I’ve tried on many occasion to be quick, but it’s like my shoes have lead soles, or it’s like walking through water.
Perhaps I should just stop finding excuses and admit it’s old age and I am slowing down!
I’m guessing that in using the expressing the quick and the dead, I’ve got one foot in the grave.
But when you use the word quick it generally means moving fast or doing something at a rapid rate.
It could also refer to someone who picks up knowledge rapidly, that is to say, that boy is quick, maybe quick as a flash.
I’ve been cut to the quick. An interesting expression which basically means you’ve been hurt very badly.
It also makes reference to the more sensitive side to us, hence the above expression.
It has a more literal meaning, referring to the quick, under your fingernails, and you know how much that hurts when you cut the nail too short, or remove the nail from the quick.
And like most of us, I’ve been caught more than once in metaphorical quicksand.
It doesn’t pay to go near or test out what real quicksand is, but if you have to, make sure you tie yourself to an anchored rope first.
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
A voice with a German accent, a male, middle-aged. A scientist? He sounded very frightened.
“Apparently I’m on the wrong side.”
“Englander?” The voice sounded very close, perhaps the cell next to mine.
“Yes. Seems the men upstairs are not, even though they look like my fellow soldiers, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered they were German. Did you come here looking for a better life away from the Reich?”
“I heard rumours of such a place in Italy where if you had certain information, they, the British and Americans would help you escape. I thought it was another SS ruse, but a friend told me he believed it was true, and we came together.”
“Is he still here?”
“No. He was granted safe passage with another group who left a week ago, or so I was told.”
“And why are you still here?”
“Waiting to be sent in the next group.”
I arrived a week ago, probably just after the last group had been dispatched, more than likely to their deaths, or back to the Reich. No more had been processed since I’d arrived. No one had come or gone.
“How did you specifically get here?”
“The Resistance. We had a name to contact in the town not far from here. He then arranged for us to be brought here.”
Not the resistance that may have originally been involved, but a collaborator. I’d been having problems communicating with the resistance cells in this area, and now I think I knew why. They’d been informed on by one of their own. Because of the problems, we’d decided not to use the normal channels to get, and because they didn’t know I was coming it was the reason why there ‘d been the last minute botched attempt on my life in transit.
The problem was far worse than any of us had imagined.
And there was a lot less hope for a rescue by the local resistance.
“How many others are here?”
“Three. There have been no new arrivals for several days. And I think there are a few prisoners who are being tortured by the sound of it.”
And if Jackerby gets his way, I might be added to the list of suspects to be questioned. I’m sure it wouldn’t be long before they realised I had usable information, especially about the resistance cells. It certainly gave credence as to why Jackerby hadn’t been so rough with me.
It looked like it wasn’t going to be long before being asked a few sticky questions.
In Melbourne, it’s an institution even a religion. Traditionally it is played on a Saturday afternoon and luckily for us, we were attending such a game.
Of course, this was before 2020, before the COVID 19 virus everything, including football, has been called off.
Now, we’re subject to the off outbreak that sees games transferred to other states, and sometimes without crowds. We just stick to watching it on TV these days.
Except now we have ‘flattened the curve’ football can start again, sometimes with sometimes without the spectators. Social distancing means we can’t pack the stadium, or rarely even go to a game. For a while, it was just to be from our lounge rooms, watching it on the TV.
But, as some of the states began to get on top of the virus, football teams moved from Victoria and played in Sydney, Adelaide, Perth, and the Northern Territory.
And as the Victorian situation got worse, the decision was made to move the grand final, which had never left the MCG in Victoria, to Brisbane. It was like America never lost the Americas Cup, until they did.
But, below, is the atmosphere that we have been missing, and has returned in a limited sense as coronavirus restrictions eased (but not completely), a game we attended last year:
The stadium is the MSG, one of the biggest and best in Australia. Shortly after the start, I’d estimate there are about 40,000, but eventually, we were told there were 53,000, spectators here for a clash between the two Melbourne-based teams. It is not unheard of to have closer to 90,000 spectators, and the atmosphere is at times electric.
For the die-hards like me who can remember the days when there were only Victorian-based teams, in the modern-day form of the game, to have two such teams is something of a rarity.
However, it’s not so much about the antics on the field as it is about the spectators. They are divided into three groups, the members, the private boxes, and the general public.
But in the end, there is no distinction between any of them because they all know the rules, well, their version of them, and it doesn’t matter who you are, if there is something that goes against your team, it is brings a huge roar of disapproval.
Then there are ebbs and flows in the crowd noise and reactions to events like holding the ball attracting a unified shout ‘ball, or a large collective groan when a free kick should have been paid or by the opposite team’s followers if it should have been.
It is this crowd reaction that makes going to a live game so much better than watching it televised live. The times when players take marks, get the ball out of congestion, and when goals are scored when your team is behind and when one is needed to get in front.
This is particularly so when one of the stars goes near the ball and pulls off a miracle 1 percent movement of the ball. These are what we come to see, the high-flying marks, the handball threaded through a needle, a kick that reaches one of our players that looked like it would never get there, an intercept mark or steal that throws momentum the opposite way.
This game is not supposed to be a game of inches but fast yards, a kick, a mark, a handball, a run, and a bounce or two. You need to get the ball to your goal as quickly as possible.
That’s the objective.
But in this modern game, much to the dismay of spectators and commentators alike, there is this thing called flooding where all 36 players are basically in a clump around the ball and it moves basically in inches, not yards.
It is slow and it is ugly.
It is not the game envisioned by those who created it and there is a debate right now about fixing it.
Here, it is an example of the worst sort. This game is played in four quarters and for the first two, it is ugly scrappy play with little skill on display. The third shows improvement and it seems the respective coaches had told their players to open it up
They have and it becomes better to look at.
But this is the point where one team usually gets away with a handy lead, a third-quarter effort that almost puts the game out of reach. The fourth quarter is where the losing team stages a comeback, and sometimes it works sometimes it does not.
The opposition gives it a red hot try but is unsuccessful. Three goals in a row, it gave their fans a sniff of hope but as the commentators call it, a kick against the flow, and my team prevails.
It is the moment to stay for when they play the winning team’s song over the stadium’s loudspeaker system, and at least half the spectators sing along. It is one of that hair raising on the back of your neck moments which for some can be far too few in a season
We have great hopes for our team this year, and it was worth the trek from Brisbane to Melbourne to see it live rather than on the TV
Leaving the ground with thousands of others heading towards the train station for the journey home there is a mixture of feelings, some lamenting their teams, and others jubilant their team won. There is no rancor, everyone shuffles in an orderly manner, bearing the slow entry to the station, and the long lines to get on the train.
Others who perhaps came by car, or who have decided to wait for a later train or other transport, let their children kick the football around on the leaf-covered parkland surrounding the stadium.
It is an integral part of this game that children experience the football effect. Kicking a ball with your father, brothers, and sisters, or friends on that late autumn afternoon is a memory that will be cherished for a long long time.
It’s where you pretend you are your favorite player and are every bit as good. I know that’s what I used to do with my father, and that is what I did with my sons.
But no matter what the state of the game, it is the weekend the football fans look forward to and who turn out in their hundreds of thousands. It is a game that ignites passions, it brings highs and it brings incredible lows.
And, through thick and thin, we never stop supporting them.
I’d been planning the grand tour of Europe for years, and during that time, I’d worked my butt off working 7 days a week, just so that I could take a year off to do it.
And, now the time had come.
I’d resigned from my job, cleaned out the office, handed it over to my successor, and all that was left was a few drinks at the local hotel with those whom I’d worked with over the years.
All expressed the same sentiment, they wished they were coming with me. I said the usual platitudes, that if they came over we’d have to meet up, and if I was staying for an extended period, they could stay with me.
I doubted anyone would take up the offer because we had neither expressed interest in travelling or keeping in touch because although we all had each other’s phone numbers, we rarely called each other.
One call I wasn’t expecting, on the way home after the last of the goodbyes, was from Barry.
Perhaps he was the one I would miss the most, after all, we had worked closely together for the last year or so, I’d been the best man at his wedding, and I was like the brother he never had.
Even his wife, Evie, French by birth, and still getting used to living in another country, considered me as a brother in law. She may also have thought more of me because I spoke French. Barry didn’t and didn’t try, even though he had promised he would.
“Barry!” I was surprised he would call.
“I hear you are going to Paris first, David.”
Evie. How did she get Barry’s phone? It was not possible he could get home that quickly.
“Evie. I had expected to see you at the bar.”
“A wife’s work is never done, as you know.”
She had confided in me one that Barry was a bit of a pain sometimes in his expectations, and it had worried me that his off-hand, sometimes condescending manner, might cause trouble.
“What can I do to help?”
“Can you do me a favour? Drop by on your way home, and I’ll explain.”
It sounded ominous.
“OK.” It wasn’t far out of the way, and wouldn’t be the first I’d dropped in.
I pondered the manner in which she had called on Barry’s phone and still hadn’t worked it out by the time I arrived at their front door.
Evie answered the door.
“Barry not home?”
“Not yet. You know him, always the last to leave.” Was that exasperation in her tone, or something else. “Come in.”
There was the faint aroma of cooking in the air. Evie was a chef back in Paris, and after she arrived, worked off and on in various restaurants, but her temperament meant she often didn’t last long in one establishment.
But one thing I’d discovered, she was a very good cook. Could I hope for an invitation to try out what she was cooking?
“What’s the problem?”
“No problem. Just need a favour.” She picked up a letter, or perhaps it was a card. And gave it to me. “While you’re in Paris, could you hand-deliver it for me? It would mean a lot.”
“Special?”
“Very.”
“You couldn’t post it?”
She shook her head. “I need to know it got there.”
“That special?”
“For me, yes. You cannot imagine. Now, would you like to try my latest creation? Chicken is no longer boring, trust me.”
I never gave the letter another thought until I arrived in Paris and was unpacking my bag for an elongated stay.
The plan had been that Paris was my first stop because there were several people I wanted to visit, but one had been in Hong Kong, texting me just before I got on the plan, and because my travel arrangements were flexible, I stopped at Hong Kong and then went on a two-week tour of China at his suggestion.
It had been worth the effort.
That stopover had flow-on benefits because the apartment in Paris I had wanted to stay in was not available had I stuck to the original plan, but now it was.
I put the letter on the table and went back to that night when Evie gave it to me.
If I thought about it, and I had, several times since then, I had to say I had seen a different Evie, and I hoped that my impression of her now, was based on an aberration.
And had I not been the friend I was, I might have easily slipped into doing something I would regret. I remember walking away thinking Barry had to put on more effort or he was going to lose her.
I went out into the balcony and took in the still-warm night, and the display of lights. Somewhere I had read Paris was the city of lights, and there was a tour, one I would take sooner rather than later.
After several glasses of wine, I took out the map and worked out how I would get to the address on the envelope. Seven underground stations and a half km walk, not far from the Sacre Coeur Church in Montmartre.
A little sightseeing on the side, and lunch at a crepe Cafe nearby.
I had planned to see the Eiffel tower, but it could wait. It’s not as if I could see it from afar from just about everywhere in Paris.
If it could be said something could burn a hole in your pocket, I would have said it was that letter.
From the moment I picked it up and put it in my pocket, I had a strange sense of foreboding. There was absolutely no reason I should, I’d known Evie a long time, and she wasn’t a bad person, nor had she ever indicated there was a dark side.
But, people were complex characters, and often we only see what we want to see, or what they want us to see.
And, of course, I was one of those people prone to overthinking everything.
As I turned the corner into the street of the address on the envelope, I stopped and looked around, very carefully at everyone.
Parisians going about their daily business, not terrorists, not criminals, not people solely out to get me. And yet that feeling of paranoia was getting worse.
After twenty minutes of debating whether or not to turn tail and run, I carried on. I was on the street of the envelopes address, and reaching the building, pressed the button to the apartment number.
A buzzing sound told me the door had been opened, and I went in. Three flights of stairs, the apartment was at the end of the corridor.
I pushed the doorbell and waited a minute before the door opened. A man, not the sort of person I expected Evie would associate with. And certainly not French.
“I have a letter…”
He reached out, snatched it out of my hand, and then slammed the door shut in my face.
“A thank you would have been nice.” I shrugged.
Very, very strange.
A few seconds later the door opened again, the man peering out at me. “Thank you for delivering this. Much appreciated.” Then he closed the door more quietly this time.
I shrugged. Had he heard me muttering through the door?
I went back down again, passing a woman in work clothes, not someone you’d normally pay any attention to.
I did, looking up at her on the stairs as she looked back down at me.
It hastened my departure from that building.
Outside the front door, I could see a police car pull up beside the kerb.
Damn.
Were they here for me?
I hesitated, just as one of the officers got out of the car and was looking directly at me. It was like he instantly recognised me.
I froze.
Then I felt my arm being yanked and a female voice behind me. “We have to go. Now.”
The urgency and insistence in her tone spurred me into action and I followed her up the passage to a rear door which she opened and thrust me out into the courtyard.
“Go. Don’t look back. You will be safe if you go back to your hotel.”
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
Rather tired and bleary eyes, I made it to the fishing store five minutes late. I had a lot on my mind, woken late, and then had to battle traffic. I longed for the day I could afford a car, though riding the bike kept me fit.
It also took my mind of the encounter last night, the one that had kept me away, my imagination almost getting the better of me.
Boggs was there, and he didn’t look happy.
“Where were you last night? I tried to get you, but you weren’t answering.”
I had the phone on silent. Ringing phones had a way of bringing unwanted attention.
“I had something I had to do.”
“You went to the Lantern without me.”
What? Does he have a network of spies I knew nothing about? “So, I heard it went respectable and had to check it out.” And hoping Boggs didn’t know who was in attendance, other than me.
“We said we would go there together.”
“You apparently had something else on last night.”
“It’s not what you think. I had to go with my mother to the hospital for her 6 monthly checks.”
It was easy to forget. She’d had a cancer scare a few years back, and had undergone chemo for a few months, sending it into remission. But it came with 6 monthly checks, and both Boggs and his mother were constantly worried it might come back. It seemed it always did when you least expected it.
“And what was the verdict.”
He relented a little. “Good.”
“Then, I assure you that was more important.” No point in telling Boggs what I was doing, just in case it backfired, or he disagreed. “And I can assure you the place is not worth it anymore. Boring as shit.”
He shook his head. Not pleased, but at least not angry.
“Has Rico shown his face?” I asked.
“Yes, about an hour back, some of those people he associates with came and they went off together.”
Perhaps he was annoyed that I hadn’t been there because I’m sure Boggs would follow him.
“You’ve been here all this time?”
“He came to our place last night. I’m sure it was him who searched in my room. Not much of a professional thief, he left a mess behind. Went through the outhouse as well.”
“Looking for the map?”
“Seems so. He didn’t find it.”
No, he wouldn’t, because Boggs had it with him. At least that was what I thought he intimated a day or two ago.
“Copies?”
He reached for his back pocket and pulled out some folded paper. “Thought you might like to keep a copy for yourself.”
I tried hard to keep the excitement out of my manner. It saved me having to make up an excuse as to why I wanted a copy of the map, and I didn’t want to tell him about the plan involving Nadia, not unless I had to.
There was something about this one that resonated with me.
This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.
I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all gave one time or another.
For the the main characters Harry and Alison there is others issues driving their relationship.
For Alison, it is a loss of self worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.
For Harry it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.
Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.
When it all come to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.
But is it all the truth?
What would we do in similar circumstances?
Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.
And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.
I have a stab at improving this starting piece every now and then, a project that started about a year or so ago, and I find myself rewriting the start over and over because I’m not satisfied with the characterization.
It’s not so much the storyline, as it is in trying to create sympathy for the character, and not find him as dull as ditchwater. He’s improving with age. As writers, we tend to create colourful characters and shy away from those who are dull and boring, because after all, as a reader, you want to become something or someone who is far from ordinary. Well, Graham is starting out ordinary, but he will be anything but by the time I write those words ‘The End’.
I promise.
I am the master of my own destiny.
My father had drummed that into me, as well as my older brother and younger sister, over and over, until it became a mantra.
For them.
I could not say I didn’t have the same advantages afforded to them, afforded to me. I did.
But somewhere lost in the translation, someone forgot to tell me that it was only advice, not an order, and mistaking it for the latter, I struck out on my own path.
And for the next ten years, it was a long and winding path that led me to this point in time, in a small room that held nothing to tell me where I came from, or who I really was.
My parents were very wealthy with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard, my sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother, he was a politician.
I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.
You see, I was the black sheep of the family. I dropped out of college when it all became too much, and drifted. Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman.
At least now I had a uniform, and a gun, and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It was hard to say why, just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, that those thoughts about them came into my mind. They might be gone, but I guess I would never forget about them. I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole. I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow was coming. A white Christmas? That’s all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.
“Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.
I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.
How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed? Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”
I could see the surprise and then hurt in her expression. Perhaps I had been a little harsh. Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”
My help? Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”
Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.
My first thought, she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.
And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind. Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All her knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, who life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first tie she met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there one, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords, if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open, and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression the he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
The castle is located in the southern Chianti Classico countryside and has been there for over ten centuries, and owned by the Ricasoli family since 1141.
Like any good castle, it has strong defences, and I was looking for a moat and drawbridge, but it looks like the moat has become a lawn.
The very high walls in places no doubt were built to keep the enemy out
The castle has been destroyed and rebuilt many times over the last 900 years. It was part of the Florentine defences, and withstood, and succumbed to many battles with Siena, which is only 20 km away. More recently, it still bears the scars of artillery fire and bombing in WW2.
The room at the top of this tower would have an excellent view of the countryside.
Here you can see the old and the new, the red brick part of the rebuilding in the 1800’s in the style of an English Manor
We did not get to see where that archway led.
Nor what was behind door number one at the top of these stairs. Rest assured, many, many years ago someone wearing armour would have made the climb. It would not pass current occupational health and safety these days with a number of stairs before a landing.
Cappella di San Jacopo. Its foundations were laid in 1348.
Renovated in 1867-1869, it has a gabled façade preceded by a double stone staircase. The interior, with a crypt where the members of the Ricasoli family are buried, has a nave divided into three spans with cross vaults.
The 1,200 hectares of the property include 240 hectares of vineyards and 26 of olive groves, in the commune of Gaiole.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 