Oh to be in England....

 At a Westben choral concert recently a friend and I were reduced to soggy tears when Aemilia Moser and Dante Santone performed the sweet love song We'll Gather Lilacs in the Spring, written in the 1940s by Ivor Novello. It's a  sentimental WWII song; lovers, the fellow off to war, sing of their hopes and dreams of a peaceful 'after' with its gentle pleasures. Love, loss and longing. 

"We'll gather lilacs in the spring again/And walk together down a shady lane/Until our hearts have learned to sing again/When you come home once more."

Recently The Gentle Author, a daily staple on my morning reading list, visited the bluebells in Bow Cemetery. So I am being given a nudge to think about English bluebells. 

There's something about spring bloom - that longed-for loveliness, joy at the renewal of colour and beauty at the end of dark dormant winter. But it's a fleeting joy. Spring blossoms are delicate; their season is short. As with our glorious autumn foliage which blazes for such a short time, fresh spring flowering evokes for me a wistfulness and a kind of sadness.

I believe English bluebells also bloom in Ontario, but the spring beauties that stop my homie's heart are trout lilies, violets, jack in the pulpit and trilliums, the blooms that adults pointed out to me as a child who loved flowers. I remember having the mysterious jack revealed to me for the first time, on an Arbor Day school outing with Miss Eaton, a whole lifetime ago. From that day also, I carry with me the lifetime prohibition against picking a trillium. 

For me, bluebells will always evoke happy times, delighted springtime discoveries along delightful English pathways with dear ones who are no longer among us.

Love, loss and longing.

Grant us Peace

From the first time I - we, when I was a 'we' girl - entered the cloisters of medieval Lincoln Cathedral in my Denis' home town, I was smitten.  After the transcendant space of the church we entered this place of ancient silence. Early English Gothic. I suspect I am not alone in this feeling. Just this afternoon I FB posted a couple of photos of the cloisters at the Basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence, and was surprised at the response.

Definitions for a cloister are somewhat prosaic. Britannica, for example offers this: "a quadrilateral enclosure surrounded by covered walkways, and usually attached to a monastic or cathedral church..."  "A covered walkway with a colonnade on one side." "A covered walk, open gallery, or open arcade running along the walls of buildings and forming a quadrangle or garth" (new word.) 

Those of us who have experienced a cloister can do better.

Perhaps a cloister is not about what we can see, but what we feel. Peace in sacred nature. I'm just going to post and enjoy a few of these spaces now. And see if I can figure it out. And in doing so, and revisiting these tranquil spaces, to find tranquility in our turbulent time.

This lovely space is at the Byzantine church of Sant'Appolinaire in Classe, Ravenna. For years I had longed to see that city's miraculous Byzantine  mosaics, and in 2023 I did. 

Then a bit of cloister to rest the eyes, cleanse the palate as it were, from such rich fare.

Florence's San Lorenzo, parish church of the Medici family,  provides a welcome refuge from the insanely busy streets within its late 15th century cloister, Chiostro dei Canonici, the Cloister of the Canons. No-one should let Brunelleschi's unfinished facade deter further exploration, because within the huge complex is an exquisite Renaissance church, the  Mannerist Laurentian Library with Michelangelo's dynamic staircase and the wonders of the Old Sacristy and the Medici Chapels. One day, when I'm up to it, I'll post about my visit. 

But back to the cloister. Truly, a visitor to San Lorenzo needs to repair to this green space occasionally to calm the senses, still the heart. And settle the mind, which is invited to time travel the long history. San Lorenzo is the oldest church in Florence, consecrated in 393 and rebuilt by Brunelleschi in 1419. The rough facade was to be completed by Michelangelo, sheathed in white marble, but funding failed. This is not uncommon. Santa Croce's marble facade was completed in the 1860s, the well-known marble front of the Duomo in 1887 (what did we know?) 

A place of sanctuary and stillness, meditation and contemplation, gentle perambulation. A pause for breath in a busy city and a busy world.

Even this image has a way of calming my coffee and news nerves.

To conclude, I will settle into my favourite cloisters, those of Santa Croce, an immensely important 'state church', resting place of the famous and wealthy, who commissioned astonishing chapels. Those layers of history and devotion create a sumptuous and important interior (which I fully absorbed thanks to an enthralling audio tour). But exhausting, right?

Spent lovely lonely time at the Renaissance gem, the Pazzi Chapel. Its simplicity and order creates awe and stillness simultanously. I still can't believe I was there, had longed for that moment forever. 

 But still, nature needed.

 Cloister drill. 

There's some good history here, which I will leave for you because I, for once, am without words.

They're fixing a hole where the rain gets in

I was fully prepared to be awestruck by the Pantheon in Rome. The forest of giant columns under the portico sets the stage. The immense bronze doors build excitement. But, oh! To step through the entrance and look up, look way up. 

That immense dome is still the world's largest unsupported concrete dome. Roman engineering stories are fascinating; there are loads to choose from out there. This is good - a nod to Vitruvius. If you'd like to watch, here are a couple of art historians trying to outdo each other with their erudition and enthusiam here and here on SmartHistory. 

At the top of this immense coffered structure, the oculus, that nearly 9 metre (almost 30 feet!) hole in the roof, open to the heavens. Which begs the question - doesn't the rain come in?

There are some great Roman myths out there, perpetuated by those great story-tellers, the tourist guides. One of the tales states that it does not rain inside the Pantheon (despite that oculus).

It's told that in the early days of Christian celebrations in the Pantheon, the hundreds of candles and the warmth of breath and bodies contributed to an effect called 'the chimney effect'. That stream of hot air rising upward, meeting with the rain, "suppressed the perception of rain coming in." Here's the story on this site.

I am mad for marble mosaic floors. Much of my time in sacred spaces this trip has been spent looking down. The amazing variety in the natural stone, the skill and design artistry of the masons - and we just walk around looking up. Next to the floors in the Pantheon the Baroque altars and Renaissance tombs are mere schotskes (imho.) 

Truth is, when it rains heavily in Rome, it rains in the Pantheon too. The Roman builders, practical always, addressed the issue in two ways.

The astonishingly beautiful (and original!) marble mosaic floors are subtly slanted, providing for drainage via clever holes in the marble designs. I wonder if you can see them in these photos: they are tiny and tear-shaped.

A Footnote, or Why I'll Never Rely on AI

I was curious to know if there was any info on the number of degrees of the gradiant built into the marble floor. Appears no. I did a quick Google search for sources, and of course AI had its hand up first, and offered this, which I must make a point of seeing on my next visit to Rome:

:This slope is not a pronounced gradient, but rather a subtle inclination designed to guide water towards the open oculus at the dome's apex. 

Garden Tour IV - Boboli Gardens

 This is Palazzo Pitti, sitting on the south side of the Arno looking down on the rest of Florence. It was begun in the mid 1400s by Luca Pitti. His aim was to outdo his rivals the Medici, who had just built their palazzo in the centre of the city.

Have a look here, and see what you think. Unfortunately, Luca Pitti died before finishing the palace, and it was purchasd in 1550 by Eleanor of Toledo, a smart and wealthy Spanish noblewoman, wife of Cosimo I de'Medici. It would become the Grand Ducal residence.  

It's a formidable place, sternly symmetrical, rigidly Classical, with forbidding rusticated stone walls. Nothing about the approach says "I've got the kettle on." Gardeners might want to suggest foundation plantings.

As it turns out, Eleanor did that. In a big way. But not here; only in the private space behind the palazzo, where she and Cosimo translated wealth and power into this dance between stone, water and greenery.

I am endebted to Wikipedia for this camera angle I didn't consider. The tinted photo is from the early 20th century. 

You can compare the Pitti and Medici palazzi in this article in the art blog The Artistic Adventure of Mankind. How the author got those photos...

Here's a bit more history on the Uffizi Gallery website. 

I'm feeling more visual than verbal - speechless as I was throughout my visit - so I will just let this Wikipedia contributor describe the garden's features and significance. The plans feature "wide gravel avenues, a considerable built element of stone, the lavish employment of statuary and fountains, and a proliferation of detail...informed by classical accents: grottoes, nympheums, garden temples and the like. The openness of the garden, with an expansive view of the city, was unconventional for its time. The gardens were very lavish, considering no access was allowed to anyone outside the immediate Medici family, and no entertainment or parties are ever known to have taken place in the gardens." The Boboli gardens set the trend for the formal Renaissance Italian garden, inspiring many of the great gardens of Europe.

Boboli Gardens. One hundred and eleven acres. Begun by one rich and powerful family, grown by others. Finally opened to the hoi polloi in 1766. My turn.Once you enter the front doors of the palazzo, you find yourself overpowered by a vast echoing three-storey courtyard. One of the stories I read about the Medici was a mock naval battle staged in this (flooded) space as part of the wedding celebrations of a Medici son. I ask you. Here's an account .

Here's the cavelike entrance to the gardens, a rather intimidating approach with all that lumpy Mannerist rusticated stone. Am I worthy?  But as I made it to the top of the steps another - a green - world spread before me.

From this point, steps process to the Neptune fountain at the top of the garden along the Viottolone - a 12% grade.

The Egyptian obelisk (origin Luxor 1500BC) and the gigantic granite Roman bathtub were set here in the first half of the 18th century.

Turn around to see the palazzo from this friendlier aspect. The green lawn is the centre of the Amphitheatre. If you squint you can see stepped stone seats at the sides of the photos. This impressive space was created in the quarry from which was harvested the stone for the palazzo.

Here's a nice summary on the Uffizi Gallery website.

 

Partway up the steps leading to the top of the gardens, and off on a side trail,  is a grassy terrace.Tindaro Screpolato's modern sculpture was generating a lot of interest; couldn't photograph his great face without including some others'. Fascinating: there's more here. Further along this lawn you can enjoy the Medici's unconventional panoramic view of  Florence .

Uffizi Gallery site's palace history 

Here's a guided tour by Kate Bolton-Porciatti, who took us around Piazza Santissima Annunciata in an earlier post. The closed captioner insists on "bobbly gardens".

A bit further along I turned off to enjoy some of the more natural areas - this is no English garden however.  Over two hundred Roman, Renaissance - and a few modern - statues line geometrically laid-out formal avenues along two main axes, lined with cedars and cypresses and Roman statuary. There are some wilder bits, and those I discovered. 

The interplay of stone, water and foliage was planned, and remains overwhelming and exciting.

Viale dei Cipressi exits at Porta Romana Square. I remember Den and I entering at that gate and having a quick shuffty, as he used to call a lookaround, with a vow to return one day. Ah, my love..

There's a Botanical Garden accessed along Cherciatta Grande (Great Branch Archway, so pedestrian in English). These 'green galleries' were cool and romantic unless you were a songbird. The dense leafy arches also served as bird hunting groves.The cherciatti were created by weaving holm oak branches to create overhead shelter. 

Lost yet? Here is a map. Seens I managed to see most of the attractions by following my nose, but I'm enjoying following it now as I relive my visit.

Two of my favourite spots are coming up. I was surprised and delighted to come upon L'isolotto del Giardino .The posted signage is very good, but sometimes a bit overwhelming.

It's interesting to note that there was no water source for the gardens; all water, including those gallons used for naval battles, came up from the Arno. More impressive Renaissance civil engineering.

I have grown to love plane trees. From what I read, it appears they are London Plane Trees. One source says they hybridized in Spain or an Oxford garden, in the 1600s. We have a row in a local small park. When they first appeared, we were worried about their peeling bark; were we to lose this young avenue? Well, no. That's part of their charm. They're also called sycamores. 

The map calls this area Meadow of the Columns - Roman ruin or Renaissance garden art? For me, the columns worth celebrating are the towering trunks in this circle of plane trees around a sunny meadow. They were planted in 1813 at the behest of the Grand Duchess, Napoleon's sister. 

Nevertheless. there are columns. Two, of red Egyptian granite, topped by white urns. 

And a more sobering thought. Though you wouldn't know it for the regal serenity of the place, the Pitti Palace was a shelter for thousands of homeless evacuees during Nazi occupation of Florence in 1943 and experienced bomb damage during Allied raids.  The interpretive panel here recounts that during the raids, bodies were buried here as they could not be taken out to cemeteries. It was called Prato dei Morti. 

I continued on along a treed lane heading briskly uphill and came upon this little face, one of many in a 1619-21 linear fountain called Fontana dei Mostaccini (Fountain of the Little Ugly Faces.) It had a more sinister role which I will leave you to read about here

Of even more interest to me was the guard tower in the distance, and sections of the fifteenth century city walls here and a bit further on.

Florence still has city walls in the Oltrarno district; the Boboli gardens border the southern stretch. Hence these evocative spaces, which were almost the best part of the garden for me, emanating history as they did. 

Just when I thought I could climb no more - does the phrase 'an embarassment of riches' resonate? - I came upon these steps. Now who could say no to these steps? Are they not gorgeous? And imagine the view that figure in red was enjoying, down over the gardens. This is the entrance to the Giardino del Cavaliere, built around 1793. It's build atop the sixteenth century rampart, the highest point in the garden. 

At the top - this formal garden, this building, the Palazzina del Cavaliere (the link gives you the history) and this view. The building was originally (1500s) a recreation place for the Grand Dukes, a grandducal 'man cave.'  It was given its neoclassical facade in the 1700s, and now houses a porcelain museum - more treasures of the Medici and their successors, the houses of Hapsburg-Lorraine and Savoy. Closed, mercifully.

As I turn to leave, I get that view downward from the stair balustrade. 

And then, onward and downward. 

Up next, The Abundance, begun 1608. Giambologna made a contribution. The location yields this rather splendid view back down to the Pitti Palace - " how far we've come, mother."

If you look at the figures along the front of the pool of Neptune's Fountain, and those in front of the palazzo further along, you get a sense of the elevation change over the north-south expanse of the gardens. Twelve percent doesn't sound like a lot, but...

Next, the 18th century pavilion called the Kaffeehaus, a rare Tuscan example of Rococo architecture. But a lot of fuss just to have coffee, though.  It's set in a beautiful terraced area of fruit trees, likely much more formally arranged in the day. Compare its gentle pastels and delicate "Chinese Pavilion" roof to the manly Baroque steps at the Cavaliere garden.

On the final descent, I passed the celebrated Grotto di Madama, dated 1553-55, one of the first of its type. Its faux rock facade and stalactites didn't impress me much, but it was a very romantic thing in its day, perhaps. Maybe had I been able to enter?  I somehow missed the Grotto Grande entirely, but it's okay, it's okay.

Below the grotto, rose gardens and this towering pine who's seen it all. And delighted visitors heading homeward as the sun's rays lengthen.

Now, should there be a need for any more words on the topic, to whom shall I give the last word? Credit due to the Museums in Florence Boboli page, which contains lots of extra information, and many teeny photos of statuary I ignored. So if it's your thing, click.

But the LAST WORD was to go to the University of Wisconsin Master Gardener and a fabulous article I found, with lots more photos. Oddly, the article has been taken down. replaced by reports on spotted lantern fly and soil contaminants. Sign of the times?