An Irishwoman’s Diary ... on a saintly vision in Siena

As a consequence of being cloistered by a pandemic, I recently took to sorting through old photographs. I wouldn’t recommend it. It felt like disappearing down the rabbit-hole of my life: flashes of mawkish birthday parties, garish all-girl school plays, family trips to Butlins, a weekend away in Galway with my fella in which I’m – oh, dear – wearing a blond poncho. I have to say, they weren’t all bad.

I couldn't help thinking how quickly an innocent visit to a tourist hotspot was turning into a Fellini movie

In one, I’m standing in front of the Basilica of San Domenico in Siena, Tuscany. I am 24, newly married (the blond poncho didn’t put him off, thankfully) and more than ready to experience the sense of the sweet life the country was about to offer. That morning, my husband and I had walked through the city’s main square (the Piazza del Campo, famous for its ferocious bareback horserace, the Palio) now awash with gold, as huge clusters of mimosa flowers were being gifted to women in celebration of International Women’s Day.

In the photograph, San Domenico looks elegant and austere behind me, its bricked facade more reminiscent of post war English council houses than a Gothic Cistercian church.

I look very small. I have long, wavy, red hair. I hold my bright yellow bouquet, like a whip of haloed grasses, with pride in the crisp March sun. I remember, once inside, the basilica opened up in airy splendour, with magnificent frescoes by Sodoma depicting the life of St Catherine, Siena’s patron saint, wearing her full nun’s habit and veil.

Martyn Turner

---

The Irish Times view on vaccine equity: a ‘crisis of solidarity’

---

Barbadian Banishment: The forgotten Irish of the world’s newest republic

---

The Irish Times view on curbing the growth of data centres: a system under strain

---

There were other tourists quietly perusing the treasures on display and a small handful of older local women in the pews who, we figured, regularly came to pray. These women sat with their heads bent, their rosary beads clasped tightly in their hands, their muffled incantations echoing eerily around the nave.

As I walked past I caught one of the women staring at me. She rose to her feet, blessed herself, kissed her rosary beads and began to follow me. Moments later another of the women did the same, then another. By the time I had reached the end of the pews there was a small murmuring crowd at my heels.

The first woman placed her hand on my arm and began speaking to me in Italian, nodding her head earnestly and pointing at the paintings. Then she pulled me over to a small alcove, the entourage close behind, and gestured to a gilded tabernacle.

Inside the tabernacle was St Catherine’s head – her actual head. Shrivelled and, I have to admit, a little on the creepy side. St Catherine, I had gleaned from my walk around the church, had been an crucial intermediary between the Holy Roman Empire and the papacy at a time of great political upheaval. She also risked her life helping the sick and dying during the plague in Siena in 1374. A remarkable woman by all accounts.

Apparently, the good people of Siena, realising they could not smuggle her whole body out of Rome when she died, had her decapitated. In 1531 Catherine’s head had survived a fire, and once, during a religious procession through the town, someone, in attempting to steal it, had dropped it. But, here it was, intact, more or less, its empty sockets staring out at me.

The first woman gently tugged at my hair, holding it up to show me as though I didn’t know what was growing on my head. I suspected they were trying to tell me, kindly, that I should have covered my hair coming into the church in respect for St Catherine. I couldn’t help thinking how quickly an innocent visit to a tourist hotspot was turning into a Fellini movie. Then all the women started singing to me, their eyes devout, their hands warm on mine, and, I have to admit, I felt very moved. I eventually took my leave.

The next part of our visit, Casa di Santa Caterina – Catherine’s house – was decorated with frescoes of St Catherine by Alessandro Franchi, depicting her younger life. One fresco immediately caught my eye – “Catherine Cutting off her Long Hair”, painted in 1896.

In it Catherine stands in the presence of the Dominican friar Tommaso della Fonte. She is small. She has long, wavy, red hair which she is about to cut with a large pair of scissors. Were the women only teasing me or did they actually want to believe I was some kind of reincarnation of St Catherine? It’s immaterial really. What is remembered is the warmth of these women, their friendliness, their beautiful voices, a moment of genuine contact between strangers. Sweet life indeed.