FROM THE DESK OF Roland Rocchiccioli

‘NOW every field is clothed with grass, and every tree with leaves;

Now the woods put forth their blossoms, and the year assumes its gay attire.’

That is a quote from Publius Vergilius Maro – more commonly known as Virgil – an ancient Roman poet who died on September 21, 19-BC.

I have experienced spring in numerous countries. In London, the daffodils in Park Lane are a treat. Every day, the number 19 bus from Chelsea took me to the theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. The view from the top deck down onto the nodding daffodils filled my heart with joy, always.

The Cotswolds – one of England’s most beautiful regions – is picture postcardbeautiful. It is so unrelenting it hurts to look. If you gaze too long it becomes an assault on one’s visual senses.

Spring in Magliano, the small Tuscan village in the Italian Alpi Apuane where my father was born, is awe-inspiring.

When the first rays of the warm, spring sun begin to melt the harsh winter snows, the onset of the new season miraculously reveals nature’s infinite cycle of beauty.

The Italian wildflowers become a sea of blue on green, splashed with yellows, reds, paler blues, pinks and whites. The
buttercups, the hairy forget-me-not, and the elder flower orchids form a magical patchwork carpet. The Parco Nazionale dei Monti Sibillini, near to Spoleto in rugged Umbria, is a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of colour, and a magnet for alpine wildflower tourists. Spoleto, where I have passed many happy months, dates back to the 5th century BC, and sits on part of the old Roman Road which leads to the Adriatic Sea, and down to the Valley of Po.

I have seen spring in Paris, where, as the city shrugs off its heavy winter coat, the after-work picnics become more frequent on the Canal Saint Martin. I sat for days, writing in the Luxembourg Gardens on the Left Bank; and creative Montmartre is a reminder of the bucolic life that once was in this hilly part of Paris; early spring weather in Rome is erratic, but on a fine day it takes a lot to better a lunch in the villa Borghese gardens, a stone’s throw from the Piazza di Spana and the Spanish Steps afire with potted azaleas, and the Piazza del Popolo with its statue of Romulus and Remus; in Moscow, spring can be problematic. The chill lasts until the end of April when the city’s fountains spurt into life. The thawing of Moscow’s weighty winter coat of snow and ice makes life a little sloppy for the first months of spring; Vienna is an explosion of pink as the cherry blossom in the 28- acre Stadtpark bursts into bloom; and the over-powering fragrance! Barcelona comes to life when the dazzling magenta bougainvillea begins to flower; and the countless English towns and villages with their unambiguous Anglo charm.

For all that, none compares to Ballarat at this time of year. When the blossom bursts forth, and in such abundance, it is too beautiful. It certainly rivals Rome’s spectacle of wisteria, and the window boxes of purple and white petunias, red geraniums, and pink pelargoniums.

Walking along Barkly Street, as I do, to the shopping centre in Sturt Street, one is stupefied by the pungent air, heavy from the perfumed gardens. The summer, which brings a glut of dazzling roses, rivals anything I have seen, anywhere, in my travels.

The Sturt Street Boulevard – and there are few left in the world – must be preserved. There are spots surrounding the walk of statues where the City of Ballarat council gardeners have done a truly outstanding job, and are to be applauded.

While Sturt Street is not gifted with the same degree of grandness as the Av. des Champs-Élysées in Paris, or Las Ramblas in Barcelona, it is imbued with its own undeniably compelling charm, and should not be underrated. Always, when I passby
the statue of Queen Victoria, guarding the entrance to the city’s glorious Town Hall with its carefully tended gardens, I shoot Her Majesty a deferential nod. I have a weakness for statues of the Grand Old Queen, and Ballarat’s tribute is one of the finest. The likeness of King George V is equally splendid.

Ballarat is, indubitably, one of the world’s most beautiful regional cities – and I have lived and worked in a few.

She needs protection, and a clear vision to defend her rich heritage for those who will follow in our wake.

Roland can be heard each MONDAY morning on 3BA at 10.30.

Contact [email protected].