BORDIGHERA is almost in France, so far is it situated along the
Ligurian Riviera, the thin pan-handle of north-west Italy squeezed
between the mountains and the sea. Only Ventimiglia, at the border
itself, separates it from Menton, southern gateway to Le Beau
Pays.
To be there in time for the annual Remembrance commemoration at
the British and Commonwealth War Cemetery, starting at 10.45, I had
to leave Genoa on the 06.41 "stopping" train - something habitual,
it appeared, for a fair number of commuters. Before my arrival at
Bordighera, the train had emptied and refilled twice: scholars,
office workers, and perhaps even the odd tourist on a short haul,
not to mention a very odd archdeacon.
I was party even to a tutorial conducted in the seats
immediately behind mine by an aspirant teenage English speaker and
a slightly over optimistic language coach. A test was clearly
looming at school: there seemed little hope that it would be aced.
As we departed in pre-dawn gloom, the sun emerged from the sea,
which the railway had consistently hugged, just as the first shift
of travellers alighted to make room for a fresh influx.
If I had needed an example of what makes this part of Italy
special, I now had it: the alchemy of monti e mare,
mountains and sea, catalysed by the still strong sunshine of
mid-November. If it wasn't quite the eponymous "enchanted April" of
Karen Blixen's celebrated Ligurian short story, it was an excellent
autumnal second.
Nothing seemed impossible when presented with such a positive
vibe. I began even to reassess the likelihood of a respectable mark
in the English test for my erstwhile fellow passenger. I certainly
wished it for him.
LATER, standing in the terraced, garden-like cemetery, the goal
of my visit, I pondered the possible states of mind of the young
casualties of the First World War's alpine hostilities evacuated to
ultimately futile convalescences in this earthly paradise. Wonder?
Disbelief? Certainly, if able to be wheel-chaired outside by
stiff-coiffed nurses; indifference at best, total ignorance at
worst, if injuries confined them to darkened wards set up in the
abandoned Riviera's luxurious hotels.
Italy's war is dated, perhaps uniquely, 1915-18; and so talk of
centenary here is premature rather than simply anticipatory. The
front focused on a protracted struggle with Austro-Hungarian forces
along the Tyrol's Piave river, the setting for Hemingway's A
Farewell to Arms, Italy's allies providing support only very
late in the war. Burials of 88 British soldiers (two of whom were
Jews) and an Indian driver (surnamed Lal, signifying a Hindu
faith?) record almost all their deaths during 1919. Perhaps theflu
epidemic carried some of them off in spite of earlier
progressmade.
At the rear of the enclosure, a row of 20 or so head-stones
bearing the Habsburgs' double-headed heraldic eagle attests the
ethnic diversity of Das Ősterreich - names illustrating
Czech, Slovak, Hungarian, and perhaps Ruthenian identity
proliferate, hardly a Germanic name among them. The diocese in
Europe is inevitably uniquely well placed to contribute to our
national First World War commemorative project in the following
years; but here, in one of the very few places where I personally
have a stake in it, I cannot help reflecting on the complexity of
what it is we will all be doing.
I am tempted to propose British obsession with Eastern European
migration at the start of 2014 as a good place to start, closely
followed by increasingly heated political debate over a referendum
on EU membership as the general election approaches.
BORDIGHERA's coat of arms is remarkably similar to that of
neighbouring Sanremo, location of the annual Italian national
alternative to the Eurovision Song Contest. Both have a rampant
lion resting upon a palm tree in the manner of Madrid's
better-known bear and tree.
At lunch with the Mayor and Chief of Police after our reverent
remembrance of the multicultural fallen, the contesting claims of
the two municipalities to be palm-frond suppliers to the Vatican
were outlined for me.
Both towns claim as a native the fisherman who happened to be
present in St Peter's Square during 1685 on the occasion of the
re-erection of the obelisk at the piazza's redesigned heart. It was
he that shouted out that the ropes used to tilt the monument
upright should be doused with water just as their loud creaking
indicated that they were about to snap. Since then,the fronds
carried in processionby the Pope on Palm Sundaycome from one or
other of these towns.
For authenticity, however, my money is on Bordighera for no
other reason than my new-found partisanship.
ONE of my last doles of charitable giving in 2013 was to three
Bulgarians in their mid-twenties who were saving up to buy coach
tickets to London. Their polite behaviour and excellent spoken
English placed them within the category of migrant more likely to
deprive less motivated native British people of future employment
than those supposedly intent on benefit tourism.
I like to think of my gift to them as my tribute to the Old
Country at the start of First World War commemoration.
The Ven. Jonathan Boardman is the Archdeacon of Italy and
Malta, and Chaplain of All Saints', Rome.