AQUILEIA AND GRADO
On July 22nd, the day before I returned from Palmanova to my Battery,
Shield and I and two lorryloads of men made an expedition in the
afternoon to Aquileia and Grado. Aquileia, at the height of the old
Roman power, was a great and important city, on the main road eastwards
from the North Italian plain. It was destroyed and sacked by Attila and
his Huns in the year 452, and again in 568 by Alboin and his Lombards.
It was the fugitives from Aquileia and the neighbouring towns, who,
taking refuge in the lagoons along the coast, founded upon certain
mudbanks in the fifth century the city which was destined to be Venice.
And it was at Grado in the year 466 that the foundations of Venetian
constitutional history were laid by the election of tribunes to govern
the affairs of the community inhabiting the lagoons.
The two chief features of Aquileia to-day are a museum of Roman
antiquities, which I had not time to visit, and a large church, with a
bare interior, but with a magnificent eleventh century mosaic floor, one
of the best examples of its kind in Italy. The interior of the church
was decorated with flowers in shell cases, to signify its reconquest by
the Italians, who intend to make here a great national memorial when the
war is over. Beside the church, at its eastern end, stood a glorious
group of very tall cypresses, one of the best groups I have ever seen,
and opposite the western entrance was a charming little avenue of young
cypresses, planted since the reconquest. We stayed for half an hour at
Aquileia and then went on to Grado.
* * * * *
On the way Shield told me the story of how the British Batteries came to
Italy. Our own War Office, as the habit of the tribe is, had wrapped the
whole thing up in mystery, and the Batteries were christened "the
British Mission" to a destination secret and unnamed. Passing through
the South of France and up the Arc Valley to the frontier, with the
gunners sitting on their guns in open trucks in the sunshine, the
trains were loudly cheered by the French who, in that part of the
country, had seen few of the sights of war. Once in Italy the official
attempts at mystification mystified nobody. The engine-drivers at Modane
hoisted Union Jacks on their engines and kept them flying all the way.
Everyone knew who we were and where we were going, and at every station
where the trains stopped there were official welcomes and immense crowds
cheering like mad. At Turin our guns were wreathed in flowers and at
Verona the station staff presented a bouquet to the General, on whose
behalf Shield made a suitable reply in Italian.
* * * * *
Grado lies on several islands, in its own lagoons. The Austrians were
developing it, in a haphazard way, as a watering-place before the war,
and there are several large hotels and the beginnings of a Sea Front.
The canals are filled with fishing boats with brown sails, which seldom
put to sea now for fear of mines.
One approaches Grado by a steamer which starts from a little cluster of
houses on the mainland known as Belvedere, and takes one down a long
channel through a maze of 'wooded islands, one of which is now the
Headquarters of an Italian Seaplane Squadron. The islands are thickly
clothed with tamarisks and pollarded acacias and stone pines, and are
reputed to be somewhat malarial. There is a long beach at Grado, where
all the world bathes, and the water is deliciously warm, with a bottom
of hard sand. Lying in the water, I could see right round the Gulf of
Trieste as far as Capodistria, and straight opposite to me lay Trieste,
the Unredeemed City of Italy's Desire, very clear against a background
of hills. Through glasses I could even distinguish the trams running in
her streets. I could easily fancy her scarcely a mile away across that
sheet of blue sunlit sea. Thus must she often have appeared to Italians
fighting and dying by sea and land to reach her, who remained ever just
out of reach.