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

BORGO MARINARI, THE PEOPLE WHO BELONG TO THE SEA

Musings of The Grandma... 

There are places in Napoli where history is written in stone. And then there are places where history is written in salt. Borgo Marinari belongs to the second kind.

Built on the small island of Megaride, beside Castel dell'Ovo, the Borgo is one of those places where Napoli seems to have grown directly out of the Mediterranean. The little harbour, the boats, the stone buildings, the narrow passage connecting the island to the city and the constant presence of the sea create a landscape that feels almost detached from the Napoli around it.

Today, it is a beautiful and much-loved place. Restaurants, cafés, boats and visitors have transformed it into one of the city's most attractive corners. But before the visitors came, there were people who simply worked here. People whose lives depended on the sea. And that is the story I want to remember.

When we visit a Mediterranean harbour today, we tend to look at it as scenery. We admire the boats. We photograph the water. We sit at a restaurant overlooking the sea. We watch the sunset. But there was a time when the sea was not scenery. It was work. It was food. It was uncertainty. It was the family income. It was the reason someone got up before dawn. And sometimes, it was the reason someone did not come home.

Borgo Marinari developed around its relationship with the sea, particularly fishing. The small harbour was part of a much larger maritime world connected with neighbouring Santa Lucia. I like to imagine this place before it became one of the picturesque corners of Napoli. I imagine a fisherman waking up while the city was still asleep. There would be no tourists. No cameras. No restaurants preparing tables for lunch. Only the darkness, the smell of the sea and the sound of a boat being prepared. He would check the nets, the ropes, the engine or the oars. He would probably know the weather better than any forecast could tell him. He would know the sea in the same intimate way that a farmer knows his fields. And then he would leave. Perhaps his wife would still be awake. Perhaps she had helped prepare the boat. Perhaps she would spend the morning repairing or preparing nets, sorting the catch when it returned, taking care of the household and the children, and helping to sustain an occupation that was never exclusively the work of the person who went to sea. Because fishing has always been much more than fishermen. It has been families.

One of the things I find most fascinating about traditional fishing communities is how much of the work happens without ever leaving the shore. A fishing boat may belong to the person who goes out to sea, but the life surrounding that boat belongs to many more people. There are nets to prepare and repair. Fish to clean. Equipment to maintain. Boats to look after. Food to prepare. Children to raise. Accounts to manage. And there are the endless domestic tasks that have historically fallen disproportionately on women, often without being recognised as part of the economic activity of the family.

The Mediterranean fishing tradition was therefore also a story of women. Women who waited. Women who worked. Women who repaired. Women who sold. Women who carried the household when the sea took the men away for days or weeks. Women who understood that a change in the wind could change the entire day. Their work was often invisible precisely because it happened on land. Yet without it, the boat could not leave.

The sea is beautiful. It is also dangerous. This is perhaps something we forget when we romanticise the Mediterranean. We have turned the sea into an image. Blue water. White boats. Sunsets. Pine trees. Lemons. Fishing villages. Postcards. But for the people who make their living from it, the Mediterranean has never been merely beautiful. It can be violent. A sudden storm can transform the sea in minutes. Engines fail. Nets become entangled. Boats collide. Visibility disappears. And weather that looks insignificant from the shore can become a serious threat several kilometres offshore.

Fishing remains one of the world's most dangerous occupations. And yet, when we talk about Mediterranean culture, we often talk about food, architecture, mythology, music, literature and art. We talk much less about the people who actually went out into that sea and brought part of it back to us. Perhaps we should.

There is something deeply Mediterranean about fishing communities. Not because all Mediterranean fishermen live in the same way  -they certainly do not- but because the sea has created connections between very different cultures for thousands of years. The same sea connects Napoli with Barcelona. Napoli with Marseille. Napoli with Sicily. Napoli with Greece. With Tunisia. With Malta. With the Balearic Islands. Different languages. Different histories. Different religions. Different political borders. But the same sea. And, for centuries, remarkably similar rhythms of life.

The fisherman leaving before sunrise. The family waiting on shore. The fish arriving at the harbour. The nets drying in the sun. The smell of salt and diesel. The morning market. The knowledge passed from father to son -and increasingly, from one generation to another in ways that do not always follow traditional gender roles. This is not folklore. It is intangible cultural heritage.

Perhaps I feel this particularly strongly because I come from Barcelona. Barcelona has always had a complicated relationship with the sea, but fishing is an essential part of its history. The fishermen's relationship with the area that would become Barceloneta goes back centuries, and the fishing community became deeply intertwined with the neighbourhood. For generations, Barceloneta was not simply a neighbourhood next to the sea. It was a neighbourhood of the sea. The fishermen's boats occupied the waterfront. Their families lived nearby. Nets were repaired. Fish was sold. Maritime trades shaped the identity of the community. Even Santa Maria del Mar carries traces of that maritime history: fishermen and sailors contributed to its construction and were represented within the basilica.

Today, Barceloneta is one of Barcelona's most visited neighbourhoods. People come for the beach. For the restaurants. For the views. For the Mediterranean lifestyle. And there is nothing wrong with that. But sometimes I wonder whether, when we look at the sea from Barceloneta, we remember the people who once looked at exactly the same sea because their livelihood depended on it.

Much of Barcelona's fishing activity has moved away from the old neighbourhood, while ports such as Vilanova i la Geltrú continue to maintain an important fishing tradition. 

The transformation of Barceloneta is a familiar Mediterranean story: places created by maritime communities can eventually become places consumed as picturesque versions of the very culture that created them. This is where the story becomes uncomfortable. Fishing communities are ageing. Young people are often reluctant to enter a profession that can be physically demanding, dangerous and economically uncertain.

The European Union itself recognises the problems of generational renewal, economic pressure and the particular difficulties faced by small-scale fisheries. In 2021, small-scale fisheries employed around 60,000 fishers in the EU and accounted for 49% of employment in EU fisheries; more than half of this sector is concentrated in the Mediterranean. At the same time, the European Commission acknowledges that young people are turning away from fishing and that small-scale fishing communities face economic hardship.

And this creates a paradox. We want sustainable seas. We want healthy fish stocks. We want responsible consumption. We want Mediterranean cuisine. We want local products. We want traditional coastal communities. But none of these things can survive if there are no people left willing or able to work at sea. Protecting the Mediterranean cannot mean protecting only the fish. We must also protect the people whose lives have been intertwined with those fish for generations. Sustainability must include them.

There is something almost poetic about the fact that fishing is simultaneously one of humanity's oldest occupations and one of the professions whose future is increasingly uncertain. We have sophisticated boats. Satellite navigation. Weather forecasting. Modern engines. Scientific monitoring. European policies. And yet the fundamental relationship remains extraordinarily simple: Someone goes out to sea. Someone waits for them to return. The sea provides. And the sea demands respect.

Perhaps that is why fishing has always generated such strong communities. You cannot negotiate with the sea. You cannot order it to behave. You can only learn it. Respect it. Read it. And accept that you are never completely in control. There is a humility in that which modern life sometimes forgets.

Today, Borgo Marinari is no longer the fishing village it once was. Its identity has changed, as almost every Mediterranean coastal community has changed. The little harbour is now surrounded by tourism, culture, restaurants and leisure activities. Official tourism information describes it today as a place centred on culture, art and tourism, while its maritime past remains part of its identity. But I do not want to look at Borgo Marinari and see only what it has become. I want to imagine what it remembers. I want to imagine the boats leaving before dawn. The fishermen checking their nets. The women working on shore. Children growing up knowing the names of the winds. The smell of fish arriving at the harbour. The tired faces at the end of a long day. The relief when the boats returned. And the silence when one did not.

Because behind every picturesque Mediterranean harbour there is a human history that is much less picturesque. There is work. There is sacrifice. There is danger. There is love. There is waiting. And there is an extraordinary amount of knowledge accumulated over generations.

Perhaps this is what I want to say today. The Mediterranean is not simply the sea that surrounds us. It is one of the great cultural forces that made us who we are. It crossed our borders before our borders existed. It connected languages that were supposedly different. It carried merchants, soldiers, migrants, philosophers, artists and travellers. It carried wars and ideas. It carried food, music and stories. And it carried fishermen. Thousands upon thousands of them. Men and women whose names will never appear in history books, but whose work fed cities and communities for generations.

So when I look at Borgo Marinari, I do not want to see only Castel dell'Ovo rising above the water. I want to see the people beneath its shadow. The people who knew the Mediterranean not as a postcard, but as a workplace. The people who understood that the sea could be generous one day and merciless the next. The people who left home before sunrise so that someone else could have fish on their table. And the women whose hands, often invisible to history, helped hold that entire world together.

This is my small tribute to them. To the fishermen. To the sailors. To the women who repaired the nets. To the families who waited. To the communities that grew around the harbours. To those who came home. And to those who did not.

Because the Mediterranean we love was not created only by poets, emperors, architects and sailors of ancient legend. It was also created by ordinary people who woke up in the darkness, pushed a boat into the water and went to work. And perhaps the most respectful thing we can do today, when we sit beside the sea and admire its beauty, is to remember that someone once risked everything to make a living from it.

The sea is beautiful. But for those who work on it, it has never been just beautiful. It has been home. It has been work. It has been life.

More information: Castel dell'Ovo

Pe mmare nun ce stanno taverne.

At sea, there are no taverns.

Neapolitan proverb

ISCHIA, THE BEAUTIFUL ISLAND WHERE FIRE BECAME LIFE

Musings of The Grandma...

When most people think of the Bay of Napoli, they immediately picture Mount Vesuvius, Capri or the colourful streets of Napoli itself. Yet just beyond the horizon lies an island that has quietly witnessed nearly three thousand years of Mediterranean history. Its name is Ischia.

Known as L'Isola Verde -the Green Island- Ischia is much more than a beautiful holiday destination. It is a place where volcanoes created fertile landscapes, where Greeks established one of the earliest colonies in the western Mediterranean, where medieval castles rose from volcanic rock, and where thermal waters have been attracting visitors since Roman times.

Like the nearby Phlegraean Fields, Ischia reminds us that destruction and creation often come from the same geological forces. Everything on Ischia begins with volcanoes. The island was formed through volcanic activity over hundreds of thousands of years. Although no eruption has occurred since 1302, the island is far from geologically inactive. Hot springs, fumaroles and steaming soils reveal that enormous amounts of heat still remain beneath its surface.

Unlike the dramatic cone of Vesuvius, Ischia's volcanic history has produced a softer landscape of rolling hills, lush forests and fertile valleys. At its centre rises Monte Epomeo, nearly 800 metres above sea level, offering breathtaking views over the Bay of Napoli.

Rather than dominating the island like a volcano, Monte Epomeo is the visible expression of powerful underground forces that slowly lifted parts of the island over thousands of years. The result is one of Campania's most diverse landscapes in an area of only 46 square kilometres.

Around the eighth century BC they founded Pithekoussai, considered one of the earliest Greek settlements in the western Mediterranean. Archaeological excavations have revealed a thriving commercial community connected to Greece, Etruria and the wider Mediterranean world. One of its greatest discoveries is the famous Nestor's Cup, a small ceramic drinking vessel carrying one of the oldest known inscriptions written in the Greek alphabet. This tiny object has become enormously important for historians because it demonstrates how writing, poetry and trade travelled together across the ancient Mediterranean.

Long before Italy existed as a nation, Ischia was already a crossroads of civilizations. The Romans quickly recognised another extraordinary feature of Ischia. Its thermal waters. Volcanic heat naturally warms groundwater, creating dozens of mineral-rich springs whose temperatures range from pleasantly warm to almost boiling. Roman aristocrats built baths, villas and luxurious retreats throughout the island, convinced that these waters could cure arthritis, skin diseases and countless other ailments.

Today, Ischia remains one of Europe's most famous spa destinations. Unlike many modern wellness resorts, however, these thermal waters are not artificial. They emerge naturally from the volcanic heart of the island, just as they have for thousands of years. Nature still performs the same work that fascinated Roman physicians two millennia ago.

If one image defines Ischia, it is undoubtedly the Castello Aragonese. Standing dramatically on a rocky volcanic islet connected to the mainland by a stone bridge, the castle appears to rise directly from the sea. Although the site has ancient origins, the fortress owes much of its current appearance to the Aragonese rulers during the fifteenth century. Over the centuries it became far more than a military fortress. It housed monasteries, churches, noble residences, gardens and even an entire small community protected behind its walls. Walking through its narrow streets today feels like travelling through several centuries at once. From its terraces, visitors enjoy one of the most spectacular panoramas in southern Italy, where the Tyrrhenian Sea meets the Gulf of Napoli under the shadow of Vesuvius.

Life on Ischia has never been entirely peaceful. Like the neighbouring Phlegraean Fields, the island experiences earthquakes related to its volcanic nature. One of the most destructive occurred in 1883, devastating the town of Casamicciola Terme and causing thousands of deaths. More recently, in 2017, another earthquake reminded residents that although Ischia appears tranquil, geological forces continue beneath their feet. Yet, just like the people of Napoli and Pozzuoli, the islanders have learned to live with this reality. It is remarkable how communities shaped by volcanoes often develop a profound appreciation for everyday life. Perhaps living beside nature's immense power teaches people not to postpone happiness.

The same volcanic soils that once erupted in fire now sustain extraordinary vegetation. Lemon trees, vineyards, olive groves and Mediterranean forests flourish thanks to mineral-rich ground and a mild climate. One of the island's greatest treasures is La Mortella, a magnificent botanical garden created by composer William Walton and his wife Susana. Here, exotic plants from every continent grow alongside Mediterranean species, demonstrating once again how volcanic landscapes often become surprisingly fertile. Fire eventually gives birth to life.

Like Procida and the Bay of Napoli, Ischia has inspired generations of artists. Its colourful villages, dramatic cliffs and peaceful beaches have appeared in films, novels and countless paintings. Yet what makes Ischia unforgettable is not simply its beauty. It is its atmosphere. Unlike some famous tourist destinations, the island still preserves an authentic rhythm of daily life. Fishermen continue repairing their nets. Families gather in the evening squares. Local cafés fill with conversations that last long after sunset. Visitors are not simply observing the island. For a few days, they become part of it.

Many travellers arrive in Ischia looking for beaches. They leave remembering something entirely different. They remember Roman baths fed by volcanic heat. Greek history buried beneath vineyards. A medieval castle rising from black volcanic rock. Thermal springs flowing endlessly from beneath the earth. And above all, they remember an island where geology and humanity have been writing the same story for thousands of years.

Whenever I think of Ischia, I realise that it is impossible to separate it from the rest of Campania. Procida, Baia, Pozzuoli, Napoli, Vesuvius and Ischia all belong to the same living landscape, shaped by fire, sea and history. Each island, each harbour and each volcano tells a different chapter of the same extraordinary story. Perhaps that is why Campania feels so unique. Few places on Earth allow you to walk through ancient Greek settlements in the morning, explore Roman ruins in the afternoon, sail across a volcanic gulf at sunset and end the day soaking in thermal waters warmed by the Earth's interior. 

Ischia is not simply another island in the Mediterranean. It is a reminder that some of the world's most beautiful places were born from its most powerful forces.

When The Grandma first arrived in Napoli as a student, everyone kept telling her: "Go to the port. Go to Baia. Go to Ischia." She thought they were politely telling her to go away. Only later did she realise that, when she said she was Catalan, they thought of the Crown of Aragon and wanted her to discover the Aragonese castles that still define their landscape. It was her first lesson about Napoli: people there don't just give directions -they tell stories.

More information: Castello Aragonese d'Ischia

I suppose it had never struck him that, Ischia, 
which he looked at every evening to see 
what the weather would be like the next day, 
or Vesuvius, pearly in the dawn, 
had anything to do with him at all; 
but when he ceased to have them 
before his eyes he realized, 
in some dim fashion that they were 
as much part of him as his hands and his feet.

W. Somerset Maugham

THE SOLFATARA, WALKING ON THE BREATH OF THE EARTH

Musings of The Grandma...

There are places where nature whispers. There are others where it shouts. The Solfatara of Pozzuoli, just west of Napoli, does something in between. It breathes.

My first visit remains one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. I had seen volcanoes before, but nothing prepared me for a landscape where the ground was warm beneath my feet, clouds of steam drifted continuously from the earth, and the unmistakable smell of sulphur filled the air. It felt as if the planet itself were alive.

The Solfatara is one of the best-known craters within the Campi Flegrei (Phlegraean Fields), a vast volcanic caldera that has shaped the landscape of Campania for tens of thousands of years. Although the crater has not produced a magmatic eruption since 1198, it remains an active volcanic system.

The volcano has never truly fallen asleep. Instead of lava, it releases heat. Instead of ash, it exhales gases. The most famous feature of the crater is the Bocca Grande, a powerful fumarole where steam rich in water vapour, carbon dioxide and sulphur gases escapes continuously from deep underground. Temperatures can exceed 150°C (300°F), reminding every visitor that molten rock still lies far below the surface.

The white and yellow colours covering much of the crater are not paint or dust. They are minerals created by volcanic gases reacting with the surrounding rocks. Sulphur crystals form delicate golden deposits, while acidic vapours slowly alter the volcanic soil, creating a landscape that appears almost extraterrestrial.

Standing there, it is easy to understand why ancient people believed this was one of the entrances to the Underworld.

The Greeks associated these lands with the realm of Hades, while the Romans built temples and thermal baths nearby, convinced that the volcanic springs possessed remarkable healing properties.

For centuries, travellers undertaking the Grand Tour considered the Solfatara an essential destination. Artists, natural philosophers and early geologists came here to witness one of the few places in Europe where the hidden forces shaping our planet could be observed so directly.

Few natural laboratories have inspired so much curiosity. Yet the Solfatara is far more than a geological wonder. It is one visible expression of the enormous volcanic engine beneath the Phlegraean Fields. The same heat that produces the fumaroles also drives the phenomenon of bradyseism, causing the ground around Pozzuoli to rise and fall over decades.

Here, geology is not something that happened millions of years ago. It is happening now. One detail has always stayed with me. When I first visited the Solfatara, I could hardly believe there was a campsite beside an active volcano. Coming from Barcelona, it seemed almost surreal. Families were enjoying their holidays only a short distance from steaming fumaroles and sulphur vents. Only in Naples.

The Neapolitans have a remarkable relationship with nature. Living between Mount Vesuvius and the Phlegraean Fields has taught generations that uncertainty is simply part of life. Rather than allowing that uncertainty to dominate them, they have embraced life with extraordinary passion, humour and resilience. Perhaps nowhere else could a campsite beside an active volcano have felt so perfectly normal.

Today, however, the Solfatara is silent in a different way. Following the tragic accident in 2017, when three members of the same family lost their lives after leaving the designated paths, the crater was closed to visitors. The event was a painful reminder that the landscape, beautiful as it is, remains an active volcanic environment deserving both admiration and respect.

The fumaroles continue to rise. The gases continue to escape. The Earth continues to breathe. And although we may no longer walk across the crater, the Solfatara remains one of the most extraordinary windows into the living heart of our planet. Perhaps that is its greatest lesson. Volcanoes are not only mountains that erupt. Sometimes they simply remind us, quietly and continuously, that the Earth beneath our feet is still alive.

The Solfatara does not frighten because it erupts. It fascinates because it reminds us that our planet is still breathing.

More information: Visit Naples

In the Solfatara, silence has a smell, 
the ground has a pulse, and the Earth quietly 
breathes beneath every step.

The Grandma

INTRODUCING THE MORGANS (IX), LÍDIA MORGAN

Hi, I'm Lídia Morgan and I was born in Napoli, Campania. From a very young age I was fascinated by searching gold. I am a prospector.

A few months ago, I discovered that the famous Welsh pirate Henry Morgan was an ancestor of mine and that I had brothers and sisters to meet. Thanks to The Grandma, an Andorran grandmother, who made every effort to locate us, today I know them all and to celebrate this meeting we decided to spend two months together travelling and reviewing our level of English because we have all decided to retire to Kingston, Jamaica, to enjoy the Morgan fortune, and English is its official language.

-What's your full name?

-My name is Lídia Morgan Caracciolo.

-How do you spell your second surname?

-C-A-R-A-C-C-I-O-L-O

-Are you a student? What are you studying?

-No, I'm not a student. I completed my studies in geology and environmental sciences.

-Are you working? What is your job?

-Yes, I am. I'm a prospector. I search for valuable natural resources such as minerals and metals, and I help identify potential sites for exploration.

-Do you like your job? Why?

-Yes, I do. I enjoy working outdoors and exploring new places. I also find it exciting because every project can lead to new discoveries.

-Where are you from?

-I'm from Napoli, in the Campania region of southern Italy.

-How long have you lived there?

-I lived there for most of my life before travelling to different regions for work. However, Napoli will always be my home.

-Why are you studying English?

-I'm studying English because it is very important in the scientific and geological fields. It helps me communicate with international colleagues and read technical reports.

-How long have you been studying English?

-I've been studying English for two months. I would like to use it regularly at work.

-Tell me about your city.

-Napoli is a vibrant city with a rich history, amazing architecture, and delicious food. It is famous for its culture, its coastline, and its connection to Mount Vesuvius.

-What music do you like?

-I enjoy Italian pop music, jazz, and classical music. I often listen to music while travelling between work sites.

-Can you play any instrument?

-Yes, I can play the flute. I learned it when I was a child and I still enjoy playing occasionally.

-Tell me about your favourite place.

-My favourite place is Mount Vesuvius. I find it fascinating because of its geological importance and the incredible views from the top.

-What do you like doing in your free time?

-In my free time, I enjoy hiking, reading, photography, and travelling. I also like learning about local history and nature.

-Do you practise any sport? Which?

-Yes, I do. I enjoy hiking and rock climbing. These activities help me stay fit and are useful for my work in the field.

-How did you become interested in prospecting?

-I've always been interested in geology and nature. During my studies, I became fascinated by how natural resources are discovered and managed.

-What is the most exciting part of your job?

-The most exciting part is exploring remote areas and finding evidence that could lead to an important discovery.

-What is the most difficult part of your job?

-The most difficult part is working in challenging weather conditions and spending long periods away from home.

-Do you work alone or in a team?

-I usually work as part of a team. Prospecting requires cooperation between geologists, engineers, and environmental specialists.

-Why is your work important?

-My work helps identify resources that are needed for industry and technology. At the same time, it is important to ensure that exploration is carried out responsibly.

-Would you like to work in another country in the future?

-Yes, I would. I think working in different countries would allow me to gain experience and learn about different geological environments.

-How is a normal day with The Morgans?

-We haven't got similar days. Every day is different and this is something very important because it offers to you the possibility of living fantastic experiences every day and you can enjoy them with all your heart because you know that next day you're going to put the score to zero and we're going to start again. It's a non-stopping life.

-Which is your best memory with The Morgans?

-It's difficult to choose only one. I remembered when we travelled to Neverland to meet Peter Pan, Tinker Bell and the Lost Boys.

-Which is your favourite song?

-I'm Neapolitan, of course, I like tarantellas, I love Enrico Caruso but I choose 'Napule è' by Pino Daniele, a love song dedicated to this amazing city, its people and its language, Napule.

 Napule è mille culure
Napule è mille paure
Napule è a voce de' criature
Che saglie chianu chianu
E tu sai ca' non si sulo.

Naples is a thousand cultures
Naples is a thousand fears
Napule is a voce de' creature
Che saglie chianu chianu
E tu sai ca' non si sulo.

Pino Daniele

SANTA LUCIA, LIGHT FROM NAPOLI TO THE WHOLE WORLD

Today is Saint Lucia. In Barcelona, traditionally, on December 13th, the nativity scene is built and it is time to go to the forest to get moss, hollyhocks, branches and cork. Since the end of the 18th century, when the construction of homemade nativity scenes began to become popular, in some towns cork, moss and branches of greenery were sold for the nativity scene, mainly in the city of Barcelona during the pre-Christmas fair of Santa Llúcia.

Lucia is a name that comes from the Latin term lux-lucis and means light. It is a very special day for The Grandma, who loves the fair of Santa Llúcia and who especially remembers the time she spent in Napoli studying and working at the Università Federico II.

Napoli is a special city that sticks in your soul and heart. A beautiful city full of history, culture, with an impressive gastronomy and, most importantly, with wonderful people who make you feel at home and who make you always take them with you wherever you go.

Close your eyes, listen to a beautiful tarantella, remember Napoli with the imposing Vesuvius and evoke every moment lived in Sorrento, Capri, Ischia, Ercolano, Pompeii, Procida... and, most importantly, miss the Neapolitan friends who are at a physical distance, but present every day in our lives.

Napoli, me si’ ‘a vita mia.

Santa Lucia is a traditional Neapolitan song. It was translated by Teodoro Cottrau (1827-1879) from Neapolitan into Italian and published by the Cottrau firm, as a barcarola, in Naples in 1849, during the first stage of the Italian unification. Significantly, it is the first Neapolitan song to be translated to Italian lyrics. Its transcriber, who is often miscredited as its composer, was the son of the French-born Italian composer and collector of songs Guillaume Louis Cottrau (1797-1847). Various sources credit A. Longo with the music, 1835.

The original lyrics of Santa Lucia celebrate the picturesque waterfront district Borgo Santa Lucia in the Gulf of Naples, with an invitation (sales pitch) from a boatman to take a ride in his boat to better enjoy the cool evening.

Comme se frícceca
la luna chiena!
lo mare ride,
ll'aria è serena...

Vuje che facite
'mmiezo a la via?
Santa Lucia,
Santa Lucia!
(Repeated twice)

Stu viento frisco
fa risciatare:
chi vo' spassarse
jenno pe mmare?

È pronta e lesta
la varca mia
Santa Lucia,
Santa Lucia!

La tènna è posta
pe' fa' 'na cena;
e quanno stace
la panza chiena

Non c'è la mínema
melanconia.
Santa Lucia,
Santa Lucia!

Perhaps the definitive 20th century recording of the song was that of Enrico Caruso, the great Neapolitan opera singer. Mario Lanza recorded this song in this album Mario Lanza sings Caruso favorites, RCA Victor LSC-2393.

In the United States, an early edition of the song, with an English translation by Thomas Oliphant, was published by M. McCaffrey, Baltimore.

In Sweden, Finland, Denmark, the Faroe Islands, and Norway, Santa Lucia has been given various lyrics to accommodate it to the winter-light Saint Lucy's Day, at the darkest time of the year. The three most famous lyrics versions in Swedish are Luciasången, also known by its incipit, Sankta Lucia, ljusklara hägring (Saint Lucy, bright illusion); Natten går tunga fjät (The night walks with heavy steps); and the 1970s kindergarten version, Ute är mörkt och kallt (Outside it’s dark and cold). The more common Norwegian version is Svart senker natten seg (Black the night descends), whereas the version commonly used in Denmark is titled Nu bæres lyset frem (Now light is carried forth). There also exists a Sámi version, Guhkkin Sicilias dolin lei nieida (In faraway Sicily, long ago was a girl).

In the Czech Republic (or former Czechoslovakia), it was made famous with the words Krásná je Neapol (Naples is beautiful) sung by Waldemar Matuška.

In Austria, it is famous under the title Wenn sich der Abend mild. It is sung by Austrian fraternities.

In Thailand, Silpakorn Niyom, in Thai ศิลปากรนิยม, the anthem of Silpakorn University, borrowed the turn of Santa Lucia; the founder of the university, Silpa Bhirasri, was Italian. A Thai translation of Santa Lucia (itself was adapted from Italian version) was composed in 2017 by Professor Chedha Tingsanchali of the university's faculty of Archaeology to mark Bhirasri's 125th birthday anniversary. The translated lyrics was first premiered on 15 September of that year.

More information: Naples. Life, Death & Miracles

Partono 'e bastimente pe' terre assaje luntane...
Cantano a buordo: so' Napulitane!
Cantano pe' tramente 'o golfo gia scumpare,
e 'a luna, 'a miez'o mare, nu poco 'e Napule.

The ships are leaving for far away lands.
The Neapolitans sing on board.
They sing while in the sunset the bay disappears
and the moon, above the sea lets them see
a glimpse of Naples.

E. A. Mario

TEATRO DI SAN CARLO, THE NEAPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE

Today, The Grandma has been seeing some pictures about her travels.

 

She loves Napoli, and she likes remembering her travels to this wonderful and unforgettable city, capital of Campania, whose opera house, Teatro San Carlo is the oldest in Europe.
 

The Real Teatro di San Carlo, as originally named by the Bourbon monarchy but today known simply as the Teatro (di) San Carlo, is an opera house in Naples, Campania, connected to the Royal Palace and adjacent to the Piazza del Plebiscito.

It is the oldest continuously active venue for opera in the world, having opened in 1737, decades before either Milan's La Scala or Venice's La Fenice.

 
The opera season runs from late January to May, with the ballet season taking place from April to early June. The house once had a seating capacity of 3,285, but has now been reduced to 1,386 seats. Given its size, structure and antiquity, it was the model for theatres that were later built in Europe.

 

Commissioned by the Bourbon King Charles III of Naples, Carlo III in Italian, Charles wanted to endow Naples with a new and larger theatre to replace the old, dilapidated, and too-small Teatro San Bartolomeo of 1621, which had served the city well, especially after Scarlatti had moved there in 1682 and had begun to create an important opera centre which existed well into the 1700s.

Thus, the San Carlo was inaugurated on 4 November 1737, the king's name day, with the performance of the opera Domenico Sarro's Achille in Sciro, which was based on the 1736 libretto by Metastasio which had been set to music that year by Antonio Caldara. As was customary, the role of Achilles was played by a woman, Vittoria Tesi, called Moretta; the opera also featured soprano Anna Peruzzi, called the Parrucchierina and tenor Angelo Amorevoli. Sarro also conducted the orchestra in two ballets as intermezzi, created by Gaetano Grossatesta, with scenes designed by Pietro Righini. The first seasons highlighted the royal preference for dance numbers, and featured among the performers famous castrati.

In the late 18th century, Christoph Willibald Gluck was called to Naples by the impresario Tufarelli to direct his 1752 Clemenza di Tito at the theatre, and Johann Christian Bach in 1761-62 brought two operas, Catone in Utica and Alessandro nell'Indie.

More information: Teatro San Carlo

The new opera house was designed by Giovanni Antonio Medrano, a military architect, and Angelo Carasale, the former director of the San Bartolomeo.

 
The horseshoe-shaped auditorium is the oldest in the world. It was built at a cost of 75,000 ducats. The hall was 28.6 meters long and 22.5 meters wide, with 184 boxes, including those of proscenium, arranged in six orders, plus a royal box capable of accommodating ten people, for a total of 1,379 seats. Including standing room, the theatre could hold over 3,000 people.

 
Much admired for its architecture, its gold decorations, and the sumptuous blue upholstery, the San Carlo was now the biggest opera house in the world.

 
In relation to the power of the existing Bourbon Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, Beauvert notes that the design of the house, with its 184 boxes lacking any curtains, was so that no one could avoid the scrutiny by the sovereign who had his private access from the Royal Palace.

 
In 1809 Domenico Barbaia was appointed manager of the royal opera houses in Naples and remained in charge until 1841. He soon established a reputation for innovative and dazzling productions, which attracted both the public and leading singers to the opera house.

 
On 13 February 1816 a fire broke out during a dress-rehearsal for a ballet performance and quickly spread to destroy a part of the building.

 
On the orders of King Ferdinand IV, another Bourbon monarch and son of Charles III, who used the services of Antonio Niccolini, Barbaia was able to rebuild the opera house within ten months.

 
It was rebuilt as a traditional horseshoe-shaped auditorium with 1,444 seats, and a proscenium, 33.5 m wide and 30 m high. The stage was 34.5 m deep. Niccolini embellished in the inner of the bas-relief depicting Time and the Hour.

 
The central frescoed ceiling painting of Apollo presenting to Minerva the greatest poets of the world was painted by Antonio, Giuseppe e Giovanni Cammarano.

 
In 1844, the opera house was re-decorated under Niccolini, his son Fausto, and Francesco Maria dei Giudice. The main result was the change in appearance of the interior to the now-traditional red and gold.

More information: Opera Base

Apart from the creation of the orchestra pit, suggested by Verdi in 1872, the installation of electricity in 1890, the subsequent abolition of the central chandelier, and the construction of the new foyer and a new wing for dressing rooms, the theatre underwent no substantial changes until repair of the bombing damage in 1943.

During World War II, the opera house was damaged by bombs. Following the liberation of Naples in October 1943, Peter Francis of the Royal Artillery organized repairs to the damaged foyer and, three weeks later, reopened the building with a musical revue.

With the building in a fit state for performances, more musicians and singers made themselves available and the first opera performance was held on 26 December 1943, a matinée presentation of Puccini's La bohème. Francis stayed on for another two years, producing 30 operas.

On 9 July 1946 the American baritone Lawrence Tibbett sand the title role in Rigoletto before an audience that included senior military figures of the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations, and troops of the Allied Forces.

By the start of the twenty-first century, the opera house was showing its age with outmoded stage machinery, inadequate visitor facilities, and lack of air conditioning. In response, the Campania regional government funded a €67 million renovation over six months in 2008 and six months in 2009 which included restoration of the décor and the creation of a new rehearsal hall.

At the time, the Neapolitan School of opera enjoyed great success all over Europe, not only in the field of opera buffa but also in that of opera seria.

The Neapolitan school of opera composers included Feo, Porpora, Traetta, Piccinni, Vinci, Anfossi, Durante, Jommelli, Cimarosa, Paisiello, Zingarelli, and Gazzaniga.

Naples became the capital of European music, and even foreign composers considered the performance of their compositions at the San Carlo theatre as the goal of their career.

 

These composers included Hasse, who later settled in Naples, Haydn, Johann Christian Bach and Gluck.

Similarly, the most prominent singers performed and consolidated their fame at the San Carlo. These included Lucrezia Anguiari, called La Cocchetta, the renowned castrati Giovanni Manzuoli, Caffarelli (Gaetano Majorano), Farinelli (Carlo Broschi), Gizziello (Gioacchino Conti) and Gian Battista Velluti, the last castrato. Caffarelli, Farinelli, and Gizziello were products of the local conservatories of Naples.

More information: Opera Vision

 Opera is the ultimate art form.
It has singing and music and drama and dance and emotion and story.

Diane Paulus

THE 'CIAMPATE DEL DIAVOLO', HOMO HEIDELBERGENSIS

Today, The Grandma has received interesting news from Joseph de Ca'th Lon, one of her closest friends.

 

Joseph is in Naples visiting the Ciampate del Diavolo, where an article in Nature identifies fossilized hominid footprints preserved in pyroclastic flow deposits that dated to around 350,000 years ago on a day like today in 2003.

The Ciampate del Diavolo, in Neapolitan Devil's Footprints or Devil's Trails, is a locality near the extinct Roccamonfina volcano in northern Campania, Italy.

It is named after fossilized hominid footprints preserved in pyroclastic flow deposits that have been dated to around 350,000 years ago.

They have been attributed to bipedal hominids, possibly Homo heidelbergensis, which is known to have inhabited the region at the time.

The footprints comprise three sets of tracks indicating that three hominids made their way down a steep slope on the flank of the volcano, away from the crater. The tracks were preserved under a layer of volcanic ash and were revealed by erosion, probably in the late 18th to early 19th century. Local people attributed the prints to the Devil as they regarded him as the only being capable of walking on lava without harm.

They were identified as hominid footprints after archaeologists examined them in 2002 and are the second oldest set of hominid footprints known outside Africa, after the Happisburgh footprints.

The area in which the tracks appear is an eroded layer of rock covering about 2,000 m², tilted at an angle of about 45°, in a forest on the side of the volcano. The footprints consist of three sets of tracks which descend a steep slope created by a pyroclastic flow.

More information: Discover Campania

The first, identified as Trackway A, measures 13.4 metres and consists of 27 prints from left and right feet descending 4.26 metres vertically along a Z-shaped course. It testifies to a careful descent down a steep and probably unstable slope. 

Trackway B is 8.6 metres long and descends 2.91 metres vertically along a single curved route. Less care was taken with this part of the descent, as slips and irregularities indicating stumbles are visible. Finally, the less well-preserved 

Trackway C measures 9.98 metres along a single straight line which descends 2.56 metres vertically.

Occasional handprints are visible where the track-maker sought support on the steep slope, and a couple of animal paw marks made by a big dog or wolf are also visible.

Until the discovery of the Happisburgh footprints in England in 2013, they were the oldest known hominid footprints outside Africa. The tracks were originally dated to between 385,000 and 325,000 years ago, but subsequent studies using argon-argon dating placed the date more precisely as around 349-350,000 years ago.

The pyroclastic deposits in which the footprints were imprinted were laid down around 349,000 years ago (±3,000 years), while the layer of volcanic ash which subsequently covered and preserved them was deposited around 350,000 years ago (±3,000 years). The footprints are thought to have been exposed by erosion caused by heavy precipitation and landslides in the early 19th century, when the name Ciampate del Diavolo was first recorded.

The track-makers are estimated to have been about 1.56 metres tall and to have been travelling at a speed of 1.09 metres per second. Based on the age of the tracks, they have been tentatively ascribed to the hominid Homo heidelbergensis, a probable ancestor of the Neanderthals. As the tracks point away from the volcano's crater, it is possible that they were made while the track-makers were trying to escape an eruption. There was certainly an eruption following the track-makers' passage, as the tracks were buried under a subsequently erupted layer of volcanic ash which preserved them to the present day.

More information: Science Alert

Based on the small stature of the individuals, it has been suggested that the prints were made by children.

The tracks were known locally for many years, as they are situated near a trail that was established in the 18th century between the villages of Tuoro/Foresta and Piccilli. Local people attributed them to the Devil, the only being considered capable of walking on lava without burning his feet, but despite this the site was not considered cursed or threatening.

In 1986 a writer suggested that the footprints might have been created in historic times by a human. It was not until 2002 that they were first brought to scientific attention by two amateur archaeologists who noticed them and informed archaeologists at the University of Padua.

A cattle path through the forest formerly crossed the fossil tracks and caused accelerated erosion at that point, but since 2001 the vegetation around the tracks has been cleared away and the exposed rock protected by fencing. The tracks were initially thought to have been made by prehistoric elephants but when Paolo Mietto and two other researchers from the University of Padua investigated them, they were surprised to find that the tracks were of hominid origin.

It is very rare to find preserved hominid footprints in open-air environments, where they are vulnerable to erosion; most examples are found in enclosed and thus better protected environments such as caves.

More information: Forbes

One of the few things that can be said
for certain about Europe's prehistoric peoples
is that they all came from somewhere else.

Norman Davies

DIEGO ARMANDO MARADONA, 'THE BEST HAND OF GOD'

Today, The Grandma has returned to her normal life without families. Living with The Stones has been a wonderful and unforgettable experience and she has been very lucky of having the possibility of spending time together.

She has read a little about latest news and take a look at the ephemerides and she has paid attention to one of them especially: on a day like today FC Barcelona was founded by Swiss, Catalan, Irish and Englishmen becoming one of the most popular clubs around the world thanks to its history and its players.

One of the most important and known players who defended Barça's t-shirt was Diego Armando Maradona, the Argentine player who has passed away this week after a life full of lights and shadows. Maradona, considered like God by Argentinian and Neapolitan people, had a short staying in Barcelona but his football was so great that he will be always in our minds. Rest in peace, Diego.

More information: November, 1899 Foot-ball Club Barcelona was founded

Diego Armando Maradona (30 October 1960-25 November 2020) was an Argentine professional football player and manager.

Widely regarded as one of the greatest players of all time, he was one of the two joint winners of the FIFA Player of the 20th Century award.

Maradona's vision, passing, ball control, and dribbling skills were combined with his small stature (1.65 metres), which gave him a low centre of gravity allowing him to manoeuvre better than most other football players; he would often dribble past multiple opposing players on a run.

His presence and leadership on the field had a great effect on his team's general performance, while he would often be singled out by the opposition.

In addition to his creative abilities, he possessed an eye for goal and was known to be a free kick specialist. A precocious talent, Maradona was given the nickname El Pibe de Oro, a name that stuck with him throughout his career. He was also a troubled character, who was banned in both 1991 and 1994 for abusing drugs.

An advanced playmaker who operated in the classic number 10 position, Maradona was the first player in football history to set the world record transfer fee twice: first when he transferred to Barcelona for a then-world record £5 million, and second when he transferred to Napoli for another record fee of £6.9 million.

He played for Argentinos Juniors, Boca Juniors, Barcelona, Napoli, Sevilla, and Newell's Old Boys during his club career, and is most famous for his time at Napoli and Barcelona, where he won numerous accolades.

In his international career with Argentina, he earned 91 caps and scored 34 goals. Maradona played in four FIFA World Cups, including the 1986 World Cup in Mexico, where he captained Argentina and led them to victory over West Germany in the final, and won the Golden Ball as the tournament's best player.

In the 1986 World Cup quarter final, he scored both goals in a 2–1 victory over England that entered football history for two different reasons. The first goal was an unpenalized handling foul known as the Hand of God, while the second goal followed a 60 m dribble past five England players, voted Goal of the Century by FIFA.com voters in 2002.

Maradona became the coach of Argentina's national football team in November 2008. He was in charge of the team at the 2010 World Cup in South Africa before leaving at the end of the tournament. He then coached Dubai-based club Al Wasl in the UAE Pro-League for the 2011–12 season.

In 2017, Maradona became the coach of Fujairah before leaving at the end of the season.

In May 2018, Maradona was announced as the new chairman of Belarusian club Dynamo Brest. He arrived in Brest and was presented by the club to start his duties in July.

From September 2018 to June 2019, Maradona was coach of Mexican club Dorados. He was the coach of Argentine Primera División club Gimnasia de La Plata from 2019 until his death in November 2020.

More information: The Conversation

 To see the ball, to run after it,
makes me the happiest man in the world.

Diego Armando Maradona