Notes from Perugia

1.

Sprawled on the steps of Perugia's Cattedrale San Lorenzo, the city's Dome completed in 1490, I sense a visual and audible disturbance making its way down the main thoroughfare, Corso Vannucci, linking the Dome and the Fontana Maggiore to Piazza Italia where tourists and lovers alike take in the magnificent bella vista of the lush green Umbrian hills.

Students privileged to frequent Italy's prime university for foreigners in the splendid Palazzo Gallenga call him Football Man. The nickname is an old one. A notorious sight on the Perugian streets for many years, whatever the weather, he once donned a Juve football shirt on a daily basis. Convinced of his own prodigious talent as a striker, Football Man would hold various imaginary but very loud conversations with the squad manager of the time, lambasting him for failing to select him for play.

His screaming route varied little. Often he raved at the most exclusive Hotel Brufani, overlooking Piazza Italia, where the Queen Mother once stayed; on occasion the walls of Piazza Morlacchi (where students congregate to savour the café's jazz of an evening) were subject to his rantings. Suddenly, a few years ago the football costume was abandoned and our man became a soldier in full combat gear. Today in front of me he has metamorphosed in a red shell suit, clearly aspiring to be of social service as a petrol pump attendant.

By the time he has reached the steps he has quietened down. Juve drops to his knees and begins to pray at the foot of the Dome. Being mad apparently doesn't mean that every ounce of childhood manners and respect vanish. The tourists look on bemused, the students by now conditioned to yet another Perugian oddball and the Perugians themselves difficult to shock. This is unsurprising considering how bloody their own history is.

Someone once told me that, proportionately, there are more mad people in Umbria than in any other region of Italy. Something in the water? Or those truffles perhaps, so valiantly snatched from the jaws of the devouring black Umbrian truffle pigs. A hospital for the mentally ill shut down some time ago (in pre-war days the symptom was getting pregnant without a boyfriend willing to follow his actions through to marriage). Whether there is a direct link between the hospital's closure and the abundance of troubled souls lining Perugia's streets is difficult to say without access to hospital records. But it's a thought I enjoy: that the mentally impaired of this town who don't appear dangerous to themselves or to others contribute towards the town's distinctive flavour and workable equilibrium by way of public spectacle.

My preferred vision remains the motorised bed, which, alas, I have not sighted for many years. A tiny old man on a single bed had hooked up a small motor underneath its springs, powerful enough to serve a garden mower or for those with a little more imagination, say ¦¦..a bed ! I saw the bed at varying spots. Like Football Man there was a pattern to the route. Yet inevitably his fulcrum was the fountain where he would linger for several moments throwing out stale bread. Panzanella to the Pigeons I would muse, to the flying rats always at hand to deface the fountain and have it shut down again for restoration for another few years. Let's face it : pigeons are a crying nuisance in any city and whatever your views on animals. Our Livingstone in London has the right idea! Happily, the pigeon doesn't always win. Our own sick British beasts are certainly not fit for human consumption so sweet revenge yourself on all the pigeons that ever dropped on you or simply irritated you to frustration as you tuck into your plump succulent piccione arrosto laced with rosemary, fennel and heavy duty garlic.

Where Pigeon Man slept of a night I shall never know nor how his days came to an end. Was the bed taken indoors or did he park himself in some hidden and sheltered passage?

I like to think there's a connection, however tenuous, between the Flaggellant Order of this town that once publicly whipped themselves to the bone to atone for humanity's sins and the very open way Perugians bare themselves today.

2.

From the fountain down to Piazza Morlacchi runs a dark curved pedestrianised via. Before the curve stands a small but significant Etruscan arch. That would be fine but despite the portico being historical it holds a modern significance for the city's students. If you pass underneath the arch at any given time then you will not complete your studies. Simple as that! The suspicion fuels the reality that two thirds of Italian students do not complete university. Perhaps a government minister leaked the rumour in the first place so as to ease off talk of university reform, Perugian students being a disgruntled, radical lot.

"There's nothing wrong with the University the minister would spout. "Just watch where you step!

I know a lot of failed students but none that would admit to having passed through that arch. That really would be folly!

3.

Along Corso Vanucci there are two sections of narrow shallow guttering running to the left and right of the street. If you step into either area it's not just your exams that are doomed but YOU and your whole existence will be cursed from that moment on. I love folklore, particularly when it pervades today's lives. Cynically, it serves as an explanation for the fact that bad things happen to everybody no matter what you've done. Not for a second do I believe in the arch or gutter story having any resonance of truth but you still wouldn't catch me playing with the gods and ducking under the arch or misfooting myself on the corso.

I spy a legendary victim of the gutter myth. An inexcusably tall man (some say he carried on growing after what happened), now in his early 40s, he draws on a cigar, pacing with concentrated steps up the corso. His head is cocked to one side and he laughs and mutters to himself. Should you catch his eye or stop to observe you will fall foul of his derision. The story goes that he was a celebrated protégé of the university, destined for a long and prestigious career in academia. Yet he challenged both the arch and gutter legends, taking on the devils and conversing with them intimately ever since.

Football Man finishes his own dirge, lifts himself to his feet, making his way to the Morlacchi wall.

My overriding concern is that of where to lunch as the throngs of the steps begin to disperse. The sun is beating mercilessly and I have some penne alla norcina in mind, a local speciality incorporating shaved truffles and sausage from the surrounding region, the town of Norcia itself being a Mecca to sausage and ham lovers of all persuasions.

Life's looking good but it could always take an unexpected turn and who knows what might happen.

Must watch where I walk!