In which I sing Les Mis to a plethora of mythic beasts

Once upon a time there was an eccentric Italian prince who decided to shake up the local snobbery by having massive cryptic statues carved into the boulders of his sacred wood. He then invited all his friends to come and have their minds expanded by walking around and entertaining the various philosophical meanings of, say, an enormous stone tortoise with a pawn on its back.

One big turtle.

The place went neglected for centuries, but was recently restored and opened to the public. Now you yourself can amble through the Bomarzo woods, listen to the waterfalls, and stumble upon a giant ripping another giant in half by the legs. (Woohoo!) If you’re like me, you can also get bitten by a million mosquitoes.

Personal fave. 

We went to Prince Orfisi’s Garden of Monsters as part of a class field trip. Professor Kay, in typical Kay fashion, switched from language to language like a child eager to show all her toys at once, and translated the 16th Century inscriptions etched into stone slabs along the path with giddy excitement. Things like “You who come here, fix your mind on these marvels as they try to trick you” and “All reason departs.”

 

Random India influence.

We saw a small-winged Pegasus atop what surely used to be a fountain, but now looked like a large mossy saucer. Down by a creek bed we saw a whale’s open mouth, reaching up as if to snatch something from the sky with its crumbling molars. We walked through a two-story house, tilted on its side so whimsically that it made us dizzy just to step in. There was an open coffin in a mound on the ground, and I straddled it. There were elephants, bat-winged mermaids, and a woman with snake legs doing the splits.

The leaning house

The eeriest monster, the one that has become the symbol of Bomarzo, is a screaming flat-faced head. You can walk up the steps and into is mouth, where his tongue serves as a picnic table and the acoustics are amazing. Inside, I found myself pulling a Kay and singing songs from Les Miserables.

 

Don't worry, I managed to survive this.

I tried to imagine the place in its original state, the conversations of 16th Century elite who saw the place before rain had eaten away at the stone and years had killed the fountains.

“How positively ghastly!” a woman would say, clutching the broach at her neck.

A man would tilt back his top hat. “Oh Clarisse,” he’d say, sticking his hand in the sphinx’s mouth. “You hopeless prude.”