and when we got down at the boat terminus on the Litorale di Pellestrina, which is just opposite the cemetery, and decided to miss the bus connection and take a later one in order to see the murazzi, the sea walls, it was with some regret that we watched its rear lights disappearing into the fog.
The houses in Pellestrina, clustered about a big white church, were a series of rectangles painted in ox-blood, vivid blues and greens and soft greys that rendered them almost invisible in the fog. Closely shuttered against it, as they were, only the drifts of smoke from the strange, tall Venetian chimneys showed that they were inhabited.
Walking amongst them we came to the murazzi, on the seaward side of the Litorale. They had been conceived by a cosmographer, Father Vincenzo Coronelli, in 1716, and work was finally begun on them in 1744 under the direction of Bernardino Zendrini, a mathematician. It took thirty-eight years to complete them at a cost of forty million Venetian gold ducats, and they were the last major works undertaken by the Magistrati delle Acque, the Magistrates of the Waters, who were responsible for building and maintaining the defences of the Lagoon and the city against the Adriatic, before the shameful extinction of this Republic of the Sea by Napoleon in 1797. They replaced previous defences which consisted of wooden palisades that had to be renewed every six years, long groynes extending seawards and musk-smelling tamarisk planted to give stability to what was mostly sand, defences that each winter had been breached and destroyed with monotonous regularity by the sirocco storms. More than 14 feet thick at the base, two and a half miles long, and nearly 20 feet high, they are built of gleaming white blocks of marble, some of them more than 6 feet long and a yard and a half wide, all brought from Istria on the Yugoslavian side of the Adriatic in barges, the same stone used to build so many of the churches in Venice and the Lagoon. Now, ghostly in the fog, they stretched away into it on either side, the only sound the Adriatic sucking at their outer defences, an enormous breakwater of heaped-up boulders.
Although the murazzi are the most impressive to the eye of all the works carried out by the Magistrati in and around the Lagoon, equally important was what they did to the rivers. It was they who were responsible for the death of the Po di Tramontana. Until the sixteenth century the mouth of the river was directed towards the Valle dei Sette Morti, an area of the Venetian Lagoon north of Chioggia, which the river had turned into an area of laguna morta, dead lagoon, only inundated at high tides. They decided, with the presence of mind and self-interest which had always to their rivals been one of the Republic’s least lovable characteristics, to direct the river southwards. In five years thousands of labourers cut a channel, called the Sacca di Goro, from the Po Grande into a bay of the Adriatic east of Pomposa, where the great Benedictine abbey still stands in which Guido d’Arezzo invented the musical scale. By this boldly conceived piece of hydraulic engineering the Po di Tramontana ceased to exist, Venice was preserved and the results for the Po Valley and the Delta were disastrous. The silting process was accelerated and, although the area of the Delta increased nearly three times in the space of 220 years, the inundations increased and no one, except the Venetians, was better off.
But in spite of their success in turning away from the southern part of the Lagoon and finally destroying the Po di Tramontana, they were still subject to the recurrent nightmare that the same silting-up process might happen further north in the part of the Lagoon in which the city stood and deprive it of the isolation on which it depended for at least part of its power and importance; it might also block the vital channels to the sea.
The Republic had before it the awful examples of other great ports in the Mediterranean, long since silted up and left far from the sea, all of which we were subsequently to visit in the course of our travels: Pergamum, Ephesus, Miletus, Patara, the high and dry port of Xanthus in Lycia, in western Asia Minor. And much nearer home they had the equally awful example of Ravenna, a former lagoon city, dependent for its continued existence on tidal movements, acquired by them but only long after it was high and dry, the only memorial to its former Byzantine greatness five splendid churches in the wilderness. And there was also Ferrara, founded on the right bank of the Po in AD 450 by refugees from Attila and his Huns, left equally high and dry.
In the seventeenth century the Magistrati re-routed a number of other rivers so that instead of flowing into their lagoon, they by-passed it completely and flowed into the sea. When the Venetians had finished this colossal work, the Brenta, which originally came out into the Lagoon behind Venice, entered the Adriatic south of Chioggia; the Sile, a very pretty little river which, nevertheless, was doing enormous damage to the Lagoon by pouring silt into it north of the city, was directed into a canal which carried it into what until then had been the bed of the Piave and into the sea near Jesolo; while the Piave itself was turned into the bed of the next river to the north of it, the Livenza.
Later that afternoon we descended from the No. 11 bus on the Litorale di Lido and groped our way through the fog to a dark, deserted waterfront behind the Casino, which faced the Lagoon. It is difficult to write feelingly about something you can’t see, and the fog that shrouded the Lagoon was impenetrable. In fact we could hear more than we could see of it: the melancholy crying of gulls, the tolling of a bell mounted on a buoy moored out in one of the channels, the noise of boat engines and, occasionally, angry cries as helmsmen, set on collision courses, recorded near misses. Altogether, with the whole of the Mediterranean to choose from, it was a hell of a place to end up in on such a day. We might just as well have been on the Mersey, for all the genius loci I was able to sop up, and this made me think of home, a hot bath and a couple of slugs of Glenmorangie.
‘You’re in trouble, author,’ said Wanda, my companion in life’s race, near the mark as always, sensing that I felt like emigrating back to Britain, ‘if you can’t see what you’re looking at.’
As she said this, as if to show that she wasn’t always right, the fog lifted, not everywhere, not over Venice itself which remained cocooned in it, but here and there, and for a few moments that didn’t even add up to minutes we found ourselves looking down long corridors of vapour illuminated by an eerie yellow light that must have been the last of the setting sun, down which one had distant prospects of mud banks uncovered by the tide, with labyrinths of channels running through them, and one or two of the almost innumerable islands of the Lagoon which supported until quite recently – and some still support – monasteries, nunneries, forts, miniature versions of Venice, a cemetery, and the lonely enclosure to which, once every ten years when it begins to fill up, bones are taken; fishing settlements, lodges used by the wildfowlers who in winter wait in barrels sunk in the Lagoon for the dawn and dusk flights, quarantine stations, lighthouses, hospitals, lunatic asylums, prisons, barracks, magazines that, when they were full of gunpowder, had a tendency to go up in the air, taking their custodians with them, deserted factories, old people’s homes, private houses, market gardens, vineyards, and some that were just open expanses that a farmer might visit once or twice a year to cut the hay. The channels among them were marked by long lines of bricole, wooden piles either driven into the bottom with their heads pressed together, as if they were lovers meeting in a lagoon, or else in clusters of three or four, also with their heads pressed together as if they were conspirators discussing some dark secret. Some of the more important channels had lights on the bricole. Some that were only navigable by the smallest sorts of craft, such as gondolas and boats called sandali, were indicated by lines of saplings.
There was another, equally momentary vista of part of one of the industrial zones that had been created by filling in vast areas of the northern part of the Lagoon and its mud flats, a huge, nightmare, end-of-the-world place without houses or permanent inhabitants, made up of oil refineries, chemical, fertilizer, plastic, steel, light alloy, coke, gas and innumerable other plants all belching dense smoke and residual gases into the sky and effluents into the Lagoon, so various and awful that collectively they made up a brew that even to a layman sounded as if it had been devised by a crew of mad scientists intent on destroying the human race, which in effect is what they are doing. Then the fog closed in again, more impenetrable than ever now that the sun was almost gone.
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