CARAVAGGIO & NAPOLI, LIGHT EMERGES FROM DARKNESS

Musings of The Grandma...

There are cities that seem to have been built from stone. And then there is Napoli. 

Napoli seems to have been built from contrasts. Light and darkness. Life and death. Faith and superstition. Beauty and decay. Devotion and irreverence. Sacred temples and football stadiums. Perhaps this is why Caravaggio feels so profoundly Neapolitan.

In Napoli, I have always felt that darkness is never entirely dark. Somewhere, somehow, there is always a light emerging from it. And perhaps this is the best way to approach one of the most extraordinary paintings in the city: Caravaggio's Le sette opere di Misericordia (The Seven Works of Mercy). It is not simply a religious painting. It is Napoli. A painting born in Napoli.

Michelangelo Merisi, better known as Caravaggio, arrived in Napoli in 1606 after fleeing Rome following the killing of Ranuccio Tomassoni. His stay in Napoli would be relatively brief, but enormously important. The city offered him something that few other places could: an environment where the sacred and the everyday existed almost on top of one another. Churches stood among crowded streets. Religious devotion coexisted with poverty, violence, superstition and an extraordinary vitality of popular culture.

Caravaggio understood this immediately. During his first Neapolitan period, he received a commission from the Pio Monte della Misericordia, a charitable confraternity founded by young Neapolitan aristocrats who had decided to devote themselves to helping the poor and vulnerable. Their mission was based on the traditional seven corporal works of mercy, drawn from the Gospel of Matthew and Christian tradition. They were simple but demanding:

-To feed the hungry.

-To give drink to the thirsty.

-To shelter the homeless.

-To clothe the naked.

-To visit the sick.

-To visit prisoners.

-To bury the dead.

Seven acts. Seven ways of transforming compassion into action. And Caravaggio did something extraordinary with them. He put them all into a single painting.

At first glance, Le sette opere di Misericordia can appear almost chaotic. There is no serene biblical landscape. No distant paradise. No carefully arranged collection of saints performing charitable deeds one after another. Instead, there is a crowded Neapolitan street. People overlap. Bodies twist. Hands reach out. Faces emerge from darkness. A woman gives milk to an old man through the bars of a prison. A man carries a dead body. Another offers his cloak to a naked man. A pilgrim receives shelter. Someone gives water to the thirsty. The acts of mercy are not presented as abstract theological concepts. They are happening here. Among ordinary people. In the middle of the city. And that may be one of the most revolutionary things about Caravaggio. He makes holiness human.

This is not a painting about perfect people. Caravaggio's characters are not idealised saints with immaculate faces. They look like people you might have encountered walking through seventeenth-century Napoli. Poor people. Old people. Prisoners. Pilgrims. Begging people. People who are tired. People who need help. And people who are willing to provide it. The sacred does not descend from heaven. It happens at street level. This is particularly powerful because Caravaggio does not separate physical suffering from spiritual salvation. Hunger is real. Thirst is real. Cold is real. Illness is real. Death is real. And therefore mercy must also be real. You cannot feed someone metaphorically. You cannot bury someone metaphorically. You cannot give your coat to someone metaphorically.

Caravaggio's Christianity is profoundly physical. You touch. You carry. You feed. You embrace. You give.

And then there is the light. Or, more precisely, the battle between light and darkness. Caravaggio is one of the great masters of chiaroscuro, the dramatic contrast between light and dark that gives his figures extraordinary volume and emotional intensity. But in The Seven Works of Mercy, the darkness is not simply an artistic background. It becomes part of the meaning. The world is dark. And then someone performs an act of kindness. A little light appears. That light does not illuminate everything. It does not magically eliminate suffering. It simply reveals a human gesture. And perhaps that is enough. This is what makes  Caravaggio's technique so fascinating to me. The light behaves almost like mercy itself. It finds the person who needs to be seen. It falls upon the gesture that matters. It guides our eyes through the confusion. It tells us: Look here. This is important.

I cannot look at Caravaggio's chiaroscuro without thinking about Napoli itself. Because Napoli is also a city of light and darkness. The Mediterranean sunlight can be overwhelming. It floods the streets, the sea, the façades and the archaeological ruins with an almost excessive brightness. And yet, just a few metres away, there may be a dark alley, an ancient church, an underground passage, a catacomb or a courtyard where the sunlight barely reaches.

Napoli constantly moves between these two worlds. The city is beautiful and chaotic. Generous and harsh. Sacred and profane. Ancient and contemporary. It can celebrate life with an almost unbearable intensity and, at the same time, live alongside death with remarkable familiarity. That is why I think Caravaggio understood something essential about Napoli. The darkness does not cancel the light. It makes the light visible.

This is particularly meaningful in Napoli. Death has never been completely hidden from Neapolitan life. It appears in churches, catacombs, cemeteries, votive traditions, funeral notices pasted onto walls and popular religious imagery. But Napoli does not simply mourn. It celebrates. It eats. It sings. It dances. It falls in love. It goes to football matches. It celebrates saints. It celebrates Maradona. It laughs loudly. It argues passionately. It lives.

Perhaps this is why the city has always fascinated me. There is a profound awareness that life is temporary, but instead of turning that awareness exclusively into melancholy, Neapolitans often transform it into an extraordinary appetite for life. If life is short, live it.

And Caravaggio's painting seems to understand this paradox. The dead man is there. The prisoner is there. The hungry and the thirsty are there. Suffering is there. But so is generosity. So is compassion. So is human contact. So is light.

And this is where my journey through Napoli takes another unexpected turn. Only recently, I was writing about the Stadio San Paolo -today the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona- and about the almost sacred place that football occupies in the city. Napoli has its saints. It has San Gennaro. It has Padre Pio. It has churches, relics, processions and centuries of Catholic devotion. And it also has Diego Armando Maradona. The Argentine footballer became something much more than a sportsman in Napoli. He became a symbol of pride, belonging and redemption. For many Neapolitans, Maradona represented the possibility of triumph.

Caravaggio, centuries earlier, had painted something different but strangely related: the possibility of human dignity emerging from darkness. One transformed a football stadium into a temple of popular devotion. The other transformed a religious commission into a scene populated by ordinary Neapolitans. Both understood something about this city. Napoli does not need perfection. It needs passion.

What makes Le sette opere di Misericordia so powerful today is that its message has not become obsolete. Quite the opposite. The seven works remain remarkably concrete. There are still hungry people. Still thirsty people. Still homeless people. Still prisoners. Still sick people. Still people who need clothing. Still people who need to be buried with dignity. The painting therefore does not allow us to remain comfortable spectators. It asks something from us. Look. And then do something. Perhaps this is why the painting feels so different from many religious works of its time. It does not invite us to contemplate mercy from a safe distance. It places us inside the street. Inside the crowd. Inside the darkness.

There is something deeply Mediterranean about this way of seeing the world. We are surrounded by ancient stones. Temples survive for thousands of years. Castles survive wars. Churches survive earthquakes. The sea continues to touch the same coastline. Mount Vesuvius continues to watch over the city. And human beings come and go. Our lives are brief. The monuments remain. Tempus fugit.

Perhaps that is why we need light. Not because darkness can be eliminated, but because our time in it is so short. Caravaggio understood that. He painted a world in which darkness is immense, but light is extraordinarily precise. It falls exactly where compassion takes place. A hand. A face. A body. A gesture. A cup of water. A piece of clothing. A burial. A little act of humanity. And suddenly, the darkness has meaning.

I have walked through Napoli many times. I have walked beside the sea, through its ancient streets, past churches and castles, archaeological ruins and noisy squares. I have watched the city celebrate. I have watched it mourn. I have seen its devotion and its irreverence, its beauty and its disorder. And perhaps that is why Caravaggio's painting feels so right here. Because Napoli has always seemed to me like a gigantic chiaroscuro. A city where beauty is more intense because it exists beside decay. Where joy is louder because death is never very far away. Where faith can be fervent without necessarily being obedient. Where the sacred can coexist with the profane. Where a football stadium can become a temple and a footballer can become a saint. Where ancient stones remind us that civilizations endure while individual lives disappear in an instant.

Caravaggio did not paint an ideal world. He painted a world that was broken, difficult and profoundly human. And then he illuminated it. Perhaps that is the greatest lesson of Le sette opere di Misericordia. We cannot always remove the darkness. But we can choose where to bring the light. And somehow, in Napoli, that feels less like a lesson from a seventeenth-century painting than a way of life.

More information: Medium

 

Che cosa significasse per il Caravaggio 
l'incontro con la immensa capitale mediterranea, 
più classicamente antica di Roma stessa, 
e insieme spagnolesca e orientale, 
[...] un'immersione entro una realtà quotidiana violenta e mimica, 
disperatamente popolare.

What the encounter with the immense 
Mediterranean capital meant for Caravaggio 
[...] was an immersion in a violent, t
heatrical and desperately popular everyday reality.

Roberto Longhi

SSC NAPOLI, 100 YEARS OF PASSION FOR FOOTBALL

Musings of The Grandma...

 

There are places we visit, places we live in, and places that somehow become part of our bloodstream. 

 

Napoli is one of those places for me.

I have always loved football. I played it for as long as the rules of my time allowed me to. In the 1980s, being a girl who wanted to play football was not exactly an easy thing. There were limits, prejudices and doors that were not always open to us. Eventually, the federation decided that my playing days had to come to an end. But they could never take football away from me. I needed it in my blood.

So, when I went to Napoli  to study, I did something that seemed completely natural to me: I became a season-ticket holder of Napoli. I was a Barça supporter and member, and I still am. But football has never been something I have understood as belonging exclusively to one club. It has always been a way of understanding people, cities and identities. And Napoli  taught me that lesson particularly well.

The stadium I knew was the Stadio San Paolo, in Fuorigrotta. Today it is called the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona, a name that could hardly be more appropriate for a place where football became part of the collective identity of an entire city. The stadium was inaugurated in 1959 and was renovated for the 1980 European Championship and the 1990 World Cup.

But statistics, dates and architectural facts tell only a small part of the story. A football stadium is not merely a building. Sometimes it is a city concentrated within concrete walls. And the Maradona is certainly one of those places.

In Napoli, football has never been merely about football. It is about pride, belonging, memory, disappointment, hope and, above all, identity. And nobody embodied that transformation more profoundly than Diego Armando Maradona.

For many Neapolitans, he was not simply a footballer who played for Napoli. He arrived at a moment when the city desperately needed to believe in itself and gave an entire generation something that football rarely gives: the feeling that history could finally belong to them. Maradona did not merely win matches. He restored pride. 

I have watched football in several European cities, and one of the things that fascinates me most is that the rules are identical everywhere, but the way people experience the game is completely different.

Napoli  is perhaps the most spectacular example. The Neapolitan supporter does not wait to see what happens. The Neapolitan supporter arrives already knowing how the match should feel. The noise begins before the first whistle. Songs, drums, flags, gestures, voices, smoke, colour. The emotion does not gradually build towards the climax. It starts at minute zero.

Napoli has a particular relationship with excess. Everything is intense: food, religion, music, grief, celebration, love, football. Perhaps this is also connected to the landscape itself. This is a city living beside Vesuvius, in a land shaped by earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and geological instability. Napoli has lived for centuries with the knowledge that permanence is an illusion. Perhaps that is why celebration can be so absolute. When Napoli won the Scudetto in 2023, the city exploded into celebration. Blue flooded the streets, balconies, squares and façades. Fireworks illuminated the night. The city did not simply celebrate a football championship. It celebrated itself.

Years later, my professional life took me to Lyon. And, once again, football followed me. I became a season-ticket holder of Olympique Lyonnais, although I was particularly fascinated by the women's team, which at that time was the dominant force in European women's football. The atmosphere was different. The passion was there, but it had another language. Lyonnais supporters seemed to me to reflect something of their city: resilient, disciplined, proud and persistent. They did not necessarily need to be the loudest people in the stadium. But they were there. From the first minute to the last. There is something deeply beautiful about that kind of support. It is not an explosion. It is endurance. And perhaps that is another Mediterranean lesson: passion does not always have to be loud to be profound.

Then came Montpellier. And, once again, football became a way of entering a city. Montpellier felt different again. There was something creative, ironic, irreverent and contradictory about its football culture. Perhaps that is partly what I associate with the wider Occitan world: a cultural tradition that has always valued individuality, language, intellectual freedom and a certain resistance to being neatly classified. The football reflected that impression. Not Napoli. Not Lyon. Something else. Another way of being Mediterranean.

Barcelona is my home in football. I'm Catalan. I am a Barça supporter and member, and the way I experience football is perhaps very different from the Neapolitan way. We can be passionate, certainly. But we are often more restrained. We appreciate good football. We want the team to play well. We admire creativity, intelligence, technique and collective movement. Sometimes we celebrate the result, but for many of us, the way the game is played matters enormously. Perhaps that is why Johan Cruyff became so important to Barcelona.

If Maradona restored pride to Napoli, Cruyff gave Barcelona a language through which to understand football. He transformed not only the way Barça played, but the way generations of supporters understood what football could be.

And so, after all these years, I find myself looking at football differently. Napoli taught me about passion. Lyon taught me about resilience. Montpellier taught me about creativity and irreverence. Barcelona taught me about ideas.

Four cities. Four cultures. Four ways of standing in a stadium and believing that the people around you are part of something larger than yourself. And yet, they are not really four separate worlds.

They are Mediterranean cities. They have ports. They have migration. They have memories of other cultures arriving by sea. They have languages shaped by centuries of contact. They know what it means to live beside the water and to look towards another shore.

Football does something remarkably similar. A ball crosses borders without needing a passport. A song can be understood without translation. A blue shirt, a red-and-blue shirt, a white-and-red shirt or a blaugrana shirt can become a second skin.

The rules are the same. The pitch is the same. The goalposts are the same. But the way we love the game is never the same.

And then I realised something. There is no single Mediterranean way of loving football. If you win, even better. If you don't, you competed and gave us a beautiful spectacle. That is the greatness of sport: competing. Winning is wonderful. But sport is greater than victory. You compete, you give your best, and you offer a spectacle to those who came to watch. That is the greatness of sport: competition. 

And perhaps there is one more reason why Napoli remains so special to me. When I was young, I wanted to play football. I played until they told me I could no longer do it. Decades later, I was standing in the San Paolo, watching Napoli, thousands of kilometres and many years away from that little girl who simply wanted to play. I sometimes wonder what she would have thought if someone had told her that one day she would live in Napoli, become a Napoli season-ticket holder and watch football in a stadium where an entire city had found one of its greatest symbols. She probably would not have believed it. But she would have understood one thing immediately. Football had followed her. And perhaps that is why I have never really stopped following it.

From Barcelona to Napoli. From Lyon to Montpellier. From one Mediterranean shore to another. Different languages. Different histories. Different ways of singing. But the same beautiful, irrational need to belong.

Because football does not merely unite cities. Sometimes, it teaches us how different cities can be united without becoming the same.

And that, perhaps, is one of the most Mediterranean things of all.

More information: SSC Napoli

Barcelona me abrió las puertas de Europa,

pero yo escribí mi historia en azul;

mi corazón está con el Nápoles.

 

Barcelona opened the doors of Europe to me, 
but I wrote my story in blue; 

my heart is with Napoli.

Diego Armando Maradona

'CANZONE NAPOLETANA', UNIVERSAL NEAPOLITAN SOUL

Musings of The Grandma...

There are cities that you remember through their monuments. Others remain with you through their streets, their smells, their food or the colour of their skies. And then there are cities that you remember through their music. For me, Napoli is one of those cities.

Enrico Caruso, Roberto Murolo, Sergio Bruni, Renato Carosone, Mario Merola... 

I lived there for a while, many years ago, and although I eventually left, Napoli never really left me. Perhaps this is because Napoli is not simply a city to be visited. It is a city to be listened to.

Napoli sings. It sings in the streets, in the cafés, on balconies and in restaurants. It sings beside the sea and in the narrow alleys of the historic centre. It sings about love, jealousy, happiness, poverty, separation, the sun, the moon and, inevitably, the sea. And nowhere is this more beautifully expressed than in the Neapolitan song.

During the previous chapters of my journey through Napoli, I have written about the extraordinary Neapolitan musical tradition: the tammurriata, the tarantella, the great composers of the Neapolitan School and the glorious tradition of opera at the Teatro di San Carlo. But the canzone napoletana is something different. Opera belonged to the theatre. The tammurriata belonged to popular religious festivals and rural traditions. The Neapolitan song belonged to everyone. It was music that could leave the theatre and walk straight into the streets.

During the nineteenth century, Napoli developed a remarkable tradition of popular song, particularly through the famous song competitions associated with the Festa di Piedigrotta. What began as a religious celebration gradually became one of the great musical events of the city, providing composers and lyricists with a stage on which to present new songs. And something extraordinary happened. The songs became part of the identity of the city itself.

Perhaps it is not surprising that so many Neapolitan songs are connected with the sea. Napoli is a maritime city. Its history, economy, imagination and identity have always been connected to the Mediterranean. The sea is everywhere. It is in the landscape, in the language, in the food and in the stories told by generations of Neapolitans. And it is also in their music.

“Santa Lucia”, one of the best-known Neapolitan songs, evokes the waterfront of Napoli and the picturesque district named after the saint.

“Marechiare” takes us to another corner of the Neapolitan coast, where love and landscape become almost impossible to separate.

“Torna a Surriento” turns the landscape of Sorrento into a plea for someone not to leave.

And then there is “'O sole mio”.

Few songs in the world are as instantly recognisable. Its melody has travelled across continents, languages and generations. Yet its lyrics are written in Neapolitan. That detail matters. Because the Neapolitan song did not simply export melodies. It exported a language, a culture and a way of looking at the world.

There is another reason why the Neapolitan song became so powerful. People left Napoli. During the great waves of Italian emigration in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, millions of Italians crossed the Atlantic in search of a different life. They carried very little with them. But they carried memories. They carried recipes, religious traditions, family stories and, of course, music. A Neapolitan song could travel much more easily than a monument. It could cross the ocean inside someone's memory.

For an emigrant thousands of kilometres away from the Bay of Napoli, hearing 'O sole mio or Santa Lucia could suddenly bring back a street, a mother, a lover, a harbour or the colour of the Mediterranean. Music became a portable homeland. And perhaps that is one of the reasons why the Neapolitan song travelled so extraordinarily far.

But it would be a mistake to imagine that Neapolitan songs are simply sentimental. They can certainly be passionate. They can be tragic, melancholic and full of longing. But Napoli has never been a city that takes itself entirely seriously. There is irony everywhere. There is humour. There is theatricality. There is exaggeration. There is that wonderful Neapolitan ability to turn tragedy into a story, suffering into a joke and everyday life into theatre. The same city that could produce the sublime music of the Neapolitan School could also produce songs that made people laugh. Perhaps this is why the Neapolitan song feels so human. It does not try to hide life. It celebrates it in all its contradictions.

There is something else that fascinates me about the canzone napoletana. It reminds us that Napoli is not simply an Italian city. It has its own linguistic and cultural identity. Neapolitan is a Romance language with a long history and an enormous literary and musical tradition. Through songs, it travelled far beyond the streets where it was spoken. And music gave the language an extraordinary form of immortality.

A person who has never spoken Neapolitan may still know: “Che bella cosa na jurnata 'e sole…” They may not understand every word. But they recognise the emotion. That is the extraordinary power of music. You do not always need to understand a language to understand what it is saying.

When I think about the Napoli I knew, I don't remember only Pompeii, Vesuvius, Castel dell'Ovo, the narrow streets of the historic centre or the extraordinary churches. I remember the sea. I remember walking towards the port. I remember the sound of the city. And I remember that feeling of being surrounded by a culture that seemed to have music embedded in its DNA. Perhaps this is why Napoli has never really left me. I may have left the city, but somewhere inside me, it is still singing. And perhaps that is the greatest gift of the Neapolitan song. It reminds us that places can become memories, memories can become music, and music can become a way of travelling home.

Even decades later. Even from the other side of the Mediterranean. Even when the city itself is far away. Napoli sings. And once you have heard it, it is very difficult to forget the melody. 

And even though you are not Neapolitan by birth -as you are at heart- you will never stop singing these musical gems, just as John Turturro did in Passione. Such cherished memories -Mísia and the eternal Napoli of Era de Maggio...

And this is the secret of the universality of the Neapolitan song -it captivates us and stays with us wherever we go, even those of us who are not Neapolitan. 

More information: La Voce di New York

There are places that you go to, and once is enough. 
And then there is Napoli.

John Turturro

TEATRO DI SAN CARLO & THE NEAPOLITAN OPERA SCHOOL

Musings of The Grandma...

There are many ways of telling the story of Napoli. You can tell it through its ruins, through the temples of Paestum, through Pompeii and Herculaneum, through castles and churches, through the sea that connects it to the rest of the Mediterranean for thousands of years. You can tell it through its food, its streets, its fishermen, its saints, its superstitions and its extraordinary relationship with death.

Or you can listen.

Because Napoli has always been a city that sings. After following the sound of the tammurriata and the tarantella through the streets and popular traditions of Campania, it seems almost inevitable to enter another world of Neapolitan music: the theatre, the conservatories and the extraordinary musical culture that made Napoli one of Europe's great musical capitals during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

And at the heart of that story stands the Teatro di San Carlo.

On 4 November 1737, Napoli witnessed the inauguration of a new theatre. It was built by order of Charles of Bourbon, King of Napoli, who wanted his capital to possess a theatre that would reflect the importance and magnificence of his kingdom. The building was designed by Giovanni Antonio Medrano and Angelo Carasale and was constructed with extraordinary speed. The opening performance was Achille in Sciro, based on a libretto by Pietro Metastasio and set to music by Domenico Sarro. The date was not accidental. It was the feast day of the king's patron saint.

From its very beginning, therefore, the San Carlo was much more than a place where music was performed. It was a statement. Napoli was announcing itself. The theatre stood next to the Royal Palace and became a symbol of Bourbon power, but also of something much greater: the extraordinary musical culture that had been developing in Napoli for generations.

The Teatro di San Carlo is still active today and is officially recognised as the oldest continuously operating opera house in the world. Its original horseshoe-shaped auditorium became a model for the development of the Italian theatre tradition. And yet, strangely enough, the story of Neapolitan music does not really begin inside this magnificent theatre. It begins elsewhere.

Long before the San Carlo opened its doors, Napoli had already become an extraordinary centre for musical education. The city possessed several conservatories whose origins were connected to charitable and religious institutions. Over time, they became places where young musicians could receive an exceptionally rigorous education. This was one of the secrets of Napoli' musical success. Music was not simply something that talented people happened to do. It was an education, an occupation and an institution. The Neapolitan musical tradition produced generations of composers, singers and instrumentalists who would eventually travel throughout Europe.

Among the composers associated with the so-called Neapolitan School were Alessandro Scarlatti, Francesco Durante, Leonardo Leo, Francesco Feo, Leonardo Vinci, Giovanni Battista Pergolesi, Niccolò Jommelli, Tommaso Traetta, Niccolò Piccinni, Giovanni Paisiello and Domenico Cimarosa.

The expression "Neapolitan School" can be somewhat misleading if understood too literally: these composers did not all share a single style, nor did they necessarily belong to a formal institution called a school. What they shared was something perhaps more interesting: Napoli had become an exceptionally fertile environment for musical education, composition and performance. And the influence of these musicians travelled far beyond Napoli.

Composers educated in the Neapolitan tradition worked in courts and theatres throughout Italy and Europe. The city exported not only music but also musical education, theatrical conventions and a new way of thinking about opera. Napoli had become a musical laboratory.

Opera in the eighteenth century could be magnificent, serious and spectacular. Opera seria gave audiences kings, emperors, heroes, gods, conflicts, honour, sacrifice and impossible love. But another kind of opera was beginning to emerge. It was smaller. Funnier. More human. And much closer to everyday life. This was opera buffa.

Its characters were no longer necessarily kings and mythological heroes. They could be servants. Old men. Young lovers. Jealous husbands. Clever women. People trying to marry for money. People trying to escape marriages. People lying to one another. People falling in love. In other words: people.

The emergence of comic opera was part of a much wider transformation in European theatre, but Napoli played an exceptionally important role in its development. And perhaps this should not surprise us. Because Napoli had always possessed an extraordinary theatrical instinct. The city itself was theatre. Its streets were theatre. Its markets were theatre. Its religious festivals were theatre. Its processions were theatre. Its music was theatre. And its people had an extraordinary ability to transform everyday life into performance. The distance between the street and the stage was therefore not as great as it might appear.

One of the most fascinating figures in this story is Giovanni Battista Pergolesi. He died tragically young, at only twenty-six, but his musical influence was enormous. In 1733, he composed 'La serva padrona' -'The Maid as Mistress'- originally performed as an intermezzo between the acts of his opera Il prigionier superbo. Its story was wonderfully simple. Uberto, an elderly and rather grumpy bachelor, wants to marry. His clever servant Serpina gradually manipulates the situation until she manages to transform herself from servant into mistress. It is funny. It is human. It is theatrical. And it was revolutionary in its own way. The characters did not need to be gods or heroes. The drama could come from ordinary human relationships.

Pergolesi's music helped establish 'La serva padrona' as one of the emblematic works of the emerging comic tradition. Its enormous popularity later contributed to the famous 'Querelle des Bouffons' in Paris, when French intellectuals fiercely debated the relative merits of Italian comic opera and French operatic tradition. A little Neapolitan comedy had suddenly become a European cultural argument. That is quite a journey for a servant girl.

What fascinates me most about the Neapolitan musical tradition is not simply its importance in the history of opera. It is the connection between high culture and popular culture. A few days ago I was writing about the tammurriata and the tarantella. The tammurriata belongs to another world: village festivals, religious celebrations, the sound of the tammorra, dancing, singing and collective memory. And yet both traditions emerge from the same cultural landscape. One takes place in the street. The other takes place inside a theatre. One may be accompanied by a great drum. The other by an orchestra. One is transmitted through community and tradition. The other through conservatories, scores and professional musicians. But both share something fundamental.

Napoli does not separate music from life. Music is part of the city's identity. It accompanies religion. It accompanies love. It accompanies work. It accompanies death. It accompanies celebration. It accompanies heartbreak. It accompanies the sea. It accompanies the streets. And eventually, it enters one of the most magnificent theatres in Europe.

During the eighteenth century, the reputation of Napoli as a musical centre spread throughout Europe. The San Carlo became a destination for composers and singers and a place where a successful premiere could establish an artist's reputation. The theatre also became an important stage for the great tradition of opera seria, not only for comic opera. This is important because the history of the Neapolitan School cannot simply be reduced to opera buffa. The same musical environment contributed to the development and reform of serious opera.

Composers such as Niccolò Jommelli and Tommaso Traetta worked in different European courts and participated in the evolution of opera during the Enlightenment. Later, Paisiello and Cimarosa would become among the most celebrated representatives of comic opera.

The San Carlo therefore became a meeting point. Italian and foreign composers came to Napoli. Great singers performed there. Musical ideas travelled through its stage. And Napoli, once again, connected itself to the rest of Europe through the Mediterranean route of culture.

By the end of the eighteenth century, Neapolitan comic opera had become an international phenomenon. Domenico Cimarosa's Il matrimonio segreto, premiered in Vienna in 1792, became one of the most successful comic operas of its time. Giovanni Paisiello was equally influential, particularly with 'Il barbiere di Siviglia', composed  decades before Rossini's much more famous version. The stories were changing. Opera was becoming increasingly interested in human psychology, social relationships and ensemble interaction. The single magnificent aria was no longer always enough. Duets, trios and ensembles allowed characters to react to one another on stage. Confusion could accumulate. Characters could interrupt each other. The final scenes could become musical chaos. And that chaos was wonderfully theatrical. The music was beginning to sound less like a parade of heroic individuals and more like a society talking to itself. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why opera buffa still feels so alive. It understands that human beings are ridiculous. And that love, money, jealousy, vanity and misunderstanding can be much more entertaining than mythology.

There is another curious paradox here. Napoli is a city of extraordinary religious devotion. It is also a city of superstition, irreverence, humour and theatricality. Its relationship with religion has always been intensely emotional and difficult to fit into neat institutional categories. The same city that could pray passionately to San Gennaro could also turn a saint's festival into a spectacular public celebration. The same city that lived surrounded by churches and catacombs could laugh, sing and dance in the street. The same city that took death seriously could make jokes about it. And perhaps opera buffa belongs naturally to this world. Because opera buffa does something very Neapolitan: it refuses to take human beings too seriously. It loves them too much to idealise them.

The San Carlo has survived fires, wars, political revolutions, changes of dynasty and the transformation of Napoli itself. A devastating fire destroyed much of the theatre in 1816. It was rebuilt remarkably quickly, reopening only a few months later. The rebuilding did not end the theatre's importance; the San Carlo continued to occupy a central position in the musical life of Napoli and Europe.

This is another thing I have learned from Campania. The stones remain. The temples remain. The theatres remain. The castles remain. The streets remain. People do not. And perhaps that is why music matters so much. A building can survive centuries. A score can survive centuries. But the person who sang it is gone almost immediately. A voice exists for a few minutes. A performance exists for one evening. And then it disappears. Only the memory remains.

When I think about Napoli, I cannot help seeing a connection between the musicians of the tammurriata, the dancers of the tarantella, the composers of the Neapolitan School and the magnificent stage of San Carlo. They belong to different worlds. But they are part of the same city. The same city that dances in a square can listen to Pergolesi. The same city that sings during a religious procession can fill an opera house. The same city that turns grief into ritual can turn love, jealousy and ridiculous human behaviour into comedy.

Perhaps this is the real story of Neapolitan music. It is not a succession of isolated traditions. It is a river. Sometimes it flows through a village. Sometimes through a church. Sometimes through a street filled with dancers. Sometimes through a conservatory. Sometimes through the orchestra pit of the San Carlo. But it keeps moving. And it keeps singing.

When I began this journey through Napoli, I thought I was writing about monuments. Greek temples. Roman cities. Castles. Churches. Ports. But the further I travel through this city, the more I realise that its greatest monument may not be made of stone at all. It may be sound. The sound of the sea. The sound of fishermen returning to the harbour. The tammorra. The tarantella. The voices of religious processions. The laughter of an opera buffa audience. The orchestra of San Carlo. And, above all, the unmistakable human voice.

For centuries, Napoli has transformed its history into music. From the popular traditions of Campania to the sophisticated compositions of the Neapolitan School, from the comic theatre of Pergolesi, Paisiello and Cimarosa to the magnificent stage of San Carlo, the city has repeatedly found the same answer to the passing of time: sing.

Because buildings may remain standing for centuries. Kingdoms disappear. Dynasties disappear. People disappear. But somewhere, someone is still singing the melody. 

And perhaps that is why Napoli feels immortal. 

Napoli did not merely produce music. Napoli learned to live through it.

More information: Teatro San Carlo

Quel misto di allegria et tenerezza del ‘Matrimonio’ 
è affatto congeniale per me.

That mixture of joy and tenderness in Il matrimonio 
is completely congenial to me.

Stendhal, on Domenico Cimarosa's Il matrimonio segreto

BARCELONA-CAMBRILS, 2017 #17AVOLEMLAVERITAT

D'un vell color de plata
jo voldria que fossin
els meus versos: d’un noble,
antic color de plata.

Davant la mort, que porta
secrets senyals del rostre
que jo veig en mirar-me,
cerco amb ells extingides
veus del mar, pas de núvol,
les distants primaveres.

Trist i lliure, camino,
davant la mort que em mira,
a la llum, per la plata
antiga dels meus versos...

Mrs. Death, Salvador Espriu

TARANTELLAS & TAMMURRIATAS, WHEN NAPOLI DANCES

Musings of The Grandma...

There are cities that can be understood through their monuments. Napoli is not one of them. To understand Napoli, you have to listen. You have to listen to the bells ringing above the streets, to the voices echoing through the vicoli, to the fishermen returning from the sea, to the vendors shouting their wares, to the music coming from a window that you cannot quite locate. And, sooner or later, you have to listen to the tambourine.

Because Napoli does not merely have a history written in stone. It has a history written in rhythm. And few rhythms are more immediately associated with southern Italy than the tarantella.

After walking through the history of Napoli -from the Greek foundations of Neapolis to Roman Pompeii and Herculaneum, from the medieval world of Castel dell'Ovo to the splendour of Castel Nuovo and the kingdoms that ruled from this extraordinary Mediterranean city- I wanted to take a different path. This time, I wanted to leave the castles behind. I wanted to follow the music. Because castles preserve the memory of kings. Songs and dances preserve the memory of people.

The first thing to say about the tarantella is that there is not, strictly speaking, a single tarantella. It is a family of traditional dances that developed in different forms throughout southern Italy. Its rhythms, gestures, instruments and meanings vary considerably from one region to another. 

The traditional tarantella is generally characterised by a fast, energetic rhythm, often in 3/8 or 6/8, accompanied by instruments such as the tambourine, guitar and, later, mandolin and accordion.

The dance became particularly associated with Napoli and the culture of southern Italy, but its history cannot be reduced to a single place or a single explanation. Even the name is surrounded by uncertainty. For centuries, tarantella was connected to taranta and tarantola, and popular tradition associated the dance with the bite of a spider. The traditional explanation was wonderfully dramatic: the bite of the tarantula produced a mysterious condition that could be cured by music and dance.

The victim -traditionally, and very often, a woman- would enter a state of agitation or apparent trance. Musicians would play different melodies until they found the particular rhythm that made the tarantata respond. And then she would dance. Faster. And faster. Until, according to the traditional belief, the illness had been expelled from the body.

The historical phenomenon known as tarantism is particularly associated with Apulia and the Salento, where it survived in attenuated forms well into the twentieth century. The oldest known documentary connection between the bite of the taranta and the therapeutic power of music dates back to the fourteenth century.

Today, of course, we do not understand tarantism as a medical treatment for spider venom. But perhaps that is not the most interesting part of the story. What fascinates me is something much more human. For centuries, people believed that music could heal. They believed that rhythm could speak to the body when words were no longer enough. And that idea feels profoundly Mediterranean to me.

The story of the tarantula has become so deeply embedded in the popular imagination that it is tempting to tell the tarantella as a simple story: Spider. Poison. Madness. Music. Dance. Cure. But history is rarely so simple. Modern scholarship has shown that tarantism was a complex cultural phenomenon involving ritual, belief, community, music, the body and psychological distress. Ernesto de Martino's famous twentieth-century study of the phenomenon helped establish tarantism as a major subject of anthropological and religious-historical research.

And there is another important distinction. Tarantism and tarantella are related in the cultural imagination, but they are not interchangeable terms. The tarantella became a dance in its own right, and its history continued far beyond the ritual world of the tarantate. This is where Napoli enters the story.

The tarantella became increasingly associated with Napoli and the Neapolitan imagination. By the eighteenth century, travellers were already describing the dance in Napoli. Goethe himself encountered the tarantella during his Italian journey in 1786-1787. Later, during the nineteenth century, the dance increasingly acquired the form that would become familiar throughout Europe: a lively, theatrical and often flirtatious dance between two people. And something fascinating happened. The dance travelled. It moved from the countryside to the city. From popular culture to the theatre. From local celebrations to fashionable society. And eventually from Napoli to the rest of Europe. The tarantella became an image of southern Italy itself. Suddenly, the whole of Napoli seemed to dance. From the kingdom to the street This transformation is particularly interesting when we remember the history of Napoli. For centuries, this was not merely a city. It was a capital. A city of kings, dynasties and competing powers. The Angevins, the Aragonese, the Spanish and the Bourbons all left their mark on its architecture and political history.

Castel Nuovo tells us about that Napoli. Its towers, its triumphal arch, its coats of arms and its monumental architecture speak of power. But the tarantella tells us about another Napoli. The Napoli of fishermen. Of craftsmen. Of market sellers. Of women gathering in courtyards. Of religious festivals. Of young people flirting. Of families celebrating. Of people who did not leave behind chronicles, palaces or monumental inscriptions. They left behind music. And this is perhaps why I find the tarantella such a perfect continuation of my journey through Napoli.

Castel Nuovo tells us about the Napoli of kings. The tarantella tells us about the Napoli of its people. And when we speak about Campania, there is another word that deserves to be heard: tammurriata. 

The tammurriata is a traditional sung dance from Campania, particularly widespread around the Vesuvian and Salernitan areas. Its name comes from the tammurro, the large frame drum whose powerful rhythm dominates the performance. The tammorra is not simply an accompanying instrument. It is almost another voice. The hands strike the drum in different ways, producing different tones, while castanets, putipù, triccheballacche and other instruments can join the performance. The songs may speak of love, sexuality, everyday life and work. And here the distinction becomes important again.

The tammurriata belongs to the broader world of Campanian traditional music and dance. It is related to the southern Italian tradition that we associate with the tarantella, but it has its own rhythms, instruments, contexts and traditions. There is no single southern Italian dance. There is a whole Mediterranean vocabulary of movement. And perhaps that is more beautiful.

There is another reason why I find the Campanian dances so fascinating. They exist in a world where the boundary between the sacred and the profane is wonderfully blurred. I wrote recently about Napoli  and its peculiar relationship with religion: the saints, the processions, the churches, the devotion, the superstition, the celebrations and the extraordinary emotional relationship that Neapolitans have with death.

The tammurriata fits perfectly into that world. A religious celebration can become a celebration of the body. A procession can become music. Music can become dance. Dance can become courtship. And courtship can become celebration. Nothing has to remain in its assigned category. 

This is Napoli. A city where contradiction is not necessarily a problem. It is often a way of life. The body remembers There is something else that fascinates me about traditional dance. It survives differently from architecture. A castle can stand for six hundred years. A temple can survive earthquakes, wars, eruptions and changing political regimes. We can photograph it. Measure it. Restore it. Study it. But a dance is much more fragile. If nobody dances it, it disappears. There is no stone to preserve it. No wall to protect it. No archaeological excavation capable of bringing it back exactly as it was. It survives only if one generation teaches another generation how to move. And this makes popular culture extraordinarily powerful. The body becomes an archive. The hands remember what the books forgot. The rhythm remembers what the stones cannot tell us. A grandmother teaches a granddaughter. A musician teaches a child. A community gathers for a festival. The drum begins. And suddenly, something centuries old is alive again.

Perhaps this is why the tarantella feels so profoundly Mediterranean to me. Not because every Mediterranean culture dances the same way. Quite the opposite. The Mediterranean has always been a place of extraordinary diversity. Greek, Roman, Arab, Byzantine, Norman, Occitan, French, Catalan, Jewish and countless local traditions have crossed its waters. Languages changed. Religions changed. Kingdoms rose and disappeared. Borders moved. Cities were destroyed and rebuilt. But people continued to meet around food, music, work, religion, love and the sea. Culture travelled by ship. And sometimes it travelled inside the body. A rhythm could cross a port. A melody could be carried by a sailor. A dance could be transformed by the next village. A word could acquire a new meaning in another dialect. This is what the Mediterranean has always done. It connects things.

Perhaps that is the secret of Napoli. It is an ancient city, but it has never been still. Greek Neapolis became Roman Neapolis. Roman Napoli became a medieval city. The medieval city became the capital of kingdoms. The kingdoms became part of larger states. The old port became a modern metropolis. The fishermen of yesterday became fewer. The streets changed. The buildings changed. The people changed. And yet Napoli remained unmistakably Napoli. Because a city is not only its architecture. It is what its people do with the architecture. They walk through it. They shout across it. They fall in love in it. They mourn in it. They celebrate in it. They eat in it. They sing in it. And sometimes, they dance.

I imagine a Neapolitan evening. The heat of the day is finally disappearing. The stone streets are beginning to cool. Somewhere, someone picks up a tammorra. One person begins to play. Another begins to sing. Someone starts clapping. And then a woman begins to dance. Perhaps she is not thinking about Greek antiquity. Perhaps she is not thinking about the Kingdom of Napoli. Perhaps she has never read about tarantism or the history of the tarantella. She simply knows the rhythm. Her body knows what to do. And that is enough. Because culture does not always survive through knowledge. Sometimes it survives through memory. And memory does not always live in books. Sometimes it lives in the hands. In the feet. In the voice. In the rhythm.

I have spent so much time during this journey looking at stones. The columns of Paestum. The streets of Pompeii. The houses of Herculaneum. The churches of Napoli. Castel dell'Ovo. Castel Nuovo. They have all told me something about the people who built them. But now I want to listen to the people who came afterwards. Because the history of Napoli did not end when its kings disappeared. It did not end when its kingdoms changed. It did not end when its walls became monuments. It continued in kitchens, workshops, harbours, churches, squares and family celebrations. It continued in songs. And it continued in dance.

Castles preserve the memory of kingdoms. Songs and dances preserve the memory of people. Perhaps that is why the tarantella is so important. It reminds us that history is not only what survives in stone. Sometimes history is what survives in us.

There is something wonderfully rebellious about that. You can conquer a city. You can change its rulers. You can redraw its borders. You can build new palaces over old foundations. You can change its language. You can change its name. But if its people  continue to sing, something remains. If they continue to gather, something remains. If they continue to dance, something remains. And so, after walking through the Napoli of emperors, kings, saints, fishermen and sailors, I arrive at another Napoli. A Napoli without a throne. Without an army. Without a crown. Just a drum, a song and a human body moving to a rhythm that has travelled across centuries. Perhaps this is the most democratic monument of all. No marble. No bronze. No fortress. Just people. Keeping something alive.

And somewhere in the streets of Napoli, the tammorra begins again. The hands strike the drum. The rhythm accelerates. Someone laughs. Someone starts singing. And Napoli dances. Because some cities preserve their history in monuments. Napoli preserves part of hers in movement.

Perhaps that is what the tammurriata has always been: not simply a dance, but a people remembering who they are.

More information: L'Italo-Americano

Come danza di coppia, 
la tarantella è stata tipica della città di Napoli, 
dove per il passato essa aveva la funzione 
che oggi ha in provincia la tammurriata.

As a couple dance, 
the Tarantella has been typical of the city of Naples, 
where in the past it had the function 
that today the Tammurriata has in the province.

Roberto De Simone

CASTEL NUOVO, WHERE NAPOLI MEETS BARCELONA...

Musings of The Grandma...

There are places that tell the history of a city. And then there are places that seem to tell the history of an entire sea. Castel Nuovo is one of them.

Standing beside the harbour of Napoli, the massive medieval fortress known as Maschio Angioino is impossible to ignore. Its towers, walls and monumental entrance have watched over the city for centuries, witnessing the rise and fall of dynasties, wars, earthquakes, political transformations and the endless movement of people across the Mediterranean.

But for me, Castel Nuovo has another meaning. Every time I see it, I see Napoli -but I also see Barcelona. Because carved into this fortress is part of a history that Napoli and the Crown of Aragon once shared. And perhaps this is one of the things I love most about the Mediterranean: our history has never respected modern borders.

When Castel Nuovo was built in the thirteenth century, Napoli was entering a new political era. Charles I of Anjou conquered the Kingdom of Sicily in 1266 and established Napoli as the centre of his continental kingdom. The old Norman-Swabian political order had been replaced by Angevin power, and a new royal residence was needed.

Castel Nuovo was therefore not conceived merely as a defensive fortress. It was a statement. The Angevin kings wanted a royal palace that would demonstrate the importance of Napoli as a political and cultural centre. Its position beside the sea was strategic, but it was also symbolic: the castle faced the Mediterranean, the great highway through which armies, merchants, artists, pilgrims and ideas had travelled for centuries.

Napoli was not a peripheral city. It was a capital. And for several centuries, the Kingdom of Napoli would remain one of the great political entities of medieval and early modern Europe.

The castle itself would change with the rulers who occupied it. The Angevins built it. The Aragonese transformed it. And that transformation is where my own story becomes entangled with the history of Napoli.

There is a Catalan-Aragonese connection. In 1442, Alfons V of Aragon conquered Napoli and entered the city as its new king. He was not simply another foreign ruler arriving in Napoli. He was a Mediterranean monarch whose domains connected territories separated by hundreds of kilometres of sea: the Crown of Aragon included the Kingdom of Aragon, the Principality of Catalonia, the Kingdom of Valencia, the Kingdom of Majorca and other territories across the Mediterranean.

Napoli consequently became part of a much larger Mediterranean political world. And Alfons understood perfectly the symbolic importance of Castel Nuovo. He transformed the Angevin fortress into an extraordinary royal residence and gave it one of the most magnificent entrances of the Italian Renaissance: the monumental triumphal arch built between the towers. It celebrates his arrival in Napoli. But it also tells us something fascinating about power in the fifteenth-century Mediterranean. 

Look carefully at the decoration and you will find the heraldic language of the Crown of Aragon. The bars of Aragon, the Balears Islands, Catalunya and València are there in stone. For a Catalan visitor, there is something unexpectedly emotional about seeing them in Napoli. They are not a modern addition. They are not there because someone wanted to create a symbolic connection between Barcelona and Napoli centuries later. They are there because Barcelona, Napoli and the wider Mediterranean were once part of the same political and commercial world. The Mediterranean was not a frontier separating us. It was the road connecting us.

This is also why Castel Nuovo has always made me smile. When I lived in Napoli during my Erasmus years in the 1990s, I spent an enormous amount of time near the harbour. I needed the Mediterranean. I still do. I would walk towards the port, wander along the waterfront and simply watch the sea. Napoli was never just the city where I happened to be studying. It became a place that entered my emotional geography. And, somehow, my being Catalan became useful. When people at the port knew that I was Catalan, they would sometimes send me towards places connected with Catalan-speaking visitors. I remember thinking that it was rather funny. I had come from Barcelona to Napoli , and suddenly my identity as a Mediterranean person was becoming part of my everyday life.

But perhaps it shouldn't be surprising. The connection between Barcelona and Napoli is older than any modern idea of tourism. It belongs to a time when ships connected our cities, when merchants crossed the sea, when soldiers and sailors moved between ports, when kings ruled territories on both sides of the Mediterranean and when languages travelled with them.

The Napoli of the Aragonese period was a city of extraordinary ambition. Alfons V did not merely conquer Napoli. He wanted to make it one of the great cultural capitals of his world. His court attracted humanists, architects, artists and intellectuals. The city became an important centre of Renaissance culture, and Castel Nuovo became one of the great symbols of this transformation. The monumental triumphal arch is therefore more than an impressive doorway. It is propaganda carved in marble. It announces the arrival of a new king. It celebrates military victory. It associates Alfons with the traditions of ancient Rome. And it places Napoli within the cultural universe of the Renaissance.

Standing beneath it today, it is easy to forget how radical this transformation must have seemed. The medieval fortress had become a Renaissance royal palace. And Napoli had become the centre of a kingdom whose influence extended far beyond the walls of the city.

There is something deeply Mediterranean about this story. Barcelona and Napoli  are separated by hundreds of kilometres, but the sea between them has always been a connection rather than a barrier. Both cities grew through their relationship with the Mediterranean. Both became major ports. Both received people, languages, religions, food, music and ideas from elsewhere. Both have been conquered and ruled by others. Both have suffered wars and bombardments. Both have rebuilt themselves. And both have populations who can be extraordinarily proud of their city -sometimes with a level of passion that outsiders may find difficult to understand.  Perhaps this is one of the defining characteristics of Mediterranean cities. We are constantly being told that cities are defined by their borders. But ports know better. A port is defined by what arrives. And by what leaves.

Today, millions of people pass through Napoli without necessarily noticing the small details that reveal this shared history. They see a castle. They photograph the towers. They walk through the triumphal arch. They admire the architecture. But I always look for those familiar heraldic symbols. The red and gold. The bars. The signs of a political world that disappeared centuries ago but left its fingerprints in stone. And when I see them, I think of Barcelona. Not necessarily the Barcelona of today, but the Barcelona of the Mediterranean  -the city of sailors, merchants, shipyards, traders and travellers; a city whose history was inseparable from the sea.
That Barcelona and that Napoli understood something that modern Europe sometimes forgets: the Mediterranean has always been a space of connection.

History should not be used to recreate old kingdoms. It should be used to understand how deeply connected we have always been. The Crown of Aragon is history. The Kingdom of Napoli is history. The medieval Mediterranean is history. But Barcelona and Napoli  are still here. Still looking towards the same sea. Still functioning as major Mediterranean cities. Still shaped by their ports. Still receiving people from every corner of the world. And perhaps that is the most beautiful legacy of Castel Nuovo. Its stones remind us that cities can share a past without needing to be identical. They can have different languages, traditions and identities and still belong to the same cultural landscape.

The Mediterranean does not erase our differences. It makes them visible. And somehow, it also connects them.

I have visited Castel Nuovo many times. I have walked towards it from the harbour, as I did so many years ago when Napoli  was my home. I have walked past its towers without thinking about kings or dynasties. I have simply walked towards the sea. And yet, every time I return to its façade, I am reminded of how quickly human life passes. The stones remain. The towers remain. The sea remains. The flags and coats of arms have outlived the people who ordered them to be carved. The kingdoms disappeared. The kings disappeared. The political borders changed. And we are still here, walking along the same Mediterranean shore.

Perhaps this is what the Mediterranean teaches us best. We are temporary. The sea is not.

Castel Nuovo has stood beside the harbour for centuries, watching generations come and go. I was once a young woman from Barcelona arriving in Napoli. Today I return in memory, older, carrying photographs, stories and a little more history. And when I see those red and golden bars carved into the stone, I don't see a forgotten political empire. I see a connection. Between Napoli and Barcelona. Between past and present. Between two great Mediterranean ports. And between all of us who, in one way or another, have learned to live looking towards the same sea.

Tempus fugit. The castle remains. The Mediterranean remains. And we keep walking.

More information: Ruins & Remnants

Alfonsus Regum Princeps Hanc condidit Arcem.

Alfons, prince among kings, built this fortress.

Alfons el Magnànim

King of Aragon and Count of Barcelona