What can one speak of, when one's very Soul swims in rapture so...that any words arising soon fall away like whispering Ushas, as she bids Mother Sky and Sister Night "Buona Notte"?

I have been to Italy, and am only now attempting to, in words, describe how it was when upon subtle fig tree leaves the sun dappled before my roaming eyes, and how upon my bare toes tiny wavelets from Lake Garda at evening fall lapped and tenderly lay kisses.

But please, Dearest Casper, a full apology first crosses my lips, for in my absence, perhaps you have noted a period of unrequited companionship. Leaving Ireland behind, even for a mere One and Twenty days, was a chore, or seemingly so at the time of my departure. Returning was a most excruciating inevitability! In all, I have been, throughout the last few weeks since my return to The Republic, duly pondering my time abroad, and this my letter to you is, most apologetically, an anachronism of sorts.

And so, to my quest for relaxation. Have I mentioned before to you that I despise flying by way of mechanical bird? "I am Icarus!", I thought, as refreshments were bandied about by some young hot-blooded maiden who seemed hell-bent on piercing the wafer-thin floor of the Tin Lark with her stiletto heals. "I am Icarus and I have moments before the wax shall melt, before the very floors beneath me shall open up, before I am fully wrenched from my feathered seating!" 'Twas difficult enough, this flight, and every paranoia imaginable did raise its un-welcomed head!

The flight path traversed the Irish Sea, beyond Wales, over England and above French territory. Twas at least 'visually' a pleasant excursion, so long as I could manage to dismiss as temporary insanity the warring voices in my mind. 'Twas when soaring above the Alps that I began to relax, and Lake Geneva in crystal view rendered my initial discomfort of having to stay confined aboard the craft a fleeting memory. I wore sunglasses, a sheer white suit, and sandals, and fitted in most deceptively amidst a large group of pilgrims who, during one brief conversation, informed me that Rome was to be their final destination.

Upon arrival at the City of Verona, I commissioned a guide for the duration of my stay, a man of forty years or so by the name 'Marco' who, upon first sight of me, advised me instantly that I should rush to embalm the exposed parts of my body with a milky lotion! To this, his proffering, I returned a hardy laugh, for privately I was elated to once again feel the firm ground beneath my feet. With regards to the possibility that my skin was under threat of burning under an unrelenting sun, I decided to take Marco's counsel, and did so by simply covering myself up fully with a black veil.

I shall not, Dear Freake, linger endlessly a time upon my first ten days in Verona save to say that history itself stands in frost here, as if history was a tangible thing, rising from the earth in brick, stone and mortar. So here I was, at the beating heart of Veneto, a region now belonging to Italy yet inhabited first by Euganeans in the II and I Milleniums B.C. and later, by Venetos who swarmed from the Balkans. As I arrived through the Great City Walls, I looked about me, at all faces passing, and reminded myself that the crevices of the aged, and the ruddy cheeks of the young spoke a tale or two of the very origins of these peoples. For these were Travelers indeed, and had taken roads through time, bitter roads piddled with blood, roads traveled and not unlike my very own…

'Twas during the VII and VI centuries B.C. that the local populations entered in contact with the Etruscans and Greeks. Numerous necropolis of the paleo-venetian civilizations were erected then, and much ruin is as yet incredulously visible. During the Roman Epoch from the II century B.C., allied to the Romans against the Gauls who invaded their territory, the Venetos wisely accepted Roman domination. Considerable transformations of the territory occurred, such as the introduction of plants, widespread construction of roads and arrangement of the agricultural land. And so, the cities of this region were organized according to the typical Roman model, cities such as Verona, Padova, Este, Vicenza, Treviso, and Belluno. 

Through the Middle Ages, escaping from the barbaric invasions, parts of Veneto's population occupied some of the isolated islands of lagoon, and so Venice was born. After the period of Byzantine domination in the VIII century, Venice became an independent marine Republic. The rest of the territory was subdivided in the wake of numerous feuds. In IX century Venice was already a marine and commercial power, executing with its traffic the function of the bridge between west and east. In the XIII century Venice was by then importing the Silkworm, the breeding of which gave an impulse to agriculture and manufacturing activities. A considerable influence of Byzantine culture was bestowed upon Venice, and of Roman and Gothic culture in other cities, notably Verona. Came the Renaissance, and in more modern times a period of Austrian domination. Then in 1866, following the 3rd Independence War, Veneto joined Italy, an historical decision which by many local folk is to this very day considered a mal-judgment of sorts! It was with immense satisfaction that I strolled into the Grande interior of The Hotel Adige at which I would be staying awhile, for I knew through my knowledge of the history of Veneto that the blood of its occupants would be exquisitely fermented! A fine wine awaited me.

My rooms consisted of three grand floors in the well-appointed hotel, overlooking the river Adige, and standing at the foot of the notable Ponte Vecchio, the 'Old Bridge'. The largest of these my rooms led off through high arched doors to a splendid terrace, upon which I squandered much time on my first evening, as I sat beneath a spray of olive trees in contemplation of the old world beauty outstretched before me. Verona is most magnificent, a complex city of immense architectural importance in a world of prefabrication, a city simply teeming with dimly-lit thoroughfares that hide, an on closer inspection reveal, centuries of human accomplishment and workmanship. I was with myself and my situation in love again! For all about me, fed me, not only upon the foods of necessity, but more upon the nectars of indulgence! This love was to burst through my chest with a vengeance upon the first night and many nights thereafter.

And so, upon nightfall, I regularly fled this terrace in anticipation, flinging myself like Suicide Itself from the lofty balcony, swooping down over the rushing song of the Adige, high above The Great White Roman Arena, and all the while eyeing with newborn childishness the magical twinkling of myriad golden street lamps below! I cried out with the voice of a thousand thunderstorms! "Be that I am Vampire for Eternity!" And my very core exploded outwards and upwards with all such senses that present themselves for a vampire's command, for who but a vampire might ever see such wonders! And for one selfious night, I strutted the streets as a King, smiling openly at full-blooded, shockingly handsome, and irreverently pretty young Venetos, as they nervously found their curious eyes compelled to fixate upon my swift passing! Did I drink Dear Freake? No Guinness Vat in Dublin would bear the quantity of delightful Veneto blood upon which I gorged myself on each and every one of these my ten summer nights in Verona. Thankfully the Adige runs a colour akin to sullied beige, for if in any clean clarity this water raged, 'twould be a most curious sight to locals the following morn, a murderous river scarlet!

Stupefied, and full like a stuck pig, I plodded off with my guide Marco on the eleventh day, to Garda and Lago Di Garda. I had enjoyed Verona to the fullest, and knew that spending another day there might lead to trouble! And so…to Garda.

On arrival, I dispensed with Marco's services, for I was hung over, and wished to be alone now. Besides, he was beginning to show The Signs. He thankfully accepted a handsome over-payment, and scarpered off into a nearby tavern, glancing once over his shoulder at a full moon that lit up the street, and then at me, as if to say 'You're simply not human!'. I would have limited the 'risk factor' of his observations by waiting for his re-emergence from the tavern at nightfall, but I was otherwise distracted, and set out into the hills in search of a place to sleep.

'Twas late in the evening when I came across many olive trees that resembled thick natural forests rather than manmade groves, garden-like in appearance. Shall I sleep among these trees? But perhaps farmers would discover me there at sunrise, and so I continued to walk.

I casually strolled along a road that leads from Bardolino onwards through the town of Lazise, whose name comes from "laceses", meaning "place on the lake". The oldest part of the Lazise, clearly medieval in origin for I spent perhaps an hour inspecting, is surrounded by massive lurching walls built by the Della Scala family in the 14th century. A castle dominates the charming setting, and I wondered should I not sleep within its walls. However, the sound of music coming from within the structure led me to think such a decision unwise. Not bothered, I went on, and on, in a trance, to the left of me the shimmering stretch of Lago Di Garda, to the right of me a craggy mountainous landscape set against by more olive trees.

And so, tired yet immensely relaxed, I finally paraded right into the center of Garda, a town whose name comes from "warda guardia", meaning sentry or lookout., for this remarkable little town sits at the center of a wide gulf between the Rock and San Vigilio Point. An enthralling sight, full of old aristocratic mansions, high archways, narrow alleys and small squares. But what was the pungent smell? And all these people hopping about? Surely they were unaware of my presence? Yet moments after my arrival I was being carried about those winding alleys by two hefty young fops who franticly shouted "Sardallata al Pal del Vò!" "Sardallata al Pal del Vò!" while behind us a throng of locals enthusiastically threw small fish feverishly into the night air! The little creatures were still alive, and in one moment of captivation, I saw these tiny silver fish scattered all along the stretch of moonlit street. But caution stepped in. What was I to do? Then caution stepped away again…I should do nothing, I mused! And so, atop the shoulders of these two sweating local men, I gave myself utterly to these oddball festivities hell-for-leather, until my two young carriers were simply beyond exhaustion, and finally put me to rest upon the ground again!  The Sardine Festival, as it turned out! 'Tis held in Garda each and every July on the evening of the full moon. Un-noticed by all save a small vacant-eyed female child peering from a basement window…I slithered off into the darkness beyond the lights of Garda. Once again…a vampire. Once again…alone.

The coast of Lago Di Garda, stretching from Peschiera to Malcesine can be traveled in one day, amidst beaches and olive groves. I of course had covered this territory well before the stars emerged from a misty sky, and had decided to spend the night sleeping in a cave-like feature that I encountered along the cliff-edges of the lake itself. Once at the foot of the lake, and twice at the touch of the warm lake water, I submerged myself under the still of the night sky, and in complex silence. "Dearest Freake, were you to be here with me now!" I thought, for in some strange shapeless notion came the endless toil of loneliness, and the sudden urge to be in the company of the only other existing vampire on Earth! Above me, along the cliff-edge, a sharp rapid cry cut through the still air. Some unfamiliar species of bird, no doubt? Then again…sharp again…another cry! Was it a bird then? My ears, now full of water, were perhaps playing with me? I submerged once again into the dark water, but there it was…that noise again! And with it, from my vantage point below, came the vision of one, then two, and finally four distinct figures! Had they spotted me here? Perhaps so…. for they were advancing down the steep cliff with brave intention, aided by the flickering of four tiny candle flames. I shot out of the water, snatched by belongings, and headed for the cover of a thicket of olive trees further up the waters edge! As stealth would serve me, I was soon out of sight from this small hoard of curious humans, and so, from the half-light of the thicket, for the moon was brighter now, I watched them. 

They were four indeed, all perhaps seventeen or so years of age, one female and three male. And now, they stood, not only in peril for I was once again thirsting, but in bewildered unbelief as they eyed the fluctuating, swirling water from which I had one fraction of a second earlier dashed!

"But I saw this man too!" exclaimed the one who's candle was now extinguished. "We all did! He was here for certain!"

They soon became visibly uneasy, having exhausted all possibilities verbally between them. The girl used a long stick to search the water. The three boys were now backing away, for surely superstitions were finding ways and means to invade their youthful minds. Then suddenly the girl, whose cry I had surely heard several times at the outset of this madness, shouted: "Look here! In the water!"

She had not the time to drag a shimmering object from the bed of the lake before I reached to my own throat and discovered that a most precious locket was missing. I had held this object close to me since childhood, for within the locket itself lay the remains of a strand of my mother's hair wrapped in a small rip of red linen, and my father's last words to me, written on a fold of old paper. 'Twas worth more to me, the contents of this locket, than much else I might wish to keep safe.

"A Jewel! A beautiful jewel!" She cried, as she held up her dripping treasure for the boys to inspect. And so, I remained crouched within the thicket, as these young unsuspecting humans gloated over their new found wealth, for it was not within me to advance just yet…

My tale continues, Dear Freake, within my next letter to you…

Thirstfully, Mordi Kildare

Mordi Kildare, 7th August 2001, Christchurch, Dublin, Ireland.

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