A NEW BOOK!

Three years, thousands of tears, thrice-tested (at least) recipes, thoughts of giving up and throngs of friends to thank for listening to me and keeping me going - finally my cookbook, Cooking in Green Lemon Land, is here! If cooking had always been therapeutic for me, I can assure you that writing a cookbook was not; in fact, it is one of the hardest things I have ever done but done it is and I am pleased with it.

It is not, I hasten to say, a Sicilian cookbook, but rather a book which shows what I do with the wonderful ingredients available to me here, incorporating into my dishes what I know of international cookery and, in particular, my love of spices. Where I do give Sicilian recipes, they are with my own touches.

I am not allowed to sell the book myself, nor would I expect or wish to do so, but hopefully copies will become available in one or two bookshops here and after Christmas (with the help of a friend to adjust the file in technical ways that are beyond me) I should be able to put it on Amazon. I will keep you posted.

Meanwhile, thanks to all in Italy and the UK who have encouraged me in this endeavour and happy cooking!

DONA NOBIS PACEM 2023 - WALKING IN PEACE

 

In the midst of a situation so horrendous that most of us cannot bear to look at the images, an eighty-five-year-old Israeli woman who has just been released turns and holds out her hand towards (I am choosing my words carefully here) a member of the organisation that had held her captive.

During a press conference held later Yochevid Lifshiz said she had done so because the man, a paramedic, had treated her kindly and, with others, had attended to her physical needs. She has been criticised for her gesture, but from what I have read since, I gather that the criticism was really directed at the way in which the press conference was handled. Mrs Lifshiz may also have been thinking of her husband, still being held as far as we know, or she may have taken pity on the man's youth. Or perhaps she was simply offering a gesture of humanity in an absurd situation, and I mean “absurd” in the horrific sense.

It has always interested me that in English we talk of a “theatre” of war to denote geographical location and that we also understand the concept of the “theatre of the absurd”. Is there not a connection? Is it not absurd that in the twenty-first century, with the tragedy of World War II still (just) in living memory, we resort to war to attempt to resolve our differences? War – in which the innocent are always hurt. War, in which there are always terrible deeds because war itself is terrible. There has been much talk in recent weeks about the “rules of war” and surely if we can have rules of war, we can have “rules of peace”, rules to which all nations would adhere? Yet we who are fortunate enough, thus far, not to have experienced war in our homelands cannot know what we would do and for the moment we just look at our many screens and wish that it would stop around the world.

My own interest in the theatre of the absurd began with the study of French literature and it is to France that I turn now to bring to your attention an article, about a “theatre of war” from long ago, posted by the BBC on 27^th August this year. At the time, the events recounted in it stopped me in my tracks but I certainly did not expect it to seem so relevant just a few weeks later: Near the town of Meymac in Corrèze, central France, a ninety-eight-year-old former Resistance fighter, as the last surviving witness, recently decided to speak out about the mass execution there of German soldiers by the Resistance. This was because a German army division had killed ninety-nine hostages in Tulle and 643 civilians in the village of Oradour-sur-Glane in retaliation for a Resistance uprising. (Preparations for D-Day had been underway.) The soldiers were made to dig their own graves and afterwards faced the firing squad bravely. Coins, bullets and other objects dating from the period have been found at what was the execution site but no human remains have yet been located. The Corrèze prefecture and Mayor are determined to find the remains of the soldiers, exhume them and, presumably, bury them in a fitting way. In war, says the Mayor, “You can be on the side of the righteous and still carry out what is morally wrong” and this is the sentence that so impressed me in August. As I have said, all sides carry out terrible deeds in war because war itself is terrible.

Do I have an answer for this? No, and neither do presidents, prime ministers, generals and diplomats who are much more knowledgeable than I am. I can only say that peace must be not only the outcome, but peace must be the way.

Of course, no one can negotiate with a tyrant or a fanatic but sometimes, perhaps, it is possible to offer a gesture of humanity: On October 23rd, an eighty-five-year-old Israeli woman who had just been released turned and held out her hand towards a member of the organisation that had held her captive. That day, she walked in peace.

With thanks, as always, to Mimi Lenox, who inspires us all to blog for peace.

THANK YOU, ITALY

As a child, I collected stamps, mainly because a lot of children did, and I would dutifully place them, with stamp hinges, in an album, now lost. I also framed the most colourful ones. Later I liked Christmas and commemorative stamps but studying for exams and other activities - such as falling in hopeless teenage love - left me no time to organise them, so eventually I gave them away to a charity that had said they could make use of them. Who knows if I might have made a fortune had I kept them?

I still frame stamps today, though I must admit that the way I have done so is probably a philatelist's nightmare (some being a bit wonky). These are mostly stamps from the Christmas card envelopes which arrive from Britain and from my cousin and second cousin in New Zealand and Australia respectively. They are too pretty to throw away or confine to a drawer.

Although I no longer take an active interest in commemorative stamps, I must say that I was interested and pleased to read today that Italy has issued a stamp in memory of Queen Elizabeth II. This stamp was unveiled yesterday in a ceremony in Rome in the presence of Adolfo Urso, the Minister for Enterprise and Made in Italy and the British Ambassador to Italy Lord Edward Llewellyn. Also present were other representatives from signor Urso's Ministry, representatives from the Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato (The State Printing and Mint Institute) and, of course, from Poste italiane - all the institutions which had played a part in the design and production of the stamp.

Commemorative stamp issued by Italy showing effigies of
 Queen Elizabeth II at various stages of her life.

Apart from commemorative stamps for some popes and one or two others such as Mother Teresa, this is the first time that Italy has honoured a non-Italian in this way and is a mark of the respect in which Her Majesty was held here. As Ed Llewellyn said, it is an extraordinary event and also shows the affection that Italians had, and continue to have, for Queen Elizabeth, an affection that she reciprocated. He said that this stamp issue demonstrates that the late Queen's impact and legacy are recognised far beyond British shores and that it is a symbol of the partnership and friendship that links our two countries.

As regular readers will know, I am not an ardent royalist. My feelings on the matter of Queen Elizabeth's death, like those of many British citizens, are based on the fact that it is perfectly possible to admire the person without always defending the institution and that she was, until 8th September 2022, "always there", in the background of our lives. 

Like the Ambassador, I am moved by this commemoration and as a British citizen in Italy, I thank my adopted country.

BUON FERRAGOSTO 2023

 

ADDIO AL POETA DEL PONTE

I called my old friend the Modican poet Antonio Lonardo "my poet of the bridge" because he and his wife lived near the famous Guerrieri Bridge in Modica. Long-time readers of this blog may recall that I had the privilege of translating two of Antonio's collections, Il profumo del pensiero and Alla ricerca dell'Oreb and, working with him on these, got to know him well. Sadly, Antonio, who had been ill for some time, died, aged eighty, on Friday and his funeral is taking place in Modica's lovely Duomo di San Giorgio today. 

Antonio Lonardo was born in Taurasi, Avellino (Campania) in 1943. As a young man, he did several jobs in the countryside and then went to Milan, where he worked as a school secretary. He then studied at the University of Salerno and trained to be a teacher.

Antonio started writing poetry in 1977, finding solace in it following the death of his fiancée. He met his future wife Carla in Bergamo in 1981 and they were married after thirteen months. It was because of Carla that Antonio came to Modica. He wrote of the day he met her,

Nelle premesse
di un giorno,
con il sole
alle spalle,
l’orizzonte illuminato,
il domani s’attendeva radioso.

In the words
of a single day,
with the sun
on my back,
the horizon alight with hope,
a brilliant tomorrow was promised.

( Antonio Lonardo, Quel giorno)

The couple adopted their daughter, Lilli, from Romania in 1975. At thirteen, she was illiterate but Antonio and Carla slowly and patiently taught her to read. 

Antonio was for many years a teacher of Italian literature at the Istituto di istruzione superiore "Archimede" in Modica and generations of students will remember him with affection. One of his former colleagues told me that he would often present her, and others, with a newly written poem on Monday mornings and I have often imagined what a happy start to their week that must have been!

Antonio won many prizes and certificates for his poetry, among them the Silver Medal of the President of the Republic and The Medal of the Speaker of the Senate. These were all proudly on show in his home, in a room devoted to them. In 2009, Antonio was invited to receive a prize at the Premio Internazionale di Poesia "Coluccio Salutati" awards ceremony in Buggiano (Pistoia) and I was thrilled to accept an invitation to travel there with him. (Unknown to me before the ceremony, but known to Antonio, I was to be awarded a prize too, for my translation of Il profumo del pensiero.)

Migrants and others who were voiceless or without hope found a defender in Antonio Lonardo, as can be seen in the second collection I translated for him, Alla ricerca dell'Oreb. During that journey by train and ferry to Florence (whence we would travel onwards to Buggiano by car) a passenger whose views were abhorrent to both of us entered our carriage. I (with difficulty) kept out of the argument but Antonio skilfully and calmly demolished the gentleman's assertions and today I remain as impressed, recalling that discussion, as I was in 2009.

Antonio once told me that he was sad that young people did not seem to appreciate poetry, not understanding that it can explain this very puzzling world. To the young people of Modica, then, I would say, "Read! Read your poet!"

I will always be grateful to have had the opportunity to translate some of Antonio's work and he was delighted to know that people in other countries were reading it.  

When the poet and songwriter Charles Aznavour died, President Macron said,

"En France les poètes ne meurent jamais - In France, poets never die."

I am sure the same is true in Italy.

Ho scoperto l'orizzonte

dove spunta il sole:

è nei profondi occhi

di chi sorride alla vita.

....

Ho saziato la fame

dell'intellettuale curiosità:

è nel profondo intimo

di chi stimola lo spirito.

I have discovered the horizon

where the sun rises:

it is in the depths of the eyes

of those who smile at life.

....

I have satisfied the hunger

of intellectual curiosity:

it is in the innermost being

of those who move the spirit.

(Antonio Lonardo, Singolari Esperienze)

MY TWO LANDS OF SONG

Yes, it's been a while. Sometimes life intervenes but I'm back today to tell you how happy it makes me when a special event links my two countries, Wales and Italy, especially when my home town of Cardiff is involved.

Cardiff Singer of the World is a prestigious classical music competition which takes place biannually in the Welsh capital. This year sixteen competitors arrived in Wales to take part and five were selected as finalists. All were worthy but after careful consideration the 29-year-old bass Adolfo Corrado from Salento (Puglia) was declared the winner. He looked absolutely amazed but also, of course, delighted. Asked how he felt, he replied, "Distrutto" and the audience went wild when he said he had learned just one word of Welsh, diolch - thank you. 

Adolfo studied at the Tito Schipa Conservatory in Lecce and this year has performed in Don Giovanni in Valencia and Il barbiere di Siviglia in Bari. He now lives in Florence and I am sure we'll be hearing much more of him in the years to come. Good luck, Adolfo!

You can watch the international version of the final on the BBC 4 website but I don't know for how long. I love the shots of dear old Cardiff at the beginning and towards the end, at approximately 2h.23m., you can see the winner announcement and listen to a very fine rendition of the Welsh national anthem. I have a feeling that Adolfo will be learning it!

BUONA PASQUA 2023

 

Above: cassatelle di ricotta and traditional lamb
pies, made by a friend's mother

Let's not forget it's doggy Easter too, so Bertie is enjoying partaking of these treats little by little. The "Canombella" is a word play on cane (dog), Colomba (the traditional dove-shaped Easter cake) and ciambella (a ring-shaped cake or bun) and the "Canova" on cane and uova (egg). Don't worry - the egg-shaped treat does not contain chocolate.

Buona Pasqua

AGRIGENTO 2025

Young people I talk to often ask what my favourite cities are and I always reply that in Italy, they are Agrigento and Florence because both literally took my breath away when I first saw them. I add that in the UK, London has to be on my list, for the simple reason that Dr Johnson was right and it has everything, while Cardiff has to feature because it is the city where I have lived longer than anywhere else, and Bath because it is so easily walkable and has homogenous stone which, like that of Noto (another Sicilian favourite) glows light amber in sunlight. But Agrigento lifts my heart, reminds me why I came to Italy and retells the story of Western European culture.

I was very pleased, therefore, to read last week that Agrigento has been chosen as Italian Capital of Culture 2025 for it is an honour it has long deserved. Gennaro Sangiuliano, Italy's Minister of Culture, said on Friday that the (cultural) wealth and interconnectedness of so many places, cities and villages in Italy are unique in the world and something that only Italy has, making the country a cultural superpower. Every town, even the smallest, he said, is a treasure trove. 

The Commission awarding the title was impressed by the fact that Agrigento included in its application the cultural importance of the island of Lampedusa and other towns in Agrigento Province, and stressed the importance of the relationship between the individual, his or her neighbours and nature. The concepts of welcome and access were also at the heart of the dossier.

Francesco Miccichè, the Mayor of Agrigento, said that Agrigento and Sicily had not really won because the real winner is Italy, and to have written and promoted this application in this historic political period, focussing on cultural exchange between peoples and the diverse ethnicities of the Mediterranean, was a great act of courage and sensitivity on behalf of the judges and all the institutions involved. He then issued an invitation to all the mayors who had participated in the competition to help create a tourist network from Aosta (in the Alps) all the way down to Agrigento, uniting all of them by being Italian.

As a lover of Agrigento, I feel very proud of her myself and I have written before on this blog about how I think its Sagra del mandorlo in fiore (Almond Blossom Festival) unites young people in particular and of how, on my first visit to Sicily, I managed to find and visit the birthplace of the writer Luigi Pirandello, which you, too, may like to do if you are interested in literature and find yourself in Agrigento. The city itself is also welcoming and pleasant, and you should not miss an opportunity to visit the 13th century church of Santa Maria dei Greci (built on the site of a Greek temple, hence the name).

However, Agrigento's main attraction for tourists is, of course, its Valle dei Templi and it really does have to be seen to be believed (in a good way). The last time I was there was on a sunny spring day in 2018 and it looked, as it always has, glorious.

The Culture Minister also said that from 2024 there will be, in addition to an Italian Capital of Culture and an Italian Capital of Books, an Italian Capital of Contemporary Art and a European Capital of the Mediterranean.

STARS IN MY EYES

Here I am, almost a week late in posting about the 73rd Sanremo Festival of Italian Song, life and a storm (of which more below) having intervened. I always enjoy Sanremo but this year's festival did not get off to the best of starts, with the singer Blanco (one half of the duo which won last year) deciding to kick around the roses and mostly destroy the set because he had problems with his headphones during his performance. The Mayor of Sanremo was appalled, as were others, and pointed out how much work and time goes into the care of such flowers and the creation of such a set. He did, very tolerantly, I thought, add that we have all been young, and then called for an apology, which was, by all reports, forthcoming. The last I read on the incident was that the singer has been banned from the festival for the next three years. For me the evening was saved by the much loved singer and co-presenter Gianni Morandi, who calmly arrived on stage with a broom and swept like a pro. Do bring your broom round to my house if you find yourself in Sicily, Gianni! There might be a Welshcake in it for you.

I missed the second night of the festival because I fell asleep and on the third night Masterchef Italia was airing on another channel and claimed my attention but the following night's "Cover Night", when the singers in the competition perform versions of other artistes' songs (with another singer of their choice if they wish), was, as always, the best night for me, with the eventual winner of the festival Marco Mengoni giving a wonderful rendition of  Let It Be with the Kingdom Choir.

The final night featured two other scandals, or maybe three if you object to uterus-shaped jewellery (worn by co-presenter Chiara Ferragni), a minor one occurring when guest star Gino Paoli inappropriately began recounting the long-ago marital indiscretions (which may or may not have happened) of the partner of another artiste of his heyday and a major one when the rapper Rosa Chemical began twerking at Fedez, seated in the front row, and then dragged the latter onto the stage and snogged him. Signora Ferragni, who happens to be married to Fedez, was said to have been not exactly happy. Neither were many viewers and official complaints quoting "obscene acts" have been presented to the Public Prosecutor of Sanremo. Hmm. I leave the last word on this incident to the Sicilian comic Fiorello who, being interviewed by mobile phone on the show, commented that the next day all the papers would be talking about the clothes and the kiss rather than the songs - and they were.

The clothes, of course, help make Sanremo the fascinating entertainment that it is but I have to admit my eyes were on - well, the eyes. As an older woman, I have been aware for several years that I should by now have thrown out any black eyeliner lurking in my makeup drawers and opted for brown or at least navy blue and I have followed this advice. But black eyeliner was certainly back in vogue at Sanremo, and lots of it, on both young and older artistes. When I was young we all slapped it on after seeing Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra and I remember, at around the same time, an article in a teenage magazine in which the singer Dusty Springfield recommended not taking your eyeliner off at night, but leaving it on and painting the next day's liner over it. I tried this till the substance caked so much that I couldn't open my eyes. It all continued to look great on Liz Taylor and Dusty Springfield, though!

The worthy winner of the competition as a whole was, as I have mentioned, Marco Mengoni with his song Due Vite. I'm not usually very good at predicting the winner, but this time, I managed it - a superb song and fantastic performances. And well done, Sanremo (a town I have visited and remember with affection) and Rai.

In the eye of the storm

A storm like no other I have experienced in nearly eighteen years in Sicily began during the evening of Wednesday 8th February and I had begun to be concerned in the late afternoon when I read that all schools in Modica were to be closed the next day because of bad weather.

By mid-evening, the rain was pelting down relentlessly and I was surprised that the electricity supply held and enabled me to watch Sanremo at all. It didn't in several other areas of the city and I later learned that some homes were without power for as long as 36 hours. The difference between this violent storm and others I have witnessed here was that this one lasted so long - there was no let-up at all until Friday evening, schools remained closed, we were all asked to go out only for essential reasons and I had begun to think that it would never end. It was an extremely scary event to live through alone. 

My bedroom flooded, probably because the windows look out onto an open field, whereas the other rooms are partly protected by the surrounding buildings. The rug I keep near the bedroom balcony door became hopelessly wet very quickly and, searching a cupboard for some item to replace it, I came across a box of mat-sized absorbent pads, made of cotton wool backed with plastic, which I had bought when my dog was a puppy. (They didn't work because my dog thought they were for eating and then destroying.) I placed them on the bedroom floor and am happy to report that they did the job, absorbing a lot of the water and at least preventing things from becoming any worse. 

The whole Province of Ragusa was affected by the storm but Modica was particularly badly hit this time. Trees and masonry fell, roads became impassable and in the Old Town café tables and chairs were just swept away by the water coursing down the main street. Everyone I have spoken to this week had had to contend with water, to a lesser or greater extent, getting into their homes and it is not an experience any of us wish to see repeated. However, as Sicilians say, this time "Siamo qua" ("We are here"). 

HAPPY NEW YEAR, A LITTLE LATE

I write this the day after the eighth anniversary of the death of my beloved dog, Simi, whom some of you may remember from posts of yesteryear. It's never an easy day, as the dog lovers among you will understand, but I am grateful for the time we had and to her for sending me my Bertie.

 

If ever a dog needed a lot of love, it is Bertie and she came to the right place to receive it! Bertie certainly gives a lot of love in return, and here she is after her Christmas haircut:

Santa Paws came, just as he used to for Simi and then Bertie discovered that life is full of choices:

On festive evenings we snuggled under an old favourite Christmas blanket and we enjoyed it:

"I like it under here, I do!"

Pre-Christmas rather passed me by, I'm afraid and the prohibitive cost and even more hassle of sending cards to the UK these days left me resorting to e-cards en masse. I did, however, manage a day in Catania on the Thursday before Christmas. I had felt in need of the atmosphere of a big city and it looked particularly lovely in the sunshine, with its charming festive mercatini:

I loved the reindeer!

It's difficult to take a selfie when you want to get the famous Catania elephant that is above you in the frame but are afraid to put your bags on the ground because of the possibility of pickpockets (as in any big city). 

Back in Modica, this simple but beautiful shop window cheered me as I passed it every day. A photo does not do it justice:

Then all too soon it was twelfth night and taking the decorations down made me sadder than ever this year. Perhaps it is ageing and the effects of the insecurity about the future that we all probably feel post- pandemic. My Christmas tree ornaments consist mostly of mementoes and my Rome and Norwich robin ones have pride of place. They are in their wrapping now, until next year, God willing. 

 HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!

THE HAPPIEST COLOUR

I received this beautiful gift of oranges and mandarins from a friend's garden, presented in a traditional, hand-made Sicilian basket, yesterday.

To quote a certain Mr Sinatra whose father was from Lercara Friddi in Palermo Province, or maybe, as the singer himself once claimed, Catania,

"ORANGE IS THE HAPPIEST COLOR."

Yes, siree!

DONA NOBIS PACEM 2022

 BLOG4PEACE - NO FREEDOM, NO PEACE

On New Year's Eve 1999 I was having dinner with friends back in Cardiff, Wales. When the clocks struck midnight, we took our glasses of champagne outside, clinked them, watched the spectacular fireworks our hosts had provided, then hugged and kissed and went indoors to drink a toast, proposed by my friend's husband:

"Here's to the new century and we drink this toast in the hope that you young people who are with us tonight will enjoy good things to come, without the kind of horrible events that your grandparents' and, to some extent, your parents' generations had to live through. It seems that you might be lucky."

There is always conflict somewhere and there were conflicts going on even as he spoke, but we all knew that he meant those words sincerely. Then 9/11 happened, less than two years later and the threat of terrorism was everywhere in our daily lives.

As if that were not enough, in 2020, all over the world, we found our peacetime freedoms limited in ways we could never have imagined because of the pandemic and here in Italy we suddenly found ourselves living under a curfew. Every one of us lived in fear of our lives and those of our families and, apart from following the rules, there seemed to be nothing we could do about it. Has this made us better placed to imagine how it feels to have your freedom restricted by war? Perhaps.

On 8th September this year Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II died and on the day of her funeral the world witnessed the passing of an era. As a British person, I watched in sadness but also in awe at the splendour of the uniforms and the precision of my country's military. Yet a part of me was in despair for how, I asked myself, could there ever be a mentality of peace when we carry our revered dead monarchs on gun carriages to the sound of gun salutes and have woven the iconography of war into that of the nation? 

I am very aware that I am writing this one week before Remembrance Sunday in the UK, when the fallen and injured of all wars are commemorated, and I mean no disrespect. My own grandfather was blinded in World War I and I am profoundly grateful to him and to all who have fought for my freedom. I just wish there was another way of obtaining it, as, I am sure, do many soldiers. "No one abhors war more than someone who has been in one", my grandfather used to say. And it was that old warrior Sir Winston Churchill who said,

The one image of the war in Ukraine that I cannot get out of my mind is from the beginning of the conflict, when a young Russian soldier - a child, in fact, for he couldn't have been older than 19 - was captured in a village. The Ukrainian villagers were feeding him and being kind and even helped him to call his mother, at which point he began to cry. Is this what we want? Is this fair, that the old send the young into battle to try and resolve the messes that the former have made? Of course we do not want it and of course it is not fair. Where is the freedom for this young man and others like him to finish his education if he wishes, to have the joy of family, to live? No Freedom, No Peace.  

My thanks, as always, to the indefatigable Mimi Lenox, who inspires us all to blog for peace.

THERE HAD TO BE CAKE

Like so many all over the world, I devoted Monday to watching, on television, the ritual that accompanied the end of an era in London. I am glad I bought an extra box of tissues! A friend and I lunched, between processions, church services, standing for the national anthem and tears, on Italian stuzzichini (finger food) and a Turkish lahmacun (because it tastes good cold and I had therefore been able to make it the day before, using a pizza base not pitta bread, as it traditional). After that there had to be cake and my local bar made the one you see below for me - a thank you to the late Queen but also looking to the future with King Charles:   

Thus a Welshwoman and a Scottish woman in Sicily bade farewell to this most international of queens and we do not think she would have minded at all. 

"SOME MORNING, UNAWARE"

 O, to be in England

Now that April 's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

 ...

wrote Robert Browning in Home Thoughts, from Abroad and went on to list, in the poem, some of the things you might see and hear in the English countryside on an April morning. But you see them distractedly, "unaware" because you take them for granted; you are "there" and able to see them every day.

Many words have been written about the momentous events of this week, so, planning this post, I wondered what I could possibly add to what great and renowned writers have already said. I had written about the Queen on this blog only in June, when we were celebrating her Platinum Jubilee, yet that seems a decade ago now. I pondered, wondered again and considered not writing anything at all but then I thought that perhaps I could write about what it is like to be British and hear such news when you are not "there",  do not wake in England or one of the other nations of the United Kingdom, cannot totally gauge the atmosphere "there" but suddenly, although you hope you have become bicultural, feel more British than you have for years. And you reel from the impact of the news you have just heard.

On the morning of what began as an ordinary day, Thursday, 8th September, I was looking at the British newspapers online and following certain developments on Twitter when suddenly I read that Her Majesty the Queen had been advised to rest as her doctors were "concerned". Alarm bells did not immediately ring in my head as we had seen Her Majesty accepting the resignation of one Prime Minister only on Monday and she had appointed the new one on Tuesday. In the photos, she looked frail but happy. She had rallied before; surely she would rally again? But then serious journalists started tweeting that something strange was going on in Parliament; notes were being passed round and Members of Parliament were looking grim. The Speaker interrupted the session to convey the best wishes of the House to the Queen. It occurred to me that the very fact that the Palace had issued a statement meant that things were very bad and, when we were told that first the (then) Prince of Wales and later the Princess Royal had gone to Balmoral, we knew. As Brits we all knew, wherever we were in the world. In the afternoon the Queen's other children and Prince William arrived at Balmoral and the only further news for hours was that the Queen was "comfortable". Again, as Brits, we knew that this probably meant, "Nothing further can be done" but we perhaps did not expect the  news we dreaded to come so quickly. At home I switched on BBC World News and saw that their main royal news presenter was wearing a black tie. 

At seven o'clock in Italy, which is six o'clock in the UK,  I took my dog out and when I came back, I went into the kitchen for a moment with the television still on in the living room. I heard the words "King" and "Charles" and then I knew for certain. I watched the written announcement that was displayed on the screen and a piece of my heart - the fragment that had woken in England "unaware" and had taken the Queen for granted - dropped out of my body. The National Anthem was played and although I was alone I stood up. I thought, "Oh, goodness, I've got to sing God Save the King" (for the Crown passes immediately to the heir upon the death of the Sovereign).

I thought back to the Coronation, when I was three. I've written before on this blog about how, when it was over, I had asked my great aunt when the next one would be and she had replied, "When the Queen dies." I had cried, because I didn't want this lovely young woman with the dazzling smile to die but I didn't want to wait either. And here I was, seventy years later, and I was standing in a living room in Sicily crying my eyes out just like that little girl so long ago.

When you live in a foreign land, you begin to see your own country with new eyes, especially if you have had to explain its ways and traditions to others, which, as a teacher, I have had to do. I have spent a large part of my life criticising the monarchy but over the years, looking at it not from "there" but from "here", I have come to the conclusion that it has its merits. I think I began to soften towards the Queen in particular when I watched a documentary about her, filmed not long after Prince Philip's retirement from royal duties, in which she walked down what looked like the kitchen stairs of whatever palace she was in one grey, rainy morning, perfectly dressed in coat and matching hat as always, smiling and ready to leave for an engagement. It came into my mind that she must have felt very lonely, despite her entourage. Few would have criticised her if she had handed over to her heir at that time but she was her own woman: when she was twenty-one she had famously made a promise to the people of her nation and the Commonwealth to serve them all her life and she was going to keep it. And who will ever forget the photo that went round the world in 2021, in which she stood alone, because of Covid, on what must have been the worst day of her life - that of her husband's funeral? She may have been a Queen, but how she must have longed for a comforting human touch that day. As someone who spent Italy's first, long, very strict lockdown totally alone apart from my dog, I can tell you that her famous lockdown speech, containing the reference to the song We'll Meet Again which every British person understood, gave a seventy-year-old Welshwoman in Sicily the hope that she desperately needed.

Students often ask me if the royals are "snobs" and I always reply, "Absolutely not." On the contrary, they are trained to put people at ease and are supposed to be polite to everyone. (All right, one was gaffe-prone but we have forgiven him.)  It is often said that the Queen met "everyone" and today a photo of her shaking hands and talking to Kermit the frog of Muppet fame has emerged on social media. She is smiling and she would have been as courteous to Kermit the frog as she was to the Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Watching the documentaries shown during the BBC's coverage of the Queen's death, it has become much clearer to me that she did, indeed, meet "everyone" and how hard she worked. I am usually the first to say that it is not "work" as ordinary people know it but I do not think we can imagine what it takes to be constantly travelling (albeit in great comfort), make speeches which you may not agree with at the behest of a government which operates in your name but tells you what to do, to always smile, appear interested and, most skilfully, engage in conversation without really saying anything at all - to be the perfect "soft power" diplomat. It is because of her strictly kept political neutrality that the Queen was, and is, so respected around the world and it is also why the tributes - some of them from unexpected sources -  have poured in.

Of these tributes, two stand out for me, one from a head of state and the other from an elderly Sicilian gentleman whom I do not know but pass the time of day with in the street:

President Macron said,

For you, she was your Queen.

For us, she was The Queen.

She will be with all of us forever.

The Sicilian man said,

I am so sorry about the Queen. I was in love with her. For me it was as if she was Italian.

Her Majesty was, insofar as her job permitted it, her own woman but she was everybody's Queen.

I do not know when I will wake in England or Wales again, Your Majesty, but I do know that I will never wake "unaware" that you have gone.

For those of you who speak Italian, here is a link to a video in which I show and explain the Coronation Crown coin which I have kept for seventy years. (I'm about one second from the end of the clip and you will need some Sicilian pazienza to skip the ads!)

https://www.videomediterraneo.it/notizie/attualita/morte-elisabetta-ii-il-ricordo-dei-britannici-in-sicilia/