Treading in the Footsteps of the Famous

There is something that appeals about walking in the footsteps of the famous. Somehow it is inspiring to tread the same streets walked by historical figures and try to feel their presence and try to think of the place as they would have found it.

In April we stayed in a house a mere 20 metres from the side door of Santa Croce church. We saw people queue to enter each day as we headed off to other parts of town. After 3 days, we discovered what they were visiting. Buried here are many Italian luminaries, including Michelangelo, Galileo, Marconi (radio inventor), poet Dante, philosopher Machiavelli, and Rossini (composer). And to think we almost missed it!

We have:
• walked in Florence, where Michaelangelo spent his childhood,
• strolled around Newton’s Cambridge, where he investigated light during the Great Plague years,
• wandered through Mozart’s birthplace,
• sat in Burns' rustic cottage,
• visited Stratford, the family home of playwright Shakespeare.

While visiting such places, one thought I have is: What would this person think about the effect they have had on the world? Would they be impressed with historical developments that they somehow triggered? Would they approve?

So, this week was our time to visit Arles in Provence, where Van Gogh spent the years 1888-9 and painted local scenes. It was in this town that his psychiatric condition worsened, and when he cut off his ear, it concerned local residents so much that they sought to have him certified in the local mental institution.

Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.


Today, one can take a guided walk around Arles to view the scenes of many of his paintings during this prolific time. His Starry Night over the Rhone was set here, as was his famous bridge paintings and recognisable self-portraits. One can still see the wheat fields and sunflowers in full bloom and think of his painting of scenes like these.

Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.


In the centre of old town is the Forum Place which Van Gogh painted. We dined at the Van Gogh restaurant, which today is painted in the bright yellow colours of yesteryear. The only thing missing from this enjoyable event was Don Maclean softly singing in the background.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

Unfortunately, Van Gogh’s art is not found in Arles, but mostly displayed in distant Netherlands. That will have to wait a few weeks until after we travel Germany.
(p.s. My Sunflower photo has been Van Gogh-ed)