It is my cookbook shelf dedicated to the whims and mysteries of la cucina Italiana.

It was off the beaten path, wandering around, discovering new places like Treviso and Nervi, failing at speaking Italian because I was reading Jeff’s In Sardinia or a book about a single mother making a home on an island in Sicily. It was the stories and the connections that made it real.

I could likely have our house mortgage paid off if it wasn’t for Italy.

I would be a different person if I didn’t spend the last 20 years falling deeper and deeper, but it was never pop Italy, la dolce vita Italy, even if here and there I did snap myself in postcard Italy. But I am not pretty so likely, I didn’t post it.

Sometimes it might have been a postcard moment, but I was likely tired, dehydrated, lost, or nauseated from the bus ride from Amalfi to Positano and I was definitely anxious on the bus up to see a villa and garden in Ravello. It was not exactly picture perfect but it was real, majestic, even transcendent.

I walked miles, photographed, recorded video things, yet mostly sat in the piazza with a pen in one hand and sparkling vino in the other. I cared more for the moment, wanting it to reveal itself, slowly.

Italy became a study, an education, a wish, a daily invocation.

I went from place to place and piazza to piazza. I understood the sublime in art, cried at Botticelli’s Venus, failed at downloading tickets, reading the fine print and opening times. I spiralled, lingered, prayed and wrote. I nearly lost my mind in Camogli when the beauty of the place made my heart break in two. A rising grief for not having my kids with me to show them where the bright paint box colours rolled straight into the sea.

I ate a slab of golden focaccia and sat at a table with an eye to the waves, ordered a persimmon coloured Americano to drown my tumbling thoughts. I wished that Europe did not have me in a bind, a hungry ghost I can never shake. Don’t even want to shake.

I went back to Genoa and Padua. I am not religious, but I called on Saint Anthony and left a note with Saint Catherine back in Rome. I had a mystical moment in Assisi when I fell for Saint Clare. I remember the glories of truffle and sausage pasta while I soaked in the notes of Italian families wafting like a choir. I watched the bread being carved behind a curtain with a gilded painting of Saint Francis. I relished the wild cinghiale, ordered firmly in my Australian version of Italian and tried rabbit for the first time over a caved tunnel in Orvieto.

In Italy I have fallen and dreamed and traveled on my own terms. My Italy is endless and a drop of pleasure each day.

I have planted 27 cypress, 6 olives and fried the sage leaves, torn basil, grinded them on stone. Planted Roma tomatoes, rolled the pasta, given almond ricciarelli for gifts. I dream of Trieste, Elba, Calabria and Portovenere.

Italy will always be liberation and a source of inspiration. And yet it is everyday to me. It is the hand painted Deruta mug and a frame of a historic Neapolitan Caffe photographed by a friend and fellow traveller. A panorama of us all on the fondamenta in Venice that hovers over the Caledonia oven at the end of our table.

It is a place I sit and write about, study, and muse while emptying another glimmering pot from the battered Bialetti coffee maker in my kitchen.

It was a portal of beauty that I made my own at my table. From eating taralli and sipping Prosecco while pouring magazines committed to Milano Design week late on a Sunday.

I have podcasted, waxed, overshared, questioned, bargained, devoured books and culture and cultivated a community of like minded souls who send me DMs about longing and hunger.

It was about the Italian way that stimulated conversation and connection and a reminder to set the long table, everyday.

I dragged my family there for a milestone birthday and watched our girls spin like dervishes under the 135 stairs in the Piazza di Spagna. I went to Ischia after a dream to try the volcanic terme. It’s been beautiful, messy and sincere.

I have friends that have parents who made a life in Australia away from the motherland, they were torn and fractured, and boarded ships for a fresh start. They made a life, enrolled children in catholic schools, their stories have been hard and challenging. Back then a panini with salumi was a mark of culture, a red flag in the school yard. I have such respect for how culture has moulded into the fabric of the Australian identity. I searched in local cafes and providores that sold cantuccini and taleggio, it is not my story but many that I know. There are two Italies for many. I only know one.

I am an imposter in this world, I cannot fake my belonging. But I have loved Italy like a fool and she will humble me again and again.

I know the place is not perfect, yet what place is? I like the chaos and the beauty of life being lived, out in the open with loud voices and linked arms. In the piazza I am offered a song, a deep prego, a loud ciao bella. Words that sing to us traveler’s who are open to her charms.

Liv still talks about the red clay bowl of pici pasta we ate in the winter light in Fiesole. It was a table for five and a moment of Tuscan simplicity. The waitress called Richard a molto grande bambino for his wish to have a hot milk drink after lunch. I still call him that, because it is kind of true. I add a few moltos to get the point across. That is Italy to me, in my world, my heart and tattooed on my soul.

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My Books: In the Shadow of a Cypress

Enjoy xx

“There’s nothing like a fountain and a magnum of French Champagne to put you right again” - Under the Tuscan Sun (film)

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I knew for me, I had to do something to wake my spirit and creativity. I was happy enough but at 37 standing in the kitchen I realised I still had a long way to go in terms of mothering and I needed to fill the well.

My husband never wanted to travel or make any future plans with me, he just liked being at home or visiting his family. Where I needed something more. I had always loved Italy and one day made the decision that I would go. I always had this strange feeling that I was never going to get out of parenting, that I just couldn’t see myself moving beyond it.

One part was because I was someone who really loved being at home with our girls, picking them up, organising fairy parties after school, making art and all that fun stuff. Yet, I had this sense that I couldn’t just let my life drift away on the boat of motherhood. So at 39 years old I arrived in Italy. I stayed for three weeks and had one of the most dazzling adventures of my life. This journey changed everything for me.

A few years later I started the podcast A Writer in Italy because I wanted to share stories and dive deeper into Italian culture, and mostly I love a creative project. This work was me being true to myself even though it never really made sense on paper and it was a work in progress.

I went back to Italy again and cajoled the family into coming with me a few times, which they loved… I always had to be in the driver’s seat, there is no doubt, otherwise these magnificent journeys back to Europe would never have happened at a time when the girls were still within our orbit - deep down I knew time was moving fast through the hour glass.

I discovered in our relationship I was more the visionary one, and Richard was the taproot. Both things can be good when you work together. Although, it hasn’t always been that simple. I loved those journeys and treasure the memories so much, because time has continued to move us on.

Exactly ten years after the journey to Italy at 49 I became a grandparent. My daughter Maddy had a baby boy on my husband’s birthday, funnily enough. They live with us much of the time and my life has taken another big turn. I am a full time creative and still juggle mothering (now 26, 21, 17) and the cherry on top, grandmothering. I also expect they will never leave home, a bit like the kids in Italy!! I am called GiGi ... I felt too young to be called Grandma!

It is a beautiful and wise thing that my 37 yr old self knew something about my future self. And my husband still does not make any plans or trips for the future, prefers being at home creating his music. But he adores being called PopPop and hanging around in the garden with his No1 grandchild (the one born on his 53rd birthday)….

I wrote about this journey in my book In the Shadow of a Cypress - An Italian Adventure.

My recent paperback edition of the book has been updated and has an addition of A Reader’s Guide and Journaling Prompts. The Paperback is available in full colour with colour images and artwork.

It has been a lovely work in progress, a bit like me!

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Today I am sharing some special details about this historic Venetian city. From Unesco World Heritage sites, historic landmark cafes to pilgrimage places, Venetian canals, the birth of spritz and the many architectural surprises, warning you may not want to leave.

Random beautiful details on the city of Padova in the Veneto:

In English, we say Padua.

*In the region of the Veneto there are seven provinces - Venezia (Venice), Verona, Vicenza, Treviso, Belluno, Rovigo and Padova (Padua)

*Padua is certainly on the map if you a fan of Giotto because of the Cappella degli Scrovegni. The Lonely Planet guide describes the small chapel in the north of Italy as Padua’s version of the Sistine Chapel. So there you go, they could be right!

Built over ruins of an ancient Roman amphitheatre, the area is called the ‘arena chapel’. Giotto was working in Padua over at the Basilica of Saint Anthony when the wealthy local financier Enrico Scrovegni had a vision of a grand palace, villa and chapel over the Roman arena. He requested the talented Giotto, the Florentine artist be the one to decorate the church where he planned to be buried with his wife Jacopina d’Este. This commission of the fresco cycle by revered Tuscan artist Giotto di Bondone was in memory of Scrovegni’s father who had been denied a Christian burial (this is another fascinating story). The church is dedicated to Santa Maria della Carità.

A ticket to see The Last Judgement allows you to enter the Museo Civico also known as the Eremitani next door where you can see more art and historical artefacts. Be aware there are limited numbers inside the chapel (a nice thing) - it is also timed and a temperature controlled room.

*One thing I love about this city is everyone moves about on bicycles and the delight of the cafe life. Padova boasts magnificent cafes under grand columns and loggias. The neo classical and Venetian Gothic Caffe Pedrocchi is an elegant place to stop and rest after a day exploring the city. The cafe has a vast history and is well known for visitors of literary talents like Stendal, Dario Fo, Hemingway and Lord Byron to name but a few.

Founded in the 18th century by Francesco Pedrocchi and his son Anthony, the cafe has evolved and become a cultural icon of the city. A Gothic beauty in the centro storico of Padova, this first coffee house was open to the artists and writers offering signature coffees and pastries developed over time. Historically it was the landmark location for the 1848 riots against the Habsburg Monarchy. Padua just like Venice was ruled by the Austrian Empire for a time, the revolution for Italian independence of the Veneto has roots in this city. It would take another 20 years for the Veneto to find its way back into the arms of Italy (1866), five years after the pivotal Risorgimento.

*The University of Padova was founded in 1222 by a bunch of students and teachers from Bologna, a few hours away in Emilia Romagna. The University of Padua is the second oldest university in Italy. These scholars sought intellectual freedom to reinvent education on their terms, libertas scholastica. About a 1000 scholars left Bologna for a new beginning in Padova. In the beginning these studious pioneering rebels taught Theology and Law.

Since the 13th century the university has enrolled the likes of many a controversial and intellectual thinker, such greats as Galileo, Casanova, and Copernicus. Padua not only considered intellectual freedom imperative but rallied for religious tolerance, since back in the day one had to be a Catholic in order to get out the other side with a degree in hand. And most importantly, Padua University holds the banner for the world’s first female Doctor of Philosophy. In 1678 the first female graduate was Eleonora Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia.

Piscopia is an important model for women academics and her statue can be found at the university. You can do a guided tour, the people also like to visit Galileo’s Anatomical Theatre in the historic Palazzo Bo.

*Many of you know in Northern Italy that an Aperol Spritz is homogenous with everyday life, yet #spritzlife is more a recent global sensation with campaigns all over for the bittersweet orange aperitivo. In Italy digestive bitters are essential to a comfortable and willing stomach. It is best to be prepared the Italian way.

In 1919 two brothers from Padua, Silvio and Luigi Barbieri created the cult flavour of apero - Aperol. Eventually Brand Campari bought out the company and built the empire. Notably, when I was last visiting in 2022 I paid only four Euros for an Aperol Spritz and a bowl of crisps. This is obviously another reason to get yourself to Padua if you ask me!

While Padua was under the reign of the Austrian Empire the locals would add soda water to the wine, it was called a spritzer. Some found the Venetian wine unpalatable and diluted the vino with bubbly water, a bit like a German beer. Spritzen means to splash or squirt. This explains much in terms of the word spritz, not sounding all that Italiano, considering its iconic status on tables all over Italy.

*One of the big treats in Padua is the markets. First you can stop at one of the many lively cafes that dominate the many squares, take an espresso and brioche with zabaione in the centre and then roam the cobbled streets. The outdoor markets can be found in Piazza delle Erbe and Piazza dei Frutti. There you will find real markets, the fruit and vegetables kind and the one where you might pick up a white coat for eight Euros (like I did), this is a traditional Italian market for the locals.

These markets are lined by elegant cafes and magnificent Palazzos. You can visit the 12th century Palazzo della Ragione. The salone boasts a magnificent fresco cycle and more of that Unesco World Heritage detail that is nice to see off the beaten path in Italy. Perhaps I write my next book sitting at a table in a piazza in Padua (food for thought)…

*If you have lost something dear to your heart or you need serious healing Saint Anthony of Padua has your back. The grand Basilica of Saint Anthony itself is a true vision, and worthy of a visit just to see for yourself. Outside Romanesque in architecture with Byzantine domes, inside Gothic and wonderfully regal. It is known for the Baroque style chapel of relics that are on view. If interested in seeing the body parts of revered saints you are in for a treat… fingers, tongues, and other enchanting preserved body parts are there for viewing and perhaps praying upon. Saint Anthony has his own glorious story of love and loss I shared once in a Podcast on this great city. Many on the pilgrimage trail visit to make their offerings and prayers. Note: Saint Anthony is one of my top favourite Italian saints, he is up there with Saint Francesco, Caterina and Chiara.

*Nearby the Prato della Valle, or Il Prato to the locals is a lovely part of the city to ride a bike around or meander about. The space is open and vast and a great place to rest before you visit the Basilica of Saint Anthony. Bordering the large oval square are 78 statues. There were 88, but Napoleon considered them beneficial to his art collection and knocked off 10. The statues celebrate the intellectual and spiritual leaders of the city. Indeed they are all great men, ‘the statues represent the illustrious sons of the city by birth or adoption”.

*Visit the Orto Botanico di Padova. You might remember Monty Don the wonderful British gardener making a beeline for the medieval giardino in his documentary series on Italian Gardens, the first stop was Padua for the University’s medical faculty of rare and medicinal gardens that were planted in 1545. The gardens are still attended for research for the university to this day. The botanical collection is vast, the collections include 600,000 seeds, pods, herbs and exotic plant varieties. You can visit and buy a ticket for a tour if you would like to know more.

Something else beautiful to contemplate…

*American Artist Julian Schnabel had his own creative epiphany while visiting the Giotto Fresco cycle in the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua. Upon seeing the frescoes painted from the floor to the ceiling he realised he must make his works larger, to fill the whole wall. He did just that, something he said Giotto’s artistic legacy inspired.

Schnabel recently co-wrote and filmed the recent epic, In the Hand of Dante that did have a set location in the Venetian city of Padova.

There are a few reasons I am mentioning Padova as a beautiful possibility (And there is more history to know I might add). One, it is on the same train line from Milano to Venice (and 40 minutes away from Venice) and it is a city that is not over crowded. If looking to do some sustainable kind of tourism you can take your time and visit Padua. It is also the gate way to the Prosecco region and a grand city with so much to offer the curious visitor. I cannot wait to return again.

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Here is another chapter to listen to. I have been slow at editing these excerpts while caught up in creating the print edition of this book! Enjoy, no less…. Things are happening! Today if for Siena, the next chapter is Amalfi and back to Rome for the finale… enjoy!

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I love the play of ancient buildings, palm trees, colour, Belle Époque, gilded churches, historic architecture, bright blue sky and the multi-cultural layers that have made this city what it is.

A port city will always be an interesting sensory experience, a place where the mix of culture, ethnicity and class will not only dominate but inform the place. The commercial enterprises of the old port city were paramount to not only survival but to the cultural diversity that lingers in the old maritime city. In other words everyone has tried and tested these waters. Genova is the trade link for the Mediterranean Sea.

In glorious years past Genova has been called by many names…. “la Superba”... the proud one, “la Dominante”... the dominant one and/or, “la Repubblica dei magnifici”, the Republic of the Magnificents... (below the centro storico in the Piazza Banchi the first commercial market, a quick walk to the dock, and the pretty church of San Pietro).

Note: In English we say Genoa.

The gritty beauty of this large city runs parallel to Unesco World Heritage sites, old world palazzos and European art that hides behind beckoning doors. The colourful architecture and historic detail of an old European city makes for an intriguing and deeply layered place, and one that you should consider off the well marked tourist trail.

Genova has 42 UNESCO World Heritage listed palaces and sites known as the Palazzi dei Rolli. They were once private residences yet these days Museums and Galleries where the noble and wealthy families presided. On my ticket was Palazzo Spinola and Palazzo Reale. They were both in short walking distance of each other. Although there are many and would take a few days to really explore the historic Strada Nuova, on Via Garibaldi. Originally there were 150 residences that were built in the 16th Century under the grand Republic of Genoa.

For instance, within the Palazzo Spinola is an art gallery, chapel, salon, dining room, hall of mirrors (above), the cook’s kitchen, historical archives and many elegant rooms full of art to enjoy. Genova is an exceptional city for a curious visitor with no shortage of places, churches, castles and historic landmarks to visit. And the food is wonderful. So let’s go there for a minute.....

It is ideal to wander beyond the medieval centre to the Porta Antica with a brown paper cone of Frutti di Mare and cece (chickpea) a common ingredient in the local shops. It is good to sample the flavours of Liguria from the Friggitoria (pictured below).

There is much to learn about Ligurian cuisine and one way to discover the true flavours of Genova is to try the off the beaten path restaurants and the myriad of colourful store fronts. Look out for ethnic boutiques with exotic signs like La Medina for local delicacies and jars of goodies to take back home.

Visit the historic Caffe Pasticceria Mangini (1876), on Via Roma not far from Palazzo Ducale and the large noble square Piazza de Ferrari. Boasting elegant period architecture, old world charm, and the most marvellous feeling of grand Italia (below is the Piazza de Ferrari).

If you are in this area of the world the next stop is the historic Pietro Romangeno fu Stefano (1780) a member of the “Locali Storici D’Italia”, the historical places of Italy. I was thinking of buying my girls some of the local chocolates (on my second trip) when I was offered the local Mandarin dipped in dark chocolate.

To say the least these candied fruits are jewel like and taste sublime. Artisanal and regional, traditionally they are called frutta candita, the fruits are preserved with sugar but they only have a short shelf life, there are no additives or preservatives per se. The fruits are sourced from Liguria. And there is a chocolate press on site. Inside is chemist like, pristine and an elegant place to tempt the senses on Via Roma, in the historical centre of Genova.

One thing we loved were the views and the long escalators that take you on to the top of the hotels and apartments. The views of the sea and the church domes are wonderful in a place like Genoa. There are many stairs to climb and beautiful streets with Madonna’s and Saints on many corners (below Richard waiting at our accommodation - 2019).

Genova, I discovered is a wonderful city to explore and photograph. Vast, hilly, grand. I like a gritty city to assault my senses, between the old and new there is much to enjoy wandering the Antica Porto, a reasonably new area full of maritime amusement, urban life, great gelato, street food and restaurants. And personally, I think it is a great Italian place to explore for families. The accommodation was more affordable than other parts of Italy. And there is much to enjoy food wise and fun to be had in the historic waterfront area…

There is a wonderful state of the art aquarium, some modern architecture by Genovese native and world recognised Renzo Piano. With one of Italy’s oldest university’s (established in 1481) you will enjoy the ancient and the modern that coexist in Genova, and not too far from the railway station. Fortunately, there are lights on in the slim alleys caruggi (pic below), they seem intimidating but do lead to another piazza with something interesting to explore on the other side. Andre Aciman said that “art is a confrontation with chaos” and that can be a good thing in a city like Genova.. A nice juxtaposition for a traveler who is open to the adventure.

Don’t forget to eat the fabulous and traditional DOP basil dishes known as pesto alla Genovese and the regional pasta “la trofie” and please do sample the distinctive and crunchy local speciality the Genovese focaccia. If you don’t try both of these just don’t tell me. But if you do you will have discovered the essence of Liguria - humble, rich, flavoursome, colourful and superb. You can taste it all in the vast array of convenient food shops and specialities all over the city. Cucina tipica speaks to the traditional flavours of the old port city.

The Flavors of Liguria - Podcast

I have waxed lyrical a few times on a bunch of podcast episodes in past years. You can visit A Writer In Italy Podcast on my love affair with Italian culture. Below was back in 2019 my first visit to La Superba!

I later stayed in Camogli about 20-40 minutes away depending if you catch the slow or the fast train, or go from La Spezia or Genova. While in Camogli (a great place to visit) I reflected on my time in Genova, happy with my discoveries I couldn't help but share a podcast about my adventures in Liguria.

I like this city a lot. I think it is fascinating, perhaps not for the faint of heart but if you enjoy colour, old world architecture and regional specialties you will love a few days exploring the magnificent city of Genova.

Ancient Doorways & Bitter Oranges

Postcards from Liguria: Ancient Doorways and Bitter Oranges (there are few more I have done, just search for Genova Podcasts)

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Michelle x

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Last week I published Rothko in Florence - The Liberation of Colour on the Podcast @ A Writer in Italy.

All I can say is, sometimes words cannot tap the experience of the sublime but one can try. Rothko’s work has been personal to me for decades. Two favourites are on permanent exhibition in the Australian National Gallery. I visit them when I need a dose of beauty and colour that goes beyond the mundane world. Rothko’s art takes you there. He said, “the people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them”.

Rothko’s work was deeply influenced by his journeys to Europe, in particular on his first travels in 1950 with his wife over five months. There were moments in Germany and France, yet when he arrived in Italy something opened in him. He found what he was searching for in Italy.

Rothko in Florence Podcast

Every now and then you get to experience something in art that is pure and true, that translates colour and mark making into an emotional lexicon.

He was deeply moved by Fra Angelico’s frescoes at the Convent of San Marco and by Michelangelo’s architectural vision in the Vestibule of the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, which would inspire the Seagram Murals painted in the late 1950s—a dialogue that Rothko further developed during his second visit to Florence in 1966.

Palazzo Strozzi, Florence Italy

Rothko’s art offers up a moment to reconcile what is obvious and move into a direct experience. It is a sense of empathy and awe, and the many contradicting layers within the human condition. That pain, tragedy, indifference, beauty, terror, fragility, sensuality and revelation all exist at any given moment.

“The large paintings envelop the viewer and invite him or her in, it is an invitation to a self contained world where one can lose oneself and perhaps in the process find oneself. And for all their grandest of scale it is an intimate experience, a world unique to that particular encounter” - Christopher Rothko, Mark Rothko and the Inner World

Mark Rothko @ Palazzo Strozzi

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There were only two perfect hours in the day, where everything was humming. And then it dawned on me, I did not need a whole day, I did not need much at all.

What if I gave myself permission to just be writing for two hours. It might take almost three. Like a cat you have to claw away at the rug before you get comfortable. So maybe two and half hours is all you really need. Yet, inside there are two perfect hours where things actually flow. When I am in the zone. The rest is just window dressing and kind of ego driven.

So I decided that the rest of the day was for everything else, the low hanging fruit, the expectations, the other work.

If you need a reminder that turning up every day for an hour or two is enough. This is a reminder. Day by day a book gets written. One page a day is good enough, and more so, does the job.

I like what Hemingway said, something like… I always stop when I know what will happen next (don’t quote this - I only recall the idea!)

I like that a lot. You keep yourself humming. Writing daily is like that, it becomes a practise. Like a spiritual practise.

A consistent meditator needs to meditate for only twenty minutes every day. This pocket of time is powerful. Even twenty minutes of writing could change everything. One day at a time.

So I wrote in the Venice Journal:

What do I really need?

What do I really want?

What has to go?

What are my three top priorities per day?

What outcome do I really want?

What can I give to this two precious hours that will make a difference?

All similar questions, one outcome and pure intention.

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I read Natalie Goldberg’s Wild Mind and Writing Down the Bones. I sat at cafes to muse and write which was easy for me because I was often between places. I was slightly lost, but happy enough. Before I started my dull job I caught the train early for cafe time. With a cappuccino, a journal and a black felt pen I found my happy place. I discovered the art of writing was being somewhere else where other things happened. Random noise, strangers and lounge music helped.

Sometimes we inherit our gifts and sometimes we just have to make it up along the way. I sit between these two worlds. I have watched for clues - a love of books (slight obsessive qualities) books piled high on tables, shelves, bedside, kitchen, dining room, bathrooms, all of it. Reading, listening, E-book options - there are no rules. As long as you enjoyed the book, you inhaled it, then all is well.

I have loved Audible because I can go back and listen again and again. I remember buying the compact disc for the book Under the Tuscan Sun and burning it onto the hard drive and then dropping it onto my I-Pod Nano so I could plant three roses and listen to Mayes’s story unfold. This kind of experience made me deeply happy. Now we spoilt, full stop.

A love of coffee table books, history books, fiction and non-fiction - enthusiastic purchasing, endless desire. Mostly feeling like books were introductions to a life I could possibly have. They say, you are what you read.

I discovered my voice on those coffee dates. They were just for me, alone and radiant, and full of promise. I could ajust my radar and get back time. No one cared and no one asked.

Many wonder if they can write, if they have a story to tell. The truth is, we all have something to offer. I like what Seth Godin said, something like - if you can speak you can write. Pretty simple. He also said, publishing is hard. That was a different conversation but it stayed with me.

My first spiritual book was The Road Less Traveled. I was nineteen. When I opened to the first chapter Peck said, life is difficult. I shut the book and thought, it really is. Someone had finally confirmed my suspicions. Books can do that.

Once you know all of this you are over the worst part. Accept the challenge. Your voice does matter. If you have lived you have the ingredients for a good book.

A Table in Paris, 2025 - Nothing has changed!

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Milan surprised me over and over. Elegant, sophisticated - yes, but hip, fun and colourful was also on the cards. Milan is historic, noble and grand, that is true. A white Gothic Cathedral at centre stage sets the scene in the Piazza del Duomo. I am haunted by that beauty when I think about this city. And that marvellous Castello Sforzesco where family and friends walk or bicycle or picnic on a Saturday. I thought it would be intimidating as a fashion mecca and design heaven, but it is open and more casual than I expected. A modern city with hip bars and a vibrant aperitivo scene. I loved walking via the charming Porta Ticiniese and onto the Navigli Grande where the colourful street scene is alive to the good things in life. Everyone is outside and everyone is welcome. Friends are gathered sipping spritz at midday, happy to sit and talk - you just want to join in on the fun.

I delighted in wandering the romantic streets of Brera and the Navigli Canals, stopping to gulp vast quantities of Risotto alls Milanese with osso bucco and a red velvet vino that elevated and transported. I even marvelled at that fascist central station, a monolithic concert jungle, alert to its complicated and horrendous past. I visited Binario 21 just to understand. I visited the moderns at the Novocento, the Palazzo Reale and the Pinacoteca to soak in the artistic heritage of the Italians - we have Napoleon to thank for this wonderful collection, his mission was to create the Italian Louvre of Italy.

Never mind the possibility of seeing Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper - A wise visitor will book their ticket early. I walked the Quadrilateral della Moda and the Quadrilateral del Silenzio admiring the stunning architecture and green walled gardens on the way to the must see Villa Necchi Campiglio. Still a modern masterpiece, a hundred years on (think House of Gucci & I am Love).

I wondered, why traveler’s don’t make more time for Milan - this is a great Italian city.

When I wasn’t in Italy I sunk into the chair with Mamma Milano, a bright coffee table book that recounts a twenty year journey moving to Italy and creating an unexpected fashion house. I couldn’t help but do a podcast about J.J Martin’s visionary talent as a creative woman, as someone who had a bunch of colourful Italian Lessons to share. I loved visiting her store on Sant’ Andrea - I was a woman on the verge, a woman with her heart full, on a travel journey, seeking art and beauty in Italy.

“In Milan, one feels at once the charm of a great city and the sweetness of Italian life” - Stendhal (Marie-Henri Beyle)

Image - Navigli Canals in Milano - Grande Navigli

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Inspired, captured, magnetised, lured by a place and its enchantments. Goethe’s Italian Journey was evocative of a time when the Grand Tourists made their way to Italy seeking an education of the classical world. Understanding that books could only sustain the myth of a place, being there was essential to know the culture, the history and the way of life. He wrote, ‘we are all pilgrims who seek Italy’.

Many have adopted Italy to sustain their gifts and Italy became a generous all giving, nurturing foster mother. A refuge for the soul - Goethe, Rilke, Twombly, Rothko, Rauschenberg, Schnabel, Turner, de Kooning, Browning, Lord Byron, Keats, James, Woolson, Twain, Lawrence, Cornelisen, Joyce, Capote, Wharton, Berenson, Hemingway, Fuller, Stendhal, Dodge Luhan, De Stael, Vidal, Mayes, Gilbert, Bedford, Highsmith, Guggenheim, Spender, Gorky, Parks, Doeer, Lahiri. The list of artists and writers is vast.

Emily Dickinson rarely left the house, but wrote poetry about Italy that summoned the Gods. Authors living in Italy inspired her. A place can be many things.

“Italy could reside in one’s soul - a quality of independent artistic spirit as strong as could be gleaned from any actual trip” - Barolini, Their Other Side

Another reality is possible and we seek it with glee. Books and Travel - not always an escape, although that is possible, but an expansion of self, an opportunity for emotional truth and fullness. The implications of longing are real. Realisation, or Jung may have said, individualisation. To feel and be ultimately, alive to it all.

We know no place is perfect, but there is just something about Italy. To be ripe with pleasure is at the heart of the decision to return or to seek a taproot. To live in Italy’s aura is really the goal humming in these spirited words.

Nothing, above all, is comparable to the new life that a reflective person experiences when he observes a new country. Though I am still always myself, I believe I have been changed to the very marrow of my bones”

Goethe, Italian Journey

Goethe’s book Italian Journey would influence many writers, women and men that would over time find their way, to the motherland - Italy, seeking art and beauty and ultimately freedom.

The wall is many things. And has many names, moments, people. Some just don’t want to grow. Some don’t want you to out do them, to be more, to be expansive, to go beyond them. But you have to be yourself, you have to claim everything you wanted and everything you believed. If you don’t take yourself seriously, then who will?

Late last year, I thought maybe I will do a few more podcasts, a few that I had been wanting to share - Bologna, Milano and tarocchi in Italy and tell a few more stories and then I will divert my attention. And then along came February and my will became so strong. So intense it felt wrong to abandon it. Wrong to ignore the excitement, the joy, the ideas, the dream.

I am a girl with too many ideas.

So I woke up. And then this beautiful thing landed in my lap. My happiness.

Sometimes it doesn’t need to make sense. Sometimes you just have to trust that maybe it will one day, when it doesn’t even matter any more.

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In the Shadow of a Cypress - An Italian Adventure

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Sometimes the writer evokes something familiar, almost wistful and I like that feeling. Sometimes a sweet memory rises when I was laying on the beach watching my kids play in the sun. Sometimes it’s just nostalgia from a train trip from Siena to Florence and the book I tossed aside to look at the view.

A favourite book can take you there. My dishevelled copy of The Road to Le Tholonet: A French Garden Journey by Monty Don is one of those rare books. Strange that sitting by the sea was the perfect place to read about the lavender and cypress garden La Louve in Provence. But that is how it goes.

I once interviewed an Italian language teacher Cinzia Ferri about her work and the books she reads. She writes long emails sharing her thoughts on the text she reads. I liked her subtle dry humour but more so in the interview she said something to me that made me laugh a lot. She said, “a book can never disappoint you”.

I wrote her words on a post it note in a black pen and stuck it in my diary. I have thought about that statement a lot. Obviously if the book is rubbish it is a disappointment, but she was not exactly talking about a book per se. She was talking about life, people and relationships.

Yes, books can fill the hole that people dig. Yes, when life disappoints us there is always a book to get lost in. A book is a wonderful escape.

I remember when my Dad was sick and I was worried about his health and the issues we all face when our parents are vulnerable, sick or aging. I made a strange decision to read a book a day. It was a crazy idea. But it was a good fix. It helped me a lot.

I had just taken one week off work to have a needed break. On day one the call from the hospital came at 9am and suddenly I was back in limbo. The myriad of books on my shelf were wonderful companions. I didn’t pick large books. My mission was simple, they had to be read only and not listened to while in the middle of chores or gardening. That meant making time to sit and read.

It was the beginning of a rough ride. But I do remember sitting on the plane reading Only in Naples by Katherine Wilson and pondering the south of Italy. I remember the beauty and sadness of Ruth Cracknell’s Journey from Venice.

I walked to a local cafe and ordered a Portuguese tart and cappuccino and read The Woman Who Says No: Francoise Gilot on her life without Picasso by Malte Herwig. It was the middle of winter but the light was beautiful that day. There was a significant moment when I realised that books were not just portals of learning and discovery but could activate something deep in me that nothing else could touch.

I blogged about that moment and the forty books I read over fifty days. It was quite the quest. I think a good obsession while the unpredictable led the way. Dad got better for a while. I didn’t know my life was a mess and he had six months to go. I didn’t know the memory of him and the books would linger. Sweet, stolen and frustrating moments that were tinged with beauty, romance and pleasure.

Notes from the original blog post:

“Is it reckless to read so many books in a row?”

“If you are paralysed with fear, it’s a good sign”

“In solitude I stare at the glass vessel and the seven gerbera faces in the vase”

“A book of poetry is serious. You cannot read just one line and move on”

“I need a circuit breaker”

blog post to read / escape time

In the Shadow of a Cypress - An Italian Adventure

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They were both art students developing their practise and searching for art, traveling together on a grant from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. Rauschenberg agreed to accompany Twombly. They traveled to Sicily, to the mainland and into Rome; later to Morocco and Tangiers. Five years later Cy Twombly moved from America to live in Rome, Italy.

Edmund de Waal said they were, “Two young Americans on the Grand Tour”

It wasn’t the vast possibilities of Rome’s antiquities that led me to the Capitoline Hill in Rome, it was this photograph. A black and white still that captivated me.

I had been close a number of times and circumnavigated the ruins on previous trips. Some times there are too many options, too many possibilities in a city like Rome. So I went back again on a personal mission - art and writing. My own tour de force. My own excavation if you will.

Can I pull the words out of the depths? Can I tour every statue, every ancient column, see every Caravaggio?

After a humble pasta, fried zucchini flowers and vino bianco I walked beyond the Jewish Ghetto to Musei Capitolini via ruins and fenced off paths. It was terribly hot in June this year that I was laughing out loud to myself, alone and surprised by own determination. I knew it was insane to be crisscrossing Rome in the heat but I had no choice, the photograph of Cy Twombly called me there.

Italy is always this way, it is never just one thing, but a river of possibilities. It can never be sated, not that I want it be.

We have to take these journeys. To know ourselves and what has been and gone. To see what remains.

Twombly would take many journeys over his lifetime. Moving between places and homes and making art. Twombly’s fascination with ancient civilisations, the Mediterranean cultures, the Greco and the Roman would converge on his canvases. A love of literature and poetry underlines his art.

For an artist seeking their own aesthetic and making their own myths, it was a subtle and thrilling decision, a well calculated move to go to Italy. No doubt he knew the seclusion and the Roman light would fuel the direction of his art making.

Cy - Relics, Rome 1952 by Robert Rauschenberg

Twombly made Italy his home. Over time living in three distinctive places - Rome, Bassano and Gaeta. Two years after Twombly arrived in Rome he married Baroness Tatiana Franchetti, a painter and photographer. Their son Allesandro Cyrus Twombly was born the same year, he lives outside of Rome and is a painter and sculptor. Franchetti and Twombly had a comfortable arrangement, a modern partnership, both seeking refuge outside of marriage with other people.

In the later years of his life he divided his time between Lexington Virginia (his birthplace) and the seaside town of Gaeta, halfway between Naples and Rome. His assistant and companion, Nicolo del Roscio, introduced Twombly to the seaside town of Gaeta.

Years ago I saw images of Cy Twombly online. The vast canvases full of white space with a trademark style to the work. He was standing with marble busts of Marcus Aurelius and Emperor Hadrian. A large canvas of his art was central on the wall. The casual sophistication of the layered objects was interior design heaven. The photographs were taken by Horst P. Horst for Vogue as directed by Dianna Vreeland. These photographs are legendary now and still evocative of a certain moment, a casually elegant artistic life in Rome.

Bleached antique furniture, rows of canvases stacked neatly against the wall, the article published by Vogue named Twombly “The Great Outsider”, and described him as a man who walked to the beat of his own drum. That and a 17th Century Palazzo, I was all in.. head first…..

Scratches, lines, thin scrawled words, drippings, smears and layers of paint, obscured words to decipher, symbols, marks, scribbles and blotches of coloured paint.

Twombly curates a vast canvas that is enigmatic, layered, ambiguous and yet quiet. Fusing art, poetry, culture, myth, history and place. Repetition, awkwardness, conflict, violence, pain, suffering, death. There is a tension between the innocence of the awkward childlike line and the themes Twombly references. The lines of poems are buried, yet remerge again and again. Splats, drips and layers of white.

There is sensitivity and emotional depth, expressive, poetic and silent. There is a subtle controlled tension between the old world and the new. Somehow he marries the sublime with the ancient and the messy, beautiful present.

Artist Jenny Saville said, “one of his feet was in a cave and one of them was in a palace”. He lived between worlds. He honoured place and solitude. He secluded himself and suggested to young upcoming artists “stay ignored for as long as possible”.

There is something beautiful to these words, stay ignored. Just do the work, go deeper, linger.

Image, by Horst P. Horst for Vogue.

Cy Twombly - Life & Art in Italy

I can’t decide who I am anymore, what matters, what to keep and what to discard perhaps a like Twombly I can just paint over, scrape some back, cover up the old, reveal something new. Rewrite the myths.

I went on a journey then and now, contemplating art and words and the nuance of location. Podcasting about Cy Twombly and Italy as a place of refuge and inspiritis.

The words, my own longing, the journey of recognition and curiosity. A few days later I found myself contemplating the process of being an artist and the threads that weave… Sharing my own journey on the podcast led me to musing over Italy and Julian Schnabel with Cy Twombly, the deep connections to Italy and Pablo Picasso as muse and luminary. I laugh at the play of copying art and learning from the masters, that we all need to shed light on process and becoming.

Pentimento - Artist's Lives, Reflections

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I was listening with rapt awe as she shared about journals being historic artefacts, that diaries were not only “a vehicle for thoughts” but “time capsules”; that books in the early days reflected a certain class (I had never considered that). She spoke about merchants and traders, the industrial revolution, print runs and advancements with paper and technology and then I remembered the hand-printing press that Virginia Woolf's husband Leonard bought to print their books on. It was a family affair (sounds familiar). Virginia’s sister Vanessa Bell illustrated the book covers and now those covers are fabulous artistic time capsules in themselves. I was thinking about Virginia Woolf’s diaries and my own attempts to continue to write in a diary when much pulls at the hub of the wheel.

These sentences woke something in me, something that had been captured many years ago. I always knew diaries and journals were important artefacts, reservoirs of pristine moments and private thoughts, wishes and far away dreams. Sometimes a place of pain and scarcity, what Joseph Luzzi author of Botticelli’s Secret, called a “repository for doubts”. A journal can be many things all at once. I personally never leave home without one. I know I can double down on my phone, but secretly I feel like I am missing a limb without it. I recall Michelle Ciani said to me, “nothing really matches pulling out the notebook”.

It has always been there, or here and the hand written word still evokes a timeless quality that is just not the same. But then maybe it speaks to a girl who wrote journals from eleven to question and vent, remember or muse. I am still lured by stationary and paper shops and pens and artisanal book covers. The journals are often where the seeds grow for the future becoming.

And I thought about those perfect words, to talk to a fellow writer who understands these small poignant details, for writing is about the art of details. Oscar Wilde once said “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train”.

I was in Bologna and wandered into the book and paper shop Feltrinelli. I looked at the wall of diaries, bindings, notebooks, medieval printed covers and even though my bag was too heavy I bought four journals, one for each daughter and one for me. I walked out to the sidewalk, meandered down the street and stopped at a bar/cafe. I put the journal on the table, ordered a spritz and sat there and wrote for an hour. Simple and glorious moments that travel brings.

A spontaneous spritz and a spiral bound notebook that begins to take on symbolic status now that it sits on my desk. A mirror, a confidante, a guide and a memento. I was once a woman in Bologna resting and musing over her day. A writer in Italy.

I heard Anthony Doerr say that the diary was “one kind of secret weapon”, that not only was it a safe place to explore, but a connection to innocence and play. It was also a beautiful way to slow down and savour the details. I realised that is why I still make space for writing in a diary, purely for that alone.

Virginia Woolf’s diaries were significant and important to her creative process. I read them and feel a calmness float upon the table - from A Writer’s Diary….

“ I ought to be writing Jacob’s Room; and instead shall write down the reason why I can’t - this diary being kindly blank faced old confidante. Well, you see, I’m a failure as a writer. I’m out of fashion: old: shan’t do any better: have no headpiece: the spring is everywhere: my book out (prematurely) and nipped, a damp firework….

Friday, April 8th, 1921 Image from Monk’s House, Rodmell

When I was in Venice on the way to Santa Maria della Salute to greet the Black Madonna I wandered into Antica Legatoria Ofer close to the Ponte dell’Accademia. I walked in to see two women at a table in the printing process. One had just stamped the book cover and was holding it up admiring the work of art. It was a fine moment of beauty and craft and connection. I chose a rusty red hand printed cover, a Venetian carved print with deep cream pages and the owner wrapped the slim volume in brown paper. I didn't open it for two weeks after I returned home because it felt mysterious and beautiful and tied to my great expectations for that journey.

I voice my doubts, my cares, my sweet delusions of grandeur and my crystal intentions for that day. I wonder about writing things down and remind my girls to write their wishes if just to fold the paper and forget about it. I found a seasonal diary from 2002 with a Tuscan cover, an ode to Mayes’s Villa Bramasole. I had a whole epiphany about my love of Italy. It came with such a rich assault, the images, the colours, the painted Madonna, the wedding list, our daughter’s first words, and the dreams I once had.

And yes, Italy was alive to me then, as it is now. My epiphany was good for the dreamer who wonders and questions her motives. It reminds me, it was calling me all along. I know because I wrote it down.

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Bologna. My feet officially have to retire. I went to visit the corpus of Santa Caterina. A holy moment, sitting there, alone at last with the physical remains of her body. A black face, kind of gross but cool all at once. The bus load of tourists left and I was left to search her face, her clothes, the altar. The quiet was disarming. I just sat down at a table with a red gingham tablecloth and ordered off the menu. Today I spoke to JB about Bologna. He is writing a book on this city and happens to tell me he is researching the women of Bologna. He said something like - did you know there was always a woman next to a man, that his success depended on it? And all I could do was nod my head into my phone. Yes, I replied, know all about this.

Honestly, I could write an entire book about it. It is essential to everything I have strived for beyond my family life. All of the years I made it easy for the other to climb the ladder, do another course (just in case), to move the posts again and again for security. Sometimes it is a bitter pill because a woman can get lost in that, depending on their career choices. Luckily, I put my foot down. That was my first trip to Italy, solo. That was why I went, a dream of mine that could not wait until my hair was silver or worse, white.

Excerpt from Milano to Bologna Diary, June 2025

After lunch we sat down at this cute French bistro across from Town Hall Manon (they make a great Kir Royale). We both have heaps in common, a love affair with Italy and a love of cookbooks. Jac went on to tell me that she had done many pilgrimage walks in France and Italy. I was intrigued. I have always loved the idea of doing one, but certainly have not put my foot forward to make it happen. And even writing this reminds me that twenty five years ago my husband gifted me the book by Shirley Maclaine about walking the Camino in Spain after I gave birth to our first daughter.

The very day before we were walking on the cliffs of Bondi and saw a whale close to the cliff’s edge (a good sign) and later the book The Camino in the bookstore window. It was the same shop where I bought Frances Mayes Under the Tuscan Sun a few years earlier and now that I think about it - another iconic book moment in my life.

Anyway, one thing leads to another and Jac mentioned she was renovating a property in Italy that she had not long bought in Umbria. When she told me the price I was in awe once again. I knew there were plenty of cheap properties in Italy. Every now and then I have perused Idealista and checked out a few homes in Liguria or Sicily. I tend not to do it often as heart palpitations tend to be a side effect. Keep calm and carry on, I tell myself. 

No doubt secretly I have harbored the idea that one day perhaps this could happen. It is a dream of mine, one that I have kept tucked away as a mere possibility. Considering the current state of affairs this idea seems unrealistic but I have surprised myself many times in life. Even the house we bought fifteen years ago, our family home was its own kind of miracle at the time. 

I called it the Yellow House and sometimes it does remind me of Italy. The historic cottage was built in 1875 which is considered old in Australia and has a wonderful personality, like a French farmhouse and an original cottage connected. There was some magic afoot when we landed this home, the right place at the right moment type of experience. A tricky time of trial and tribulation buying and selling, there were a few tears shed. And then the house kind of found us, we still laugh about the synchronicity and the timing.

The house protects the dreamer. Do you remember that line from Under the Tuscan Sun? It was a theory by Bachelard from The Poetics of Space. I have felt protected and nurtured here, it is true. I have a garden, vegetable plots, olive trees, twenty cypress trees, too many roses, but who is counting? So I have wondered, is it too much to ask to live one day part time in Italy? Ha, well time will tell. 

What I loved about Jac’s story is the arc of her journey. Making a decision to walk the Via di Francesco alone at the beginning of an Italian summer was a crux kind of moment, but she may not have known that yet. Jac walked for three weeks on the sacred routes on the path of Saint Francis.

I have always been intrigued by Saint Francis and wrote about the mystical experience I had in Assisi many years ago in my book In the Shadow of a Cypress. It was a surprising moment in the Basilica of Santa Chiara and later a divine lunch in a small humble restaurant in a side street that secured my thoughts that there was something special about Assisi and the surrounding region of Umbria.

Chiara Offreduccio (1194-1253) was his first female devotee of the San Franciscan order. She committed her life to the teachings of Saint Francis and was canonised in 1255.

Saint Francis (born Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone, 1181-1226) lived until he was forty four, a son of a wealthy textiles merchant and a French noble woman. Saint Francis renounced his comfortable and privileged life for a nomadic existence of devotion and prayer. Over time his prayers and mystical revelations would lead him to shed all his worldly possessions and give all he had to the poor. 

In the Shadow of a Cypress - An Italian Adventure

I thought about Santa Chiara a lot since that day, and recalled that I would burst into tears out of the blue whenever the memory came to mind. It was a strange and beautiful thing that would happen abruptly that culminated in a crescendo when I returned from that first solo trip and my friend Josephine asked if I went to see Saint Clare of Assisi. This was not a question anybody else in my normal life had asked me and so random, I was left shaking my head. I filed it away as another beautiful coincidence. Josephine had stayed in Assisi for a week with her family so she knew all about the magic of Assisi.

This curiosity made me want to know more about Jac’s experience. I felt drawn to talk to her about why walk this trail alone, what made her wander the path in a remote part of Umbria?  In particular it is not a path that is saturated by tourists and she described it as quiet, isolating and remote at times. Although no drama for Jac, she regularly walks the Camino in France and leads walking tours and once wandered the whole eight hundred kilometres in Spain after a sudden urge to walk her first Camino. I love meeting adventurous women.

On through the hills and medieval villages of Gubbio, Vigneto, Assisi, Spello and beyond to finally arrive in Rieti. Jac walked the pilgrimage path enjoying the solitude and the wild, open space. It was wandering through the many towns when she noticed the real estate was surprising low in cost and potentially affordable compared to neighbouring Tuscany. Not only was Jac spellbound by the stunning scenery and the location she also started to wonder if by chance there might be an opportunity for an Australian couple to buy their first home together in Italy….

Buying a Home in Umbria

P.S Another beautiful coincidence is that the publishing date for this podcast was the two year anniversary to the day for signing the papers to their beautiful apartment in the medieval village of Amelia in Umbria. (Italy images by Jac Beagley)

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