Stewed Siena

The Indian summer was still fending off the mists and mellow fruitfulness. But the autumn term was about to begin; the season’s changes would soon be manifest. So it was a day for anecdote and recapitulation; for telling amusing August tales, behind which lurked deeper meanings.

A couple of friends had been to the Palio, as everyone should, once. I remember being surprised that several hours of mediaeval pageantry could hold one’s attention, which it certainly did: but more than once? No one would watch Psycho twice. I also remember being surprised that the young of Siena would spend weeks rehearsing: hard to imagine that happening here. The spectacle ends with a horse race: several circuits of the Piazza del Campo. It is excitable viewing. We were watching it from scaffolding on the south side of the Piazza. The locals got carried away; the scaffolding shook to such an extent that I feared collapse. Horses usually fall, and the jockeys are Sicilian dwarves, which leads to conclusions being drawn.

After the race ends, there is usually a scuffle. Hundreds of young men square up and blows are exchanged, but only with the flat of the hand. These are not Caesar’s legionaries: more Electric Whiskers’s surrender monkeys. In recent years, there has been a problem. Although it sounds like an escaped item from a Peter Simple column, it appears to be true. Animal rights activists have been complaining about the risk to the horses.

Animal rights, in Italy? God help us. After all, there is no reason to worry about the nags. It they suffer serious damage, nothing will be wasted: straight to the salami maker. As for any injured jockeys, even if the stewards took a beady-eyed view of their tactics, they would receive medical care.