Bobbio

This blog entry is a bit late, but records a lovely place with fascinating history.

We took a local bus on 1 October 2018 from Piacenza, five zones to Bobbio. About 70 minutes by bus.

The road runs from flat land by the Po up the valley of the Trebbia, along a two lane road also signposted for Genova.

At Bobbio, seeming almost half way to Genova on a flat map, you reach a point where the rest of the way to Genova is clearly through the darkening Appennine range.

Around the year 600CE a priest, Colombanus, came out of Ireland as among many Irish missionaries. He established substantial abbeys and communities in what is now France and in his sixties went from Germany through Switzerland and only a little bit like Hannibal arrived in Italy.

Where he launched himself into attacks on those elements on the church who were writing negatively about the papacy, against the idea that the church in Rome and its chief were essential intermediaries with god. This is almost a millennium before the reformation. Thus an Irish priest was a significant player in the early buttressing of the papacy, an institution ironically in a little trouble back in Ireland in 2018.

Lombards then were ruling what is now Milan. One can imagine a scene (not offering history here, perhaps more M Python) in which ruling Lombard says to important advisor: "Who is this fellow who has so much to say, my wife thinks he's a bit special" to which the advisor says "I think he's a Celt which is a kind of Gaul. He wants somewhere quiet for a monastery. We could send him up this river, there's space there." "Good idea. I can imagine he wants something quiet, he's nearly 70." There was space to do things like that then. Europe not yet to emerge for centuries, just blokes in charge here and there.

And so Colombanus went to Bobbio. With his writing gear.

The abbey is much refurbished but not active in the monastery business now, having been shut down by Napoleon. It is now host for example to the Bobbio film festival.

The town is a delight, though as one white haired person who struck up conversation, who has always lived nearby said: "It's really a village, a paese. It's beautiful but with globalisation there's now no work."

The bridge which seems to have more designers than now working to rebuild the Morandi bridge in Genova, is a tourist promoted item.

The town itself has great beauty. We walked through the abbey and up to the Malaspina Castle, where spent an hour in quiet beauty.

along the road to Bobbio

The House of Porcini Mushrooms and Truffles

a day out, in pictures, 13 October 2018, Rome

click on any image to enlarge

Italian pharmacies look like this, so often in very old premises, character retained.
Enlarge this image if you wish to read the Latin over the door.

Hello young person

Not my kind of person, old person

Red car with guys

in arrivo, Cavour Metro

Red car with Pyramid.

The #3 tram, in arrivo

Antica Cappelleria Laboratorio, since 1924, Viale Trastevere
The Old Hat Laboratory

The dramatic woman who found the Borsalino Classico in my size is out of view hat hunting behind the counter.
Helen bought a replacement for mine, my inseparable friend, looking tired after forty one years. 
I have much to do to give this new elegance comparable experience.

I am commanded by her commanding self on the right to return within days
to have my new hat cleaned and smartened.
Just lovely people.

Red car requiring no explanation, just an ordinary extraordinary Alfa.
While Helen fished among those garments I talked to the stall-keeper, Italian now for four years,
from Bangladesh where his family still is, he said they were outside Dacca and in response to my further question
he said yes, they were not by the sea, they were safe.
I asked how many languages he spoke: "Italian of course, English, Bangla of course, Hindi, Urdu, Arabo".
So you can walk all the way home then, I said. We laughed.
Please note the handsome tree above that appears in next photo.

While talking to the man from Bangladesh, a man began hiding behind the adjacent tree and produced a long lensed camera.
So this is my sneaky picture of a paparazzo taking a sneaky picture of... ?
Perhaps he's just an ordinary matrimonial investigator and someone
is buying a hat for someone inappropriate over there in the extraordinary hat shop.

Dog without words

A place for lunch, La Cantina Corsetti, waiters strong and proud and full of local accent and language, Romanaccio,
a very easily understood (not broad accented) presentation of which is here, a discussion of the perennial subject 
of trying to finish the Rome Metro with all the archaeological finds in the way.
And the menu is as it would have been half a century ago.

A view from lunch, Piazza San Cosimato, Trastevere, market to left, children's playground on right busy on Saturday. 

I had eaten Saltimbocca Romana, delicately cooked, not easy to achieve, no photo.
Then this, Torta di Mela Calda con Gelato di Vaniglia Cremata.
An absolutely stunning rendition of warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream and cream,
reheated to magic in pizza oven.
You want apple pie, I'll show you apple pie!

Helen had eaten Abbacchio al forno con patate arrosto
roast lamb with potatoes, but lamb as only obtainable around Rome, this world of dairy sheep,
where abbacchio is a different word from agnello, lamb, being the sheepish equivalent of milk veal.
And now for dessert, tiramisu, 'pull me up' (you can look it up)...
I think Helen may seek a fresh career back home in delirious recounting of consumptions of tiramisus.
It is delicious, but my advice, which I often fail to remember, is
do not breathe in while lifting that chocolate dusty stuff.

Across the road, by the playground, a sign erected by the school: "We have planted thyme, celery, sage, mint, fennel,
coriander and chives." No dogs, no feet... "Respect this space please."

Waiting for the 75 bus near the ministry of public education.

Bus with red rails

Red seat with Colosseum with red T-shirt

Red car that has the audacity to call itself a redhead [Testarossa], double parked, near home in Via Cavour.