Syracuse, Ortigia and Neapolis

Catania, in the shadow of Mt Etna

We berthed at Catania, nestling in the brooding shadow of Mt Etna. A bus took us to Syracuse and the ironically named Neapolis (ie new city 734 BC)

Taking photos proved addictive, but what they show, doesn’t fully capture sunlight on stone nor the sense of mystery and awe as you wandered through something so old.

As you enter the park the first thing you see is the Latomia del Paradiso (Paradise Quarry). Now it is a peaceful and beautiful garden stroll. Three thousand years ago, it would have been noisy and very far from paradise.  Here slaves sweated and toiled, quarrying stone for the new city and its great public buildings. 

Dominating the quarry is a narrow cavern, 76 feet high, 214 feet deep and 25 feet wide. Caravaggio called it the ‘Ear of Dionysus’ because of its shape and acoustics. It once  housed slaves and another time 7000 prisoners from the war between Athens and Syracuse. 

If legend is to be believed,  Dionysus, the Tyrant of Syracuse, was able to hear the whispering of mutinous slaves via the cavern’s startling acoustics. We witnessed it ourselves when a bunch of European tourists burst into song: Ode to Joy. A rival bunch of tourists – French – counter-attacked and drowned them out with the Marseillaise

The Greek Theatre

Note the modern seating near the top. It is still a working theatre

as the modern stage in the picture below illustrates

Caves used as burial chambers surrounding the theatre. Best seats in the house for the dead.

Some believe Greek theatres were aligned to the constellation associated with the gods they were dedicated to. What’s more obvious is the fact they were built in hillsides,  using nature as a natural backdrop, not only enhancing the acoustics, but also allowing audiences greater visibility. The position of the sun and prevailing winds were also taken into account.  Theatres were often positioned near to the sea, where breezes  both cooled the spectators and amplified sound.

Stylised masks amplified sounds through their mouths. The exaggerated features allowed them to be seen from a distance

 The Ara di Gerone II

          A  monolithic sacrificial altar to Heiron II where up to 450 oxen could be killed at one time. 

 

 And of course, when the Romans came, so did the Amphitheatre, cannibalised for stone over the years.

 

Ortigia harbour and sea

Syracuse’s old town centre is connected to Syracuse by two small bridges. It’s a tiny island about a mile long but packed with historical interest and surrounded by a turquoise sea.

 

Ortigia was the nucleus of Syracuse, founded about 734 BC and eventually becoming the most important city in Magna Graecia. For a time, it dominated the Mediterranean, was home to Archimedes, and was visited by Plato. Later it struggled against Carthage until eventually swallowed up by the Roman Empire where it enjoyed renewed prosperity. In later years, Syracuse, along with the rest of Sicily was influenced by Byzantines, Arabs, and Normans.

Piazza del Duomo

Began life as a Greek temple, developed further by the Byzantines and then Normans and became what we see now in the C18^th. It houses palaces and churches and from it a spider-web of narrow, mysterious and beautiful streets

So, what remains of the temple?

 The Temple of Apollo

Dominating the square is the  Cathedral built in the C7^th on the site of a previous Greek temple, and it reflects the complexity of Sicily’s unique culture. On its side wall, you have the ancient Doric columns of the original Greek temple. Above, you can see Norman battlements reflecting their obsession with warfare and defence. And after the great earthquake of 1693, when much of the church was destroyed, it was rebuilt in the Baroque style  best seen from the front.

As you walk through the narrow streets,  you pass palaces and some glorious buildings. 

A palace front

And its more intimate courtyard

 

The Fountain of Diana

All this in an island it takes 15 mins to walk around

I felt sad leaving, compensated by the fact there was still more to come

Gibraltar has steps

I remember, in primary school, adopting a small cardboard Indian child, which I coloured in and placed on the bottom step of a large flight of stairs leading to Heaven. It was all in aid of the missions. We paid one penny a day and at the end of the week, we got to move our cardboard cut-out a step nearer to Heaven. Not a futile exercise. It taught me a lesson. The richer children got their adopted child to Heaven faster, some paying sixpence a time.

Since then, I’ve had mixed experience with steps. As I’ve aged, I’ve grown to loathe the damn things, some more than others. 

I remember trudging up Jacob’s Ladder—the 199 steps from Whitby up to St Mary’s Church at the top of the hill overlooking the town. These steps have been there since the C14^th. For me, it was less a religious experience than a homage to Dracula, but there was a point to the drudgery. At the top was an ancient Abbey, atmospheric graveyard and a view. 

Other than getting my cardboard cut-out to Heaven, the most pointless flight of stairs I’d climbed was in Quebec. We were exploring, trying to find our own way from the harbour to the historic quarter on the heights.

 This looked promising, we thought and dutifully climbed, only to discover they led nowhere, well nowhere significant. They allowed us a view of what looked like a library. 

Approaching Gibraltar * (see below)

Three weeks ago, we were in Gibraltar and again, decided to do our own thing, in this instance walk up to the Moorish castle and Botanical Gardens. It was well signposted but from there, things went downhill—or rather uphill.

 We must have walked up 20 flights of stone steps, perhaps more. Red faced and puffing we trudged upwards, stopping occasionally for the occasional photograph and catching our breath. Nearing what we hoped was the top, we turned a corner and met two people walking the steps we had yet to climb. Just two more flights, they said merrily, then a steep road, and you’re there. As an afterthought they added. ‘It costs £19 to get in.’ And then the killer: ‘Each.’

Sod that for a monkey, I thought. Scouse parsimony kicked in. After a moment's thought we  turned and walked back down again. And thus our day in Gibraltar was spent, me wishing I was a cardboard cut-out on its way to Heaven. 

Farewell Gibraltar 

Britain captured Gibraltar in 1704 during the war of the Spanish Succession, and acquired it permanently 

in 1713 after the treaty of Utrecht. This granted Britain full and permanent possession of the city, castle, 

port, defences and fortresses. Spain had previously held it for 203 years after seizing it from the Moors in 

1501. By my calculation, we have owned Gibraltar for 320 years. Possession, as they say, is nine tenths of the law.

In contrast, Spain relinquished Spanish Morocco in 1956 but retained a part of it: Ceuta, which it still 

holds to the disgust of Morocco. Ultimately might is right, and it is hard to get excited about, unless 

you’re Spain or Morocco, and perhaps Britain in the near future.