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Lake Correa

"Tuscan for the city \u200b\u200bof fire alive
you going, thus speaking modestly,
pleased to stay in this place.

Your
mode of speaking makes thee manifest A native of that noble fatherland,
in which perhaps I too disturbing "

(D. Alighieri - Canto X - Inferno)

Lake Correa of \u200b\u200bAppin is a strip of water suddenly blossomed in the granite rock of the crater of a volcano Roccamonfina. wagering One of the many unknown and awkward in this land, a route in a single enchanted and magical place that meets only if the stubbornness and determination to succeed and have the best sull'incuria forgotten that surround and enclose this area pleasant and shy.

If you search Google for "Lake Correa" is just one link: a video of seventeen seconds, an overview of the silent lake, signed by a comment that leaves no doubt:

no joke to say that to me is The most beautiful place in the world.

enough for me this tip.

Vairano Scalo When I stop and I know I'm near the lake, a couple of miles, not more.

But the man in his forties who ask me displaces information, tells me that he was born in Vairano but not even heard of the existence of a lake in the area.

Casilina Proceeding on, past the junction for Appin and raise the alert level. I should be there, I know. Near a dumpster located on the roadside, opposite to the one unoccupied home, I see a panel indicating a trek for hikers. If I stop and do that on a piece of wood gray and withered it says something, perhaps an indication. I have to get closer to read the written inlaid between the veins burned and corroded signals Lake Correa.

surplus and take the road for a couple of km when the asphalt ends, I run into a path of dust and stones those who alternates between a huge orchard, between rows of apple trees and peach trees exposed under a scorching sun and dry. The bike pulls hard and, I proceed a little more 'until you arrive in front of a huge house. The house has no doors, open and uninhabited. It 's a deposit and there is none. I understand you made a mistake and turning back, hoping to pay more attention and maybe see some shows that I missed. I find myself at the starting point in front of the box and indications faded. Through Casilina. This time I'm on the other side. There is a small house and I decide to call. I am meeting a man in shorts accompanied by a mastiff Neapolitan and docile little nervous, wiping his hands with a towel. While caressing the large head of his dog tells me to go back, pay attention to a block of white marble located on the side of the road and finally try the path on foot. Allotment, and after a while I find the small marble pillar. Parking the bike and I walk forward. I find myself in a private area, a bushel of fenced land, not cultivated. Climb over the fence and I sense that you have guessed the road. Since passage leads to a sunny, flat, shady and cool place, where the vegetation is dense and disorganized, chaotic and wild dark. A crack in the bushes gives me some glimpse of the lake, a tilt angle in which the sneaks look, while all around is an orchestra of sounds cross of any kind. Through a bridge and the path begins to descend. The last part is a corridor of mud and muck to wade through and I have to climb on the wooden railing. Finally, the lake appears in front of me. It 'a very wild place, where nature expresses her shyness instinctive, primal and primitive random aggression through space and time. The geometries are completely improvised, the music just caressed. I just looked at me, prompted by a fascination that I feel and hear in the bowels but can not decipher. The lake is small and cozy, a wild valley surrounded and embraced by a crowd of trees, strutting and curled, which raindrops fall directly on the water, handing out a thousand shades of green. The water is dotted with a page from the leaves. Around is a dense and voices insisted, a din of buzzes and trills, a jungle of chatter and chatter messy but at the same time incredibly coordinated, which clearly recognize the stamps and verses of a wildlife far from family. There is a table

old and alone, abandoned on the shore of the lake, which has embarked mud and only a few morsels of sunshine, which seemed to be quite popular.

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Sipicciano

I never knew which country they come from fairy tales. An intense color and full of red and brown gradient breaks on the road that leads from Tean in Galluccio and goes up to Rocca d'Evandro. Earth and sky are one up here where the pastel foxes do not usually cross the street. Autumn is in the amber of the leaves and remains even after the fall itself. The leaves do not betray the season only in Spring. The wet wood with frost you got stuck on him and does not go away even if you shake the clothes. Suddenly, the trail splits into two parts and one part becomes completely dark, although there is still plenty of light. The junction almost suggests not turn, inspires awe and evokes images. We arrive at the village of Sipicciano if there is intimidated by the shadow of thick bushes and there it climbs through the brown earth and moss and amber attacked by the chestnut trees. Sipicciano is not very high but it is a town isolated and lonely. Suddenly you reach a square with a big lime tree. All'imrovviso just like the big bad wolf. And only then he realizes he arrived. The lime Sipicciano is like a torn cloth in the wind atop the tower of a castle like a king who sits on his throne undisturbed, overlooking the unique village square, surrounding the portal of the beautiful seventeenth century church. Around the parish roads intertwine the timid and restrained, which go up and sometimes die in front of a door or a few steps. A
Sipicciano no more war, but every so often to kill time, happen to hear the roar of the shells and the dull sound of gunfire. Sipicciano has the face of a small child who does not care about the noise and rest undisturbed despite the noise and crowds. A
Sipicciano the wind suddenly came out and she has not return. In the alleys kissed by some tuff teaches marble recalls the famous people of this small plot of land, a bishop who emigrated to Australia and some artists around Europe. Many have left and are in a very few get to Sipicciano. In countries with celebrity is that you get a passport with the departure to become famous if you're going and leave to others the hope of return. No one knows this country because no one is perfect. Sipicciano is a shadow which is separate from the wall, peered because it is hidden among the very old chestnut, it is shy and does not know to be a beautiful village. Here the trees are equal to the stones, the sun looks like the profile of the asphalt and the life at home is something that remains linked to the imagination of an everyday life that is always the same. The streets of Sipicciano resemble a face frowning and pouting, are the wrinkles and brown calloused hand that has never stopped digging the earth. Something
me out, almost takes me by the hand outside the country, among the dark leaves, ordered the wood blocks and bricks in a row. The barns, glinting in the sun, in front of a group of farms, just before the country and a tractor in front of me leads to two farmers fields. The cliff has the voice of the forest and the profile of the big bad wolf that just shows to me from behind, and that when you turn me smile.

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S. Agata de'Goti

"Beauty will save the world" (F. Dostoevskji)

's one of those afternoons in July that seem to never end, those in which there is too much light and heat pursued every movement and every thought freezes. An afternoon of fans just breathed hot air and cool ever. 'S one of those days when you simply must surrender because there is no choice; a day when the mattress is a strip of asphalt that burns and my back already fried breaded with sweat and makes me look for something without knowing who knows where.

Sant'Agata de 'Goti is a ceramic doll glabra sat up on those early-dresser with the grain of the wood shine restoration, lying or resting on those elegant quilted silk chairs of those stays Baroque loads velvet and swollen hand-embroidered curtains. A doll by the hair and thin, wheat-colored, carefully combed by gentle hands and subtle piano playing probably.

Sant'Agata is surrounded by a dozen districts that did not resemble at all, but remind her of her tomato sauce burned by the sun, and water chestnuts stolen pulled up from the wells. Sant'Agata is an orphan but has many brothers. I welcome the high road as always, full of young trees and lush accompanying the dark edge of the road like obedient soldiers, and before entry into the vacuum of a few meters ahead, the imposing facade of the country that looks over the fence.

Delving into the place of this center is like climbing the marble staircase of a prestigious university or a public building of ancient and well kept. Sant'Agata leans on a river that does not exist, but they all have learned to fear them and imagine the sound current. The wrought-iron balconies are carved and polished wooden doors of the shops have solid brass hinges and all open to the outside while the pastel plasterwork resume almost always composed of the colors at once. The men are well groomed, have kept the mustache and slicked-shirt collars. They turn and walk away smiling attending the narrow streets of that country whose only crime is to host an inexplicably excessive number of barbers and chemists. The wind does not rise at this time and I miss the road, you enjoy choking the air and to increase the heat. Lemons adorn the squares that break the decumano. The fountains and the stone portals of the churches are collected as the breast a woman no longer too young and has too many thoughts in my head.

E 'an afternoon of those in which one throws and you can not find peace until the concern does not turn into inertia and movement is a spontaneous, impulsive, and as a natural alternative to suffocation. The reason why I came to Sant'Agata de 'Goti I understood it only when I got home.