I'm not sure quite what I was expecting from Bastia, but I didn't think it was going to be quite so well endowed with religious establishments.

They're there, they're open, they're quiet, and they're beautiful. So, over the last few days, we've visited lots.

The big ones first:

The Church of Saint-Jean-Baptiste (style: Genoese Baroque) is the one that stands prominently above the port:







Then there's the Sainte-Marie Cathedral (dedicated to the Assumption of the Virgin Mary):






Then there are the oratories. And to really appreciate these, you need to know a bit about "confraternities". Which we didn't, until we went to the museum in Corte.

These groups go back centuries. They're made up of lay people, all linked to a particular parish or place of worship, and they undertake acts of piety and charitable works (looking after each other, and the most vulnerable people in their community). As they're closely linked to their specific places of worship, they go to great lengths to maintain and embellish them, and take on important roles in events celebrating their patron saints. Some of the confraternities uphold the Corsican tradition of polyphonic singing. In addition, they have played a major role in promoting local identity, and sponsoring works of art. They also aim to be egalitarian, presenting themselves as models of an ideal society.

We were slightly astonished to see these hooded figures in Corte:



But this outfit belongs only to certain ceremonies. For example: "'U Catenacciu' takes place during the Good Friday procession and symbolizes the ascent of Christ to Calvary... The voluntary penitent, who wishes to atone for his sins, puts his name on a list. The wait can last several years, as there are many volunteers. Three days before the ordeal, the penitent undertakes a retreat, and isolates himself in the San Damiano convent to meditate. Only the parish priest knows his identity, and anonymity is preserved by wearing a hood during the procession. Dressed in a red robe and hood, he walks barefoot over a distance of 1.8 km, carrying a 34-kg cross made of solid oak, with 17 kg of chains on his feet. He must fall three times on his way, like Christ. He is surrounded on his journey by nine companions dressed and hooded in black, among whom we can recognize Simon of Cyrene, who helps him carry his burden. The fraternity of the Holy Sacrament accompanies him, and the crowd of faithful sings the Perdono, mi Dio, a song of penance." Quite something...

This 2016 study explains the slightly tense relations that have sometimes existed between the confraternities (French: conferies) and the Church proper: "The legendary autonomy of the Corsican confreries was aided by the fact that most had their own meeting place. While some were accorded a small side chapel or altar within the parish church, it was more usual for the confrerie to have its own separate building, known as the casazza...; a handful of these had the status of an oratory. In many Corsican villages today, two separate church buildings sit side by side or face one another across a central square: the official village church, under the control of the priest, and the casazza, which the priest may enter only by invitation... The funds of the confreries are derived primarily from the annual subscriptions paid by their members... The financial independence of the confreries is another factor that has contributed to their autonomy vis-a-vis the ecclesiastical authorities... Immediately prior to the French Revolution, the island had at least 200 active confraternities, most of which continued to function despite the interdiction of 1792. By the nineteenth century, however, the degree of autonomy they enjoyed had become a cause of serious concern to the ecclesiastical authorities, who accused them of fuelling breaches between the people and the clergy, and of nourishing popular superstition and fanaticism through their colourful cults."


In the 20th century, the institution hit a period of decline: "Those confraternities that managed to remain active into the 1960s were further destabilized by the reforms of the Second Vatican Council (1962–65). Whereas the displacement of Latin by the vernacular was welcomed in many places, Corsica found itself in the position of seeing a language from which it claimed direct descent (some Corsicans today see themselves as speaking 'modern Latin') ousted in favour of French, which was viewed by many as a foreign language imposed by a quasi-colonial power."

But, as is the way of these things, there was a reversal. Starting in the 1980s, the confraternities took on a new lease of life, witnessing an increasing number of attendees, including young people. There was a renewed enthusiasm for all things Corsican, and the confraternities were seen not as outmoded and irrelevant, but as distinctive and identity-saturated.

This report, dated 2021, says there are 90 active confraternities, most of them mixed-gender.

Hopefully, that lengthy preamble makes a bit more sense of all the oratories in Bastia, each belonging to a different confraternity.

First up, the Oratory of the Immaculate Conception, its facade made of Carrara marble:


Genoese Baroque again, with its internal walls lined in silk damask and red Genoa velvet. Like a little jewel-box...





There's a little historical footnote here, from the time of the short-lived Anglo-Corsican Kingdom. Dorothy Carrington tells us: "When Parliament met in February 1795, in Bastia, in the luxurious chapel of La Conception, its first act was to elect Paoli as its President, even though he had refused the seat offered to him by his constituency. Sir Gilbert [Eliot] intervened in remarkably strong terms for so mild a man. He gave it to be understood in no uncertain language that he would regard Paoli's acceptance as 'a virtual deposition of the King', and that if Paoli did accept he would immediately withdraw the British armed forces from the island. In the face of this formidable threat Paoli and Parliament gave way; one can hardly understand how Sir Gilbert could have made it unless he was thoroughly scared."

Not far away, and built by a different confraternity, is the Oratory of Saint-Roch. There's some reno work going on outside, but inside, there's more red silk damask, plus waxed walnut and an altarpiece sculpted in the 17th century...






Then we have the Holy Cross Oratory, built by the most important confraternity of the Terra Nova part of Bastia. Access is via a picturesque courtyard, and then you step inside a world of gold:








Which leaves me with the most unusual place of worship of the lot: The Chapel of Notre Dame de Monserrato, which houses a "Scala Santa". This is a staircase, modelled on the one located in Rome, and symbolizing the steps leading to the praetorium of Pontius Pilate which Christ climbed on the way to his trial. According to the plaque outside, "Pope Pius VII granted authorisation for the chapel's construction in 1816, after Napoleon I, who was in conflict with the Pope at the time, had sent 424 member of the Roman high clergy into exile in Bastia. The hospitality of the local population was such that the 'Scala Santa' was offered to them as a sign of gratitude." The staircase wasn't built until 1884, though...












Exploring all these places has been really interesting. We're impressionistic tourists. We rarely have a list of things that we "must" track. Sure, we follow up leads from books and internet sites, but largely we wander, allowing our eyes to be pleased with things.

Well, Bastia has given our eyes plenty of cause for pleasure.