I suppose it was inevitable that I would go to Assisi at some stage to pay my respects to Saint Francis. Not only do I bear his name, but he's also patron saint of nature and the environment in general. And it's thanks to him that this remarkably beautiful medieval hill town has survived over the centuries.
Strung out along a shoulder of Mount Subasio, Assisi is a spectacular sight as you approach it from the railway station. With an elevation of more than 400 metres, the pink-stoned town is topped by a fortezza and still surrounded by its defensive walls. The Basilica di San Francesco is also clearly visible.
Within the town, two routes lead to the basilica from the Piazza del Comune with its turreted 14th-century town hall standing right beside a temple of Minerva built in the time of Julius Caesar. Its preserved Corinthian portico with fluted columns now conceals a church – Santa Maria sopra (above) Minerva.
As if on cue, swallows swooped over the piazza before sundown; legend has it that birds love Assisi because of Saint Francis and his Canticle of the Sun in which he referred to animals as man’s brothers and sisters. Cicadas also clack away incessantly in every tree that provides shade from the baking sun.
The basilica, completed in 1253 – just 27 years after the saint’s death – attracts thousands of visitors per day, many of them devout Christian pilgrims. Yet there is no admission charge to see the marvellous Giotto frescoes in the upper basilica depicting his life or the altar in the lower basilica over his tomb.
Assisi is a designated Unesco world heritage site and you'd never guess that the basilica suffered serious damage from two earthquakes in September 1997 that killed two Franciscan friars and two conservation specialists. It was then closed for years to permit a thorough, and seamless, restoration.
At the other end of the town is the Basilica di Santa Chiara, better known to us as Saint Clare, a devotee of Saint Francis and founder of the Poor Clares. Supported by three massive buttresses, its 13th-century Gothic interior contains the saint’s tomb, more frescoes and relics, including some of her clothes.
Oddly enough, the patron saint of Assisi is not San Francesco but the rather obscure San Ruffino – a name that sounds like a Chianti; the cathedral, with its Romanesque facade and Renaissance interior, is dedicated to him. But there are so many churches that I didn’t manage to visit them all on my two-day trip.
Standing in the portico of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, I observed an American dad and his two grown-up sons on the way in. One of them was reading from a guidebook explaining that it dated from the first century BC. Looking up at the original Corinthian columns, the dad said: “So it’s not a reproduction?”
Really, Americans need to do a bit more research before they travel abroad – particularly to historic sites in Europe. Perhaps they’re so used to seeing fake things in Las Vegas, Disneyworld and elsewhere that they can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not. Their lack of reference points is worrying.
Inside, nothing survives of the Roman temple. It was replaced by a purpose-built church in the 16th century that was given the Baroque treatment a hundred years later, including an elaborate organ loft. Elements of the original floor – which may have been known to Saint Francis – survive, but I couldn't find them. Shopkeepers in Assisi selling religious souvenirs and other tourist trinkets must have been over the moon when the new Pope opted to call himself Francis – and made it clear that he had chosen the name in honour of its famous saint, rather than Saint Francis Xavier, the Spanish founder of his own Jesuit order.
Beware of unscrupulous taxi drivers that leave their meters running while waiting for their next victim; the one I got tried to charge me nearly €19.85 for a fare that should have been €12 to the Hotel Porta Nuova. After I denounced him as a criminale and said I’d call the police, he compromised on €15.
I had my own moment of angst later when I squashed a mosquito in the bathroom – as I had done elsewhere on numerous occasions. This time, a wave of guilt washed over me as I asked myself what Saint Francis would have done. He would have allowed his “brother” mosquito to bite him, probably.