Scottish Journalist turns writer in Cesena

Cesena Beckons Macneill



Fergus Macneill was a journalist for almost twenty years in his native Scotland. He is a Highlander and was born in Inverness, the Capital of the Highlands. His work as a reporter saw him cover an area the size of Wales and report on everything from murders to marriages. He worked for the UK Press Association and saw his articles carried in every major British news organisation including the BBC, ITV, and national daily newspapers. Fergus was also a PR practioner for nearly fourteen years. A Rain of Torrid Summer is his first book and contains poetry dealing with the human condition, the natural world, history, and politics amongst other subjects. He is at present writing ten short (mainly) Scottish ghost stories, another volume of poetry, and more short stories. He is also working on three novels which are at various stages of completion. Fergus now lives and writes full time in Emilia Romagna, near Cesena, and came here to be with his fiancée. They have a growing menagerie of cats. And he is full of admiration for Italy, the Italians, and the Italian nation as a whole. Except when they play Scotland at football!


Church bells ring in clarion cry to the flock Soft sea on beach as sun shines on our walk Beautiful are we; free, as love lies in our wake And laugh at the people some of whom are fake Il cibo; il vino – as glasses we raise
The square’s full today, and busy it does stay
And as we view the city from the heights of the tower
The country laid before us, in all of its power
Highways here have different rules
So long as you don’t crash – everyone is cool
Hotels are grand, and stuffed with artefacts
And I wonder silently if my old life has passed
For truth lies in actions, so grab life; be bold
The past is the past – new times will unfold
Ancient cities squat scattered across green verdant land
And all of these structures turned entirely by hand
The people can be gracious, wordy, and kind
And in this society perhaps, stranger, leave your troubles behind
For no one can say that this country lacks charm
And weather so kind that it means us no harm
San Marino poised loftily, impassive; and grand
Bologna is cold as we walk; hand-in-hand
Imola awaits; scene of cold death
Rimini impervious to those without wealth
Eternal City now as I await its embrace
Florence will show me her soft countenance
This place has it all; sun, and respect
And I wake with a jolt – it isn’t over yet.

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