THE VILLAGE THAT DOESN’T EXIST
Don’t look for the ring of houses around a piazza here. You won’t find it.
Furore, the village that doesn’t exist, the village that isn’t a village, with its inhabitants scattered on the side of the mountain overlooking the sea, offers itself in small doses. It lets itself be discovered with flirtatious reluctance.
You will walk the paths and the petingoli, squeezed between patches of earth clinging miraculously to the rock and cultivated with an ancient love, almost with obstinacy.
You will drink wine – reds and whites – that are fresh and lively, and “capable of tossing all the sun and all the joy you have on your skin right into your soul.” You will admire vines and gardens, terraces and pergolas, hills and hairpin turns from which you can fall headlong into the sea. And walls. Dry-stone walls, painted walls, walls with history. Walls that speak. Authors’ walls.
A dizzy mixture of panoramas immersed in a light without sounds, suspended, unreal, and secret like a fairy tale.
You will smell the perfume of fantasy on the breath of love-sick nymphs who have lived in these ravines since the beginning of time. You will experience an ambiance that is both dreamy and disquieting, where every glance is already an emotion and every thought is already a dream.
Il paese che non c’è
by Raffaele Ferraioli
Edizioni Pro Loco Furore