Padre Pio

Knowing the area quite well because it is only 30 minutes from Foggia, where my mother comes from, and in particular the veneration given by the locals to Padre Pio (or Saint Pio to give him his more recent name) I have a problem with them digging him up and then putting his body on display. If I understand correctly, what you can see is a mask and not his actual face. You might as well be looking at a wax effigy. This is nothing other than gruesome. What's the point?
The last time we were there, in San Giovanni Rotondo, I couldn't wait to get out of the place. I drove my mum there because she wanted to make a pilgrimage, fair enough, but when I saw the hundreds of stalls selling cheap, tawdry, tourist tat, it made me feel very, very angry. (Sort of Jesus in the temple? - Ed)

The visit however was not without a very spooky side. By way of background, I had a Catholic upbringing, was taught by Jesuits, but I am not at all religious. I also never stop to pick up hitch-hikers. Leaving San Giovanni, we were turning a corner to drive down the mountain side when I saw a grey haired old lady wearing typical black mourning dress, grey crinkly stockings and struggling to carry two large bags containing water bottles, with additional bottles under her arms. I would have struggled with it, never mind her. She wasn't asking for a lift but she obviously needed help. In the blink of an eye I asked Jan if we should stop and before she had time to answer I pulled over and asked the lady if she needed a hand.

She climbed in the back and sat silently whilst I attempted to put her at ease. I chatted to her in my less than perfect Italian and by way of explanation told her why we were there and why we spoke imperfect Italian.

She responded by saying that she lived at the foot of the hill, that her well had run dry and that she needed to get some water for cooking and cleaning. I felt sorry for her and inside was glad that I could help. She also said that she had visited England once and how much she liked it. I thought that it was a strange comment because she looked so impoverished and you would never have guessed that she would have travelled abroad.

In order to keep the conversation going I asked where in England she visited and she replied that she worked for a short time in the north of the country. I asked where and she said Harrogate, my home town. Laughing at the coincidence I asked where she worked and she replied in the maternity ward, at the general hospital. I asked when and she replied between March and April 1976.

I have never been so spooked in all my life. The hair, quite literally, stood up on the back of my neck.

My son James was born on 3rd April 1976 at Harrogate General Hospital.

She was there at that time and in some way she would have contributed to his birth. By some massive twist of fate I was able to say thank you.