze cladding removed from the porch and melted down for the Bernini's magnificent baldacchino in St. Peter's and cannons for Castel Sant'Angelo. According to this site, anyway. I've read differing opinions.

Did you know that the Pantheon's real name is Basilica di Santa Maria ad Martyres? I didn't.

So many layers of history reside in this magnificent strructure. I'll work on peeling back some of the layers in later posts. 

And if I may be allowed, a bit of my own layer of history with the Eternal City. This is a photo taken from my table at my last al fresco dinner in my second favourite city in Italy.