There is a popular saying in Italian: “Natale con i tuoi, Pasqua con chi vuoi“. In other words, Christmas is a time for the family, but you can spend Easter with whoever you like. In reality, for most Italians Easter is generally spent with the family. But unlike in the UK, where the schools take a two-week break, here the most you can normally hope for is a long weekend (or 'Ponte' as the Italians like to call it).
That wasn't the case this year, as Easter fell late and ran into the annual 25 April Liberation Day holiday. The authorities, in their infinite wisdom, extended the spring break from Giovedì Santo (Maundy Thursday) up to and including Liberation Day. An unprecedented spring week off!
For us it was the perfect opportunity to get on the road and head for the mountains of the Garfagnana, to spend Easter in Tuscany,
With the formalities and indulgences of Easter dispensed with, Italians generally spend Pasquetta (Easter Monday) in the countryside with friends enjoying a typical barbecue or picnic.
As a regular visitor to Garfagnana, I've long been planning an excursion with Wild Trails, a local tour company that organises hiking trips and adventures in the hills, valleys and mountains of the region. Pasquetta seemed like the ideal opportunity to finally do so.
In truth, the Pasquetta detox tour that we signed up for wasn't so much an adventure as a leisurely amble around the forests, gentle hills and remote villages of the Val di Lima.
But, with an engaging guide and a simple picnic (I can't believe I forgot the wine), it was a pleasant way to spend Easter Monday and offered a tantalising glimpse of what this remote and unspoilt region has to offer.
Next time we might be a little more adventurous. And I'll remember to pack the wine!
A lively crossing
After the reckless hedonism of Ibiza and the indulgent serenity of Sicily (during which I explored the notorious mafia town of Corleone), Islay was the third and final stop on my summer island-hopping itinerary.
We took the 6pm ferry from Kennacraig to Port Ellen and, after a lively crossing, we were soon making our way towards the cottage at Ardbeg that would be our base for our short stay on the island. For a whisky enthusiast like me, there can be few more exhilarating journeys than that ten minute drive from Port Ellen to Ardbeg, as we passed by the world renowned distilleries of Laphroig and Lagavulin, before arriving at our cottage, conveniently located just around the corner from the distillery at Ardbeg.
A calamity at sea?
The windswept island of Islay lies between Scotland's rugged west coast and the mighty Atlantic ocean. From nomadic hunter-gatherers to Celtic kings, Norse invaders to the ancient Lords of the Isles, these islands and their tempestuous waters have known more than their fair share of drama, heroism and tragedy.
I was vaguely aware that some maritime calamity had befallen these islands during the Great War but, until my visit this summer, was completely ignorant of the precise details.
In fact, as I soon learned, disaster had struck Islay not once, but twice, with the tragic loss of nearly 700 souls, most of them American infantrymen.
But what on earth where all these American troops doing in the waters of Islay? And what happened here that resulted in such a catastrophic loss of life?
On 20 June 1914, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, and his wife, Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg, were shot and killed in Sarajevo, the capital of the province of Bosnia-Herzogovina. At first it seemed that the assassination was just an isolated act of localised terrorism. Few could have foreseen that it would trigger a chain of events that, just a few short months later, would result in the United Kingdom declaring war on Germany.
On 2 November, as the conflict intensified, the United Kingdom, in the hope of restricting the maritime supply of goods to the Central Powers, began a naval blockade of Germany. The blockade had a devastating impact on German supplies and morale. By December 1918, it was claimed that more than three-quarters of a million German civilians had died from starvation and disease. In response, Germany launched a campaign of unrestricted submarine warfare, with the objective of starving Britain out of the war.
America enters the fray
As a consequence of this unprecedented attack on merchant shipping, the United States, which for nearly 3 years had remained officially neutral, was finally drawn into the increasingly barbaric conflict.
Crossing the Atlantic
The Western Front, the brutal system of trenches which eventually stretched from the North Sea coast of Belgium southward across France, remained the main theatre of war. To reach the battlefront, American troops first had to cross the Atlantic.
American doughboys crossing the Atlantic endured appalling conditions in troopships that were unfit for purpose and terribly overcrowded. On top of winter storms, inadequate sanitation and a virulent flu virus, that would become known as Spanish flu and would be later be identified as the H1N1, the constant threat of the U-boat menace made the crossing a truly perilous undertaking. And that was all before these poor young lads, many of whom had never stepped foot on a boat before, had even reached battlefront.
Amongst the vessels requisitioned for the purposes of transporting American troops across the Atlantic were HMS Tuscania and HMS Oranto.
Onboard HMS Tuscania
Named after a picturesque Italian hillside town to the north of Rome, SS Tuscania had been a luxury liner of the Cunard Line but with the outbreak of war is refitted and put into service as a troopship.
On 24 January 1918, she sets sail from Hoboken, New Jersey, with 384 crew and 2,013 soldiers onboard. Three days later she joins a 12 ship convoy that is zig-zagging its way across the Atlantic towards Liverpool. On 4 February, the convoy is joined by eight British destroyers for the final, most treacherous part of the voyage, as they enter "the submarine zone" - the part of the crossing where the ocean narrows into the shipping channels that lead to Britain's west coast ports.
The following day, the convoy is just off the north coast of Ireland, preparing to make it's final manoeuvre towards Liverpool. Lurking just below the surface is UB-77, commanded by 29-year-old Kapitän Wilhelm Meyer. Just as those on board the Tuscania are catching their first glimpse of the rugged Scottish coastline, Meyer is preparing to attack. At 7.40 pm he fires two lethal seven-metre long G-7 torpedoes. Despite intense vigilance, Tuscania is caught off guard. With a devastating explosion, one of the torpedoes strikes her amidship, near the boiler room.
Under strict orders not to risk coming to the aid of a stricken ship, the rest of the convoy steams on towards Liverpool, leaving the Tuscania to meet its grim fate in the icy seas off Islay.
As the Tuscania is foundering off the remote and inhospitable rocks and cliffs of the Mull of Oa, rescue destroyers are dispatched from the mainland.
The evacuation of the ship is chaotic and confused. Those lucky enough to find lifeboats are picked up by the destroyers and naval trawlers. Royal Navy destroyer Mosquito manages to pull alongside the foundering Tuscania. It's a long-way down from the muster stations of the stricken ship to the plunging and rolling deck of the destroyer below, but some 300 officers and men manage to jump to safety. Another rescue ship, the Pigeon, then comes alongside the now badly listing troopship. Men slide down ropes to safety, but the escape isn't without its risks and several men perish as they jump from one ship to the other. In just 30 minutes, about 750 men and 14 officers have made it safely onboard the destroyer.
Those less fortunate are swept towards the treacherous sea cliffs of Islay. Somehow a few exhausted and frozen survivors manage to make it ashore alive.
Robert Morrison, a local farmer, wades out into the stormy waters up to his neck to rescue two men clinging on to a rock. He then climbs halfway up a 250 metre cliff to rescue another survivor. His act of bravery is not the only one that night. His sisters spend six hours baking scones to feed the exhausted and starving survivors. The remarkable effort of the people of Islay save the lives of many who would otherwise have died.
Many of the bodies of the drowned servicemen wash up on the shores of Islay and are buried there with as much dignity and honour as the remote rural community can muster. It is the biggest loss of American military lives in a single day since the Civil War with over 200 casualties. Hardy islanders wept in the streets as carts of bodies pass by. But worse is to come.
Eight months later, another troopship, HMS Otranto (like the Tuscania, it is named after a small coastal town in southern Italy), is en route from America to the battlefronts of Europe. During a terrible storm, hurricane force winds and forty foot waves - experienced seamen had seldom seen such conditions, Otranto is involved in a devastating collision with another ship and founders off the rocky western shores of Kilchoman. Despite the appalling conditions we witness probably the single most significant act of courage in the entire tragic episode.
"We shall go down together"
Lieutenant Francis W. Craven is in command of HMS Mounsey, a Glasgow-built 'M' class destroyer that has been dispatched to provide assistance. Craven has spent more than half of his 29 years at sea and is a highly respected commander. Despite 40-foot waves, 70-mile an hour winds and the precarious condition of the 12,000-ton Otranto, Craven signals to Captain Davidson, commander of the stricken ship, that he is coming alongside.
"Steer clear or you will lose your crew and your ship", the captain of the Otranto replies.
"I am coming alongside. If we go down, we shall go down together", comes Craven's blunt response.
Rearing and plunging in the mountainous waves, Craven somehow manages to manoeuvre his 896-ton destroyer alongside the heavily listing troopship. Ropes are thrown between the ships and soldiers are urged to jump for their lives. The order is given - "Abandon ship!" Soldiers face an agonising decision - jump or take their chances on board the sinking ship. Many mistime their jump and fall into the icy sea, others are crushed to death between the tossing ships. Those fortunate enough to land on rescue ship's deck suffer broken legs, arms and ribs.
Despite the dangers, 600 men make it alive onto the Mounsey, which is by now seriously overladen and badly damaged from the battering it has taken coming alongside the Otranto. Craven takes the fateful decision to pull away from the Otranto. Captain Davidson can be seen waving farewell from the deck, nearly 500 men remain on board with him. Their fate is sealed.
His bridge smashed, oil tanks punctured, boiler rooms flooded, upper deck decimated, both masts with the wireless and signalling gear swept away, boat laden with debris, water and frozen, injured, ill and exhausted survivors, the Mounsey limps towards the nearest port, Belfast.
The last hope for the Otranto is that she will be swept towards the wide open sand of Machair Bay.
It's not to be though as Otranto is cruelly swept towards the ragged rocky shoreline of the Rhinns of Islay, where she crashes against a submerged reef, the Botha na Cailleach. Her back is broken and her hull ripped asunder. For the remaining survivors on board the Otranto, it is a final fatal blow.
Nearly five hundred men are suddenly thrown into the water. For the sick and the injured it means instant death. From here only twenty-one will make it ashore alive, two of those, despite the best efforts of the islanders, will die of their injuries.
A heroic rescue
Once again, local farmers and fisherman perform remarkable feats of heroism. Despite the appalling conditions, two teenage brothers, Donald and John McPhee, wade out into the wild surf off Kilchoman and, with the help of a shepherd's crook, save several survivors from certain drowning.
By the following morning, the Otranto had been completely demolished by the heavy seas. Wreckage and bodies wash up on the coastline for weeks to come. In all, 470 men lost their lives, including 358 American soldiers, 96 crewmen and 6 French fishermen.
Len Wilson's remarkable account of these events, The Drowned and the Saved, When War Came to the Hebrides, is available to buy here.
A final thought
Towards the end of the Second World War, my grandfather, who was from Coventry, served in the in the Far East on board HMS Loch Gorm.
In the late 1970s, his daughter moved to Glasgow, and he spent numerous summers touring Scotland in search of the mysterious loch after which his frigate was named.
On our way to the Kilchoman Military Cemetery, where 73 sailors and marines of HMS Otranto are buried, we find Loch Gorm. We stop for a few moments to remember my granddad. He would have loved it here. A navy veteran, with a lifelong affinity for the ocean, he loved Scotland - the drama of its landscape, the hospitality of its public houses, the warmth of its people. He would have understood the sacrifice, bravery and courage of those young men who travelled across an ocean to fight in a war. And then, like me, he would have gone for a quiet pint.
Ever since we relocated to Verona six years ago, our annual summer 'holiday' in the UK has become a keenly anticipated highlight of the year. As much as we enjoy la dolce vita, there's nothing quite like spending a few weeks at home, gorging on sausage rolls, wallowing in the fantastically mild weather and sinking more pints of over-priced craft ale than I care to remember.
This summer we somehow managed to squeeze in a week in London, a luxury camping trip to Norfolk, an enforced stopover in Leeds, a few nights in Glasgow, a couple of days on the Mull of Kintyre, a day trip to Jura and, finally, a self-indulgent couple of nights in Leith (without the kids), before eventually returning to Verona via Venice.
Aside from the obvious pleasure of spending quality time with family and friends, this trip was also a watershed moment in my youngest son's linguistic journey. Going from virtually no-spoken English (his comprehension is pretty good), he now has an eclectic English vocabulary that includes (in no particular order) "ginger biscuits", "golly gosh" (seriously), "aeroplane" (closely followed by "another aeroplane"), "let's go!", "it's raining again" and "help!". His confidence and pleasure in spoken English is continuing long after our summer tans have faded (okay, so we didn't actually get a tan in Norfolk, but you get the point).
Over the years, our annual trip to the UK has increasingly coalesced around the Lambeth County Show in Brockwell Park, south London. Held every year on the third weekend in July, it is here that, tradition dictates, we kick-start our annual summer holiday.
The Show is an intoxicating blend of fairground rides, sheep shearing, jousting, sport, cider, bouncy castles, a petting farm, horticultural competitions, live music (featuring a mix of dub, afro-beat, disco, reggae, ska and soul), jerk chicken, sunshine and showers. Hugely popular, it has just about retained it's unique character, which somehow reflects both the traditional country show and the diverse inner-city communities of Brixton and Herne Hill.
From concession sales and sponsorship, plus cash donations made on the day, the fair generates over £300,000 for the local council. Such events don't come cheap though (it costs over £600,000) and so the local council tax payer picks up the bill. Whether such expenditure represents good value for money, you would have to ask the council tax-paying residents of Lambeth.
What certainly represents good value for money was the visionary investment that created the park itself.
Brockwell Park was once part of the ‘Great North Wood’, a dense forest that stretched from the Weald of Sussex and Kent to present day Brixton. In the 12th Century the land formed part of the Manor of Lambeth, which belonged to the Archbishop of Canterbury. The land was then used as a monastic retreat until it was seized under Henry Vlll's Dissolution of the Monasteries.
Until the 1650s the site belonged to the Tulse Family. By 1807 the eastern side of the original estate was owned by glass merchant John Blades. The surrounding fields were laid out as a private park for the new Brockwell Hall on top of the hill, and houses in nearby Brixton Water Lane were built for estate staff. During this period this part of Lambeth was dominated by woods and commons, with few villages or settlements.
Joshua Blackburn, grandson of John Blades, inherited the estate in 1860. Taking advantage of the Herne Hill railway station (built in 1862), he added new buildings including Clarence Lodge and a line of houses along the south side of Dulwich Road.
But, in the 1880s the huge estate was put up for sale for housing.
In March 1891, following a campaign led by local MP Thomas Lynn Bristowe, London County Council acquired the land. Bristowe even used his own money to guarantee the purchase. On 2 June the following year, the park was opened to the public. At the park's opening ceremony, Bristowe suffered a catastrophic heart attack and died on the steps of the Brockwell Hall.
In 1883 a huge memorial statue was erected near the main Herne Hill gate, paid for by public subscription. In 1958, in an flagrant act of cultural vandalism, the statue was demolished to make way for a road widening project. The bust itself was salvaged and given to the Bristowe family.
In 2007 the Brockwell Park Management Advisory Committee secured £6 million of lottery funding, to restore and improve its parklands, buildings, play facilities and wetland areas. In 2012, following some extraordinary detective work by local amateur historians, the bust was unearthed in the Bristowe family garden. It was subsequently restored and unveiled in Brockwell Hall, where it was unveiled on the 120th anniversary of Bristowe's death.
London, of course, is blessed with many wonderful green spaces. Hyde Park, Regent's Park, St James' Park, Richmond Park, Clapham Common, Hampstead Heath, Kensington Gardens, Crystal Palace....
One of the joys of exploring the city with young kids is discovering these green oasis in the midst of the concrete metropolis. Places like Queens Park in north west London, Dulwich Park in South London and Coram's Fields, near the British Museum in central London, are just some of the green spaces we discovered this summer.
Coming from Italy, where public green spaces are often under-utilised, inadequately resourced, shabby, no-go areas, Brockwell Park positively bursts with life and activity. Leisure pursuits of every kind, from tennis, to football, boxing, to kite-flying. Imaginative and abundant children's play areas, including an adventure playground, a paddling pool and wet play area, meadows, parkland, woodland and walled gardens, football pitches, tennis courts and a bmx track, a thriving cafè, a vast green space with stunning views over the city of London, all fenced in and well-maintained. Such parks are not just the lungs of the city, they are the beating heart of the local community.
It is the public spirited Victorians who we should thank for the abundance of public parks, not just in London, but throughout the UK. From the Derby Arboretum, to Glasgow's Kelvingrove, these public spaces were set aside by well-meaning public figures, like Thomas Lynn Bristowe, who, in the wake of the industrial revolution, understood the need to provide open green spaces for rest and relaxation.
It falls to us to ensure that they are cherished, preserved and, above all, enjoyed.