εὕρηκα!*

:)



*

Orkney's Italian Chapel

A herewith highly recommended post at Sicily Scene about the Churchill-made Arandora Star-tragedy, reminded me of my surprise when on my first visit to a certain island I 'stumbled' upon ...

this very chapel.

Imagine you had been one of 550 Italians captured in North Africa and in 1942 being brought to the Orkney Islands, being forced to construct causeways to block German U-Boots from accessing Scapa Flow.

The name those four causeways got, by the way:

Churchill Barriers (sic!).

As you can read (at least) the essentials here, I do allow myself to indulge one of my favourite passions - do I detect a knowing simper on the lips of my experienced readers? :) - and restrict myself to offer some photographs.

The chapel

Its inside (photo taken freehand, without flash)

The 24 prisoners of war who did it.

Not il duce

 

And here some more lines in Italian, just for Lady Limoncello (and those whose native tongue is Italian).

Epilogue:

Why would an agnostic write a post about some Italians who a) were so stupid to follow a megalomaniac 'duce', b) be so stupid to let capture themselves, and finally c) in their rainy and stormy detention centre would start to build a chapel for someone/something who/that has - so far - not introduced her-/him-/itself as Her/His/Its godish Highness?

Answers:

1. (the ironic one) Just because it's a sign of hope. After all, out of approximately 500 prisoners of war only 24 were such silly full stop

2. (the first of two serious ones, and I do cut it but short): It's just amazing! Just amazing.

Finally, two questions:

Would Major T. P. Buckland have allowed to build a mosque?

Would a Muslim-Major (have) allow(ed) his Christian prisoners to build a chapel?

And a last thought for tonight; a thought that is ... yes! ... permanent part of Omnium: We all (!) could (!) know from history how ... have no adjective here ... war is. And still ... and still ... there has not yet been the one generation who was willing and able to immunise their children against those roothless and greedy few (!) who'd do their best to instigate envy and hate and ... wars.

And therefore:

Past is. Is presence. Impossible to let bygones be bygones or even forget about. It’s there. Is presence. And maybe herein lies the reason that we remain unable to learn from the past.

Up til infinity?

For how many years, decades ... millennia the majority will keep silence?

Chapeau, Monsieur Aznavour

Well, from a 70 year young lady to an 85 year young man: Charles Aznavour. Today a new album of Armenia's Ambassador to Switzerland was released.
Apart from that I shall prefer listening to his old chansons: What an artist; the more when comparing him to the many tiny squallers who think they were stars, not knowing they are at least 86 per cent bicycle*.



* Those few - although it is most unlikely they exist - who would not understand what I am refering to, as they happen to not being in possession of the master's complete œvre: Saddle your ponies, folks, and hurry up. The friendly, most well-educated and -sorted bookseller just round the corner will be happy to fill the gaps of your education and in your bookshelf.

Turning fools in Love

Not that I am a fan - fan is an abbreviation of fanatic, hm? :) -, but I admire here fire.
Thus on her 70th birthday:

Trashed - or: A circle of life

Those who have come to think they know Omnium (sic) a bit better will not be surprised when reading that sometimes - out of the blue - I could for half an hour watch butterflies dancing, bumble-bees humming from flower to flower and on a windy day leaves leaving a cherry-tree.

Why would a notorious lazy man feel such a joy in his heart watching a phenomenon that entails work?

Hm, does it entail work? Per se?

Trashed

When I fell to the ground

you walked all over me

even though I shaded you…

was it just yesterday?

Now you are going to rake me,

toss me in a bag

as if I'm some kind of monster

you need to eject.

Why don't you leave me be;

by springtime you will

never even know I was here .

Janice Thomson

What Lady Janice puts in poetry, Andrew Scott puts prosaic: [...] some people not too far away from me seem to regard every fallen leaf as a disgraceful piece of filth, to be tidied away as soon as possible. They are out every morning, frantically scooping up all the leaves and casting disapproving glances at the coppery golden carpet adorning my lawn.

And right both they are. Some people would overdo, acting like maniacs for housework or, in this case, maniacs for raking leaves.

Well, I am raking leaves, too ... and give them another job:

Seanhenge's chief-protectors of shrubs, trees, roses etc.; and after they have done a great job during winter, they get their deserved long rest, long enough to convert into young, strong and fresh humus.

And thus the cycle of life goes on ...

The day after

Ladies and gentlemen,
Dames en heren,
Bayanlar, Baylar,
Signoras e Signori,
Señoras y Señores,
Mesdames et Messieurs,
Friends,

Once again, just in case anyone's conCERNed and fearing - or exulting - I might have been swallowed by a Black Hole.