Last updated on 14/11/2024
Chapter 5: The Mystery of Assisi.
Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.
It was on the sixth day of their holiday that many in the party left Cattolica on one of the excursions offered by the tour operators. Richard and Michael had chosen three days in Rome; they had selected this excursion in England when they had booked the main holiday and paid for it in the overall cost of the package.
The coach left at 8:30 am; everyone was rather tired and sleepy, except Mavis who kept bellowing at the top of her voice. ‘Betty. Did you remember to pack the maps? Where’s my passport? I can’t find my passport!’
The other passengers reassured Mavis that she would not need her passport because they were not leaving the country. Mavis eventually sat down beside her friend and stopped making a fuss. The coach began its journey and soon they were driving along the Via Flaminia towards the Furlo Pass, where they entered a tunnel made by the Romans. Chico gave a commentary on things to be noted, speaking into the PA system from his seat at the front, next to the driver. Chico had been given a text to read out at certain points in the journey. Few of the passengers bothered to listen to what he was saying.
After passing through the picturesque countryside of Umbria they arrived, at one o’clock, at Terni – “… the romantic city of lovers and the birthplace of Saint Valentine whose day we celebrate in February,” Chico told them; adding that it was “also important for steel production.” It was very hot as they alighted from the coach and filed into a restaurant for lunch. Not a sit-down meal this time; in fact they were given a packed lunch.
‘The staple diet of the Romans – a packed lunch,’ Michael quipped. Inside his paper bag was cold roast chicken, a piece of cheese, a bread roll and a peach. ‘Simple Umbrian fare,’ Michael commented. The boys were hungry and ate theirs straight away. They opted to buy themselves some ice cream; they could choose from a vast assortment of flavours. Michael chose portions of strawberry and lime, for which he paid 150 lira. They wandered around without going too far from the coach. Michael immediately noticed the public conveniences: these consisted of a hole in the ground surrounded by a ramshackle metal screen full of embarrassingly large holes. Michael wrote:
We visited an Inn, on the way to Rome, just after the Furlo pass. Chico said that Mussolini often stayed there. I don’t know who Mussolini was but I assume he was some great historical figure from the past. The Inn had a wine cellar that had been carved out of the rock of the hillside by the Romans. Why did the Roman slaves work themselves to death just to make a place where tourists could go for a drink? There was also a very deep well; a variety of objects had been hung on the walls including fossils that had been discovered when the place was being dug out.
The break at Terni did not last for long and soon they were driving through the haze of the afternoon, seeing steep hillsides to which small villages clung. The summits of some of the hills had imposing castles and fortifications. The tranquillity of the sultry afternoon was intermittently broken by the bellowing of Betty who insisted that she was, ‘frying like a sausage in this window seat.’ Michael began writing in his notebook. He described Rome as being like a ‘coral reef of history. Centuries of encrustation building up on previous layers of civilisation.’ Richard was busy chatting to Jane and Chico was sitting next to the driver making occasional remarks into the PA system about things he saw out of the window.
‘On your left, you can see vineyards. The soil of Umbria is particularly good for white grapes,’ he explained. ‘Vines have grown here for hundreds of years and its wines are exported across the whole of Europe.’ Most of the passengers were not listening to this; they were busy talking to each other. Michael, on the other hand, was lapping up every word of it and jotting down notes in his little book.
‘The river Tiber runs through Umbria on its way to Rome,’ Chico continued, reading from the typed script in his hand. ‘The Tiber is Italy’s third longest river. It is called the Tiber because, long ago, King Tiberinus Silvius was drowned in it. The founders of Rome – Romulus and Remus – were thrown into it as infants but were saved by a wolf who suckled them and brought them up as her own.’
Michael had no trouble writing all this down verbatim because Chico was a slow reader. Chico continued, ‘Umbria is the green heart of Italy. It is landlocked, having no coastline. Apart from grape vines, the region is noted for its olives. It is said that Saint Francis used to walk through the groves of Umbria and talk to the birds that he found in its trees.’
Michael liked this very much and could picture the holy man in his brown cassock conversing with the woodland creatures. He became absorbed in his own thoughts and for a while forgot to listen to the speech coming out of the speakers of the PA system. In his young life, Michael had developed a strong affinity with animals and he kept many pets at home. He would talk to them as though they were human beings and could understand what he was saying. The image of a great holy man – the patron saint of animals – totally in tune with nature appealed to him. He tried to conjure up in his mind what Saint Francis would have looked like. He imagined him as being very kind and gentle, his face portraying great wisdom and his eyes peace and serenity; he had never been to church and his parents were not religious. They had him baptised when he was a baby but he was only a few weeks old at the time and could not remember anything about it. Sometimes his father would put Songs of Praise on the television and seemed to enjoy listening to some of the hymns they were singing. Michael was fascinated by religions of all kinds and would take out books on the subject from the public library. To him, religion was deeply mysterious and difficult to understand but it was something that attracted his emotions and stories of saints were of particular interest to him. Michael’s meditations came to an abrupt end as the coach jerked to a halt.
In the middle of the countryside, the coach stopped at a lay-by. Mavis insisted that she must respond to, ‘a call of nature.’ The rotund lady alighted from the coach bellowing to Betty to follow, her trunk-like arms holding on to the handles of the doorway. The two women disappeared into a patch of brambles by the roadside. Their shrieks and shouts could be heard back at the coach. After a few minutes, they returned with their gaudy dresses torn and festooned with pieces of wood, leaves and plants. Beneath her hem, Betty’s elephantine calves were covered with red scratches. They settled back in their seats, cursing angrily. Behind them the other passengers were sniggering and making rude remarks; they all thought it was very amusing.
In the middle of the afternoon, the coach pulled into the spacious square of the hillside town of Assisi, its jumble of white buildings dominated by a square white tower that rose above them; the delightful mediaeval town was now packed with coaches. Chico announced over the intercom that everyone must be back by five o’clock and anyone not sitting in their seat by that time would get left behind.
Umbria
Michael emerged from the cool atmosphere of the coach into the sweltering heat of the Umbrian afternoon. He looked around the square, lined with many rounded arches supported by short pillars. He was relieved to find there were no guided tours; everyone was free to do whatever they liked. The party was given lunch on the veranda of a small restaurant, over which ran vines that provided shade from the intense sunshine. The boys were delighted with this setting and found themselves at a table with a Polish couple who spoke some English. The charm of the moment was slightly spoilt by the Polish woman who complained continuously about the food. The men at the table were easily satisfied with the fare and her exasperated husband said something to her in Polish and then she shut up.
Michael asked Richard where he would like to go and what he would like to see during their visit. The Polish man interrupted to say that some of the local bars were very good and offered to take them to sample some of the local beverages. Richard readily agreed but Michael was not happy about this and was upset that his views had not been sought on the matter. Michael wanted to see the historic sites around him and visit the great church he had once seen on television. Richard frowned and said that visiting a church sounded a bit boring. The boys argued together about what to do and eventually Michael realised that he was not going to get his way with Richard. Michael stood up and left, aiming a barbed comment in Richard’s direction as he left the table.
Michael followed the coach party as they trooped off to the largest building – the triple Basilica of San Francesco. Chico explained that this was where Saint Francis – the patron saint of Italy – was buried. Inside it was cool and dark and, to Michael, it felt very tranquil and holy. He spent a long time studying the frescos of Giotto. A card on the wall explained that Giotto – Giotto di Bondone, as he was born – had painted them in the late Middle Ages. Michael loved painting and was fascinated by the history of medieval times. After studying the frescos, he went in search of the church’s gift shop and purchased a wooden rosary with a small cross attached to it, on which was nailed a little tin figure of the crucified Christ; he also bought a large book of prints of the Giotto frescos. He was not a Catholic; in fact he was not particularly religious but the rosary was an artefact that held meaning for him. He kept it for the rest of his life. The icon of a man nailed to a cross spoke to him.
As he gazed at the painted walls, he thought about the meaning of art and how it related to religion. The scenes were like a book that told a story in images. They were the ‘books’ of pre-literate people, he thought. Michael suddenly realised that Richard was not with him at this time; he remembered that they had been arguing about where to go and decided to split up. Michael had been determined to see the historical and spiritual side of the monastery and how it reflected on life and death but Richard was more interested in getting a few beers and buying postcards.
Michael’s feelings of exhaustion from the heat and the long journey vied with the uplifting splendours of the great basilica’s architecture and the stunning works of art around him. As he gazed at the frescos he felt overwhelmed with awe and wonder but as their story unfolded in his mind, his feelings gave way way to self-pity and melancholy. Feeling contrite, he began to think that he had been beastly to his friend. He saw about him many nuns wearing white wimples and dark tunics and he also saw friars in brown habits reverently kissing the feet of statues and reciting hail Marys in front of lighted candles. As an act of self-indulgence, Michael also kissed the foot of a statue; he wanted to know what it felt like. He noticed that the stone foot was deeply worn down and polished by countless thousands of lips that had touched it in veneration over many centuries. He felt very humbled as his lips touched the cold stone and felt as though unimaginable years of spiritual energy were pulsing through his face and into his body.
Leaving the others, Michael wandered deep into the building, away from the bustle and noise of the tourists, seeking quiet solitude and a chance to be alone with his thoughts, amongst the grey stone columns and the richly decorated arched ceilings. The interior of the church was dim, lit only by the stained glass windows through which the bright sunlight shone in a rainbow of coloured beams. He walked from one chapel to another, exploring shadowy chambers, looking at statues, gazing up at the vaulting with its patterns of crosses and leaves, the frescos depicting scenes from the life of Christ and of Saint Francis preaching to the faithful. He wandered through the aisles lost in his thoughts but still seething from his argument with Richard, resenting the fact that his friend was not with him to share in this amazing spiritual experience. In fact Richard was in a bar drinking lager and telling rude jokes to the Polish couple.
In a secluded corner of the monastery, Michael came to a statue of the Madonna. The figure was carved from wood and painted in blues and gold but it was her face that transfixed him. In the gloom, the life-like statue seemed real, it gave him the impression that it was alive and looking back at him. As he gazed up at her, it was as though the inanimate painted statue had suddenly become warm, living flesh. The gentle face of the Madonna had an expression that overwhelmed him; her face had a faint smile that seemed full of beneficence, her eyes looked down on him with compassion and a slender white hand was held aloft in benediction. Gazing up at the statue, Michael’s anger at Richard subsided. He stood there motionless, consumed with feelings of elation and sadness; it was a moving experience that sent a tingling shiver down his back and the hairs on his neck stood on end. Coloured lights, from the great windows above, fell around him on the grey stone flags of the floor and on the statue. He felt the presence of many generations of monks and friars who had, over centuries of time, imbued this place with their spirituality and their prayers. As he gazed into the wonderful face of the Madonna, his eyes filled with tears. Through their blurred vision, he thought he saw the face of the lady change slightly; she was smiling at him, a smile of recognition, as though she was seeing into his heart and hearing the thoughts in his head. In her face, he saw an expression of pity and forgiveness. It was a moment of heightened spirituality; later in life, when troubled and anxious, Michael would remember that moment when he had stood in front of the Madonna of Assisi and the memory brought him peace. ‘In future years, when I am old,’ he thought to himself, ‘I shall return to this place on a pilgrimage.’
Michael looked at his watch and saw it was five minutes to five. He raced back to the main square and was the last person to take his seat on the coach – to the cheers of the passengers who had been anxiously awaiting his arrival. He sat down beside Richard and would have told him about his experiences in the Basilica but Richard was chatting to the girls in the opposite seat and he did not feel like talking to the back of his head. They left the medieval city and headed through the Umbrian countryside passing into the region of Lazio and then towards Rome.
Next: part two. The Mystery of Assisi.