Tirreni, others by the Pelasgians, or even by the Phoenicians. It was certainly one of the richest and most powerful of the Etruscan cities. Inevitably, the proud Roman clarion echoed one day along the Arno valley up the hillside and the inhabitants of Fiesole were either slaughtered or ordered to genuflect before the invincible Legions. After the fall of Rome, it was subsequently plundered several times and lost its peculiar qualities. On the old Etruscan and Roman ruins and monuments the new town was slowly built.
In the immediate post-war years the young flower-girl sat at the corner, aggressive street hawkers strolled the streets with cardboard boxes tied round their waists containing their wares, and pitiful beggars, little more than road-rats, sold holy pictures with potent prayers for a safe wayfaring. Poverty was a role to be performed, not social offence, so a Tuscan rispetto sings –
I cast a palm-leaf into the sea:
The waters devour it.
I see others cast lead, and – Lo! For them it sails.
On the way up today we leave behind the old wayside churches, shrines, crosses, great villas once frequented by the Medici, illustrious artists and writers, now oppressed by modern hi-tech buildings in what seems intentional defacement.
To the footsore pilgrim with sturdy pastoral staff and dusty burlap outfit it was a day’s walk to the top, up those exceptionally steep stony paths, still in place, which remind one of far-off effort and accomplishment. The wayfarer has given place to turbo buses pouring out streams of camera-burdened tourists.
At present, an