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Via Cima and side



Via Cima and I did reverse side
along Via Cima yet, but stop before the portico of Masaghin. Who was this man was a mystery, but the name aroused my sympathy. I chose a path as much fun. Imboccai alley Donzelli, to my right, pointing straight to the bottom of the country. I was thirsty, I just have to seek refuge Colomba d'Oro. I had hoped to find Eleanor. And maybe a hug.
I went down the dark streets, encountering the remnants of resistance to public decency. I too want to reach the goal to lose myself in fisticuffs and pistol. There were already enough.
got to the end of the maze without finding Minotaur. I crossed the highway, the Court narrowly Croma I stretched. The last dodged. Once set in motion the machinery of justice andava avanti senza badare a ostacoli, pedoni notturni inclusi. Più di quattrocento anni prima sarei finito sotto le ruote del calesse degli Inquisitori.
Brano tratto da "Il pietrificatore di Triora" di Ippolito Edmondo Ferrario, Frilli Editore

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Piazza Beato Tommaso Reggio

Piazza beato Tommaso Reggio
Schizzai giù dal letto fissando l’orologio. Le venti e quarantacinque. Lo spettacolo cominciava alle ventuno. Fuori imbruniva; nella casa regnava la penombra. Picchiai il muso contro la porta del bagno. Non bestemmiai per pudore, ma presi a calci l’infisso fino ad abbatterlo.
Dopo aver sconfitto l’indomito nemico, e aver perso del tempo prezioso, mi vestii e puntai sul borgo. Le prime luci lo illuminavano a festa.
Una processione di anime dementi ammorbava le strade per confluire verso la piazza della Collegiata. L’incubo era iniziato. Mi tuffai in quel carnaio avariato con il solo obbiettivo di raggiungere Eleonora.
La massa mi inglobava, stringendomi, abbracciandomi, soffocandomi.
Io resistevo, mi contorcevo, respingevo. Guadagnavo terreno facendomi largo con la forza.
Arrivai nella piazza. Vidi il palco coperto da un drappo nero. Luci stroboscopiche venivano proiettate sui volti stralunati degli spettatori che invocavano l’inizio. L’inferno era in terra. Mi scontrai con una paio di bellissime tette. Il ghigno terrificante della proprietaria mi costrinse a lasciar perdere.
Scivolai verso il centro dell’improvvisata arena. I could not see shit. I resigned myself, I damn near had to ethyl astray.
It was twenty-one and I found myself surrounded by a group of fanatics and various dark of the Underworld: a passion that was hard to understand, at least alive.
The girls were not bad, but so attired put me shudder: Camporella stuff from the cemetery.
A solemn chanting, music listening. It was the 'unique' Siegfried's Funeral March, "the Teutonic Richard Wagner: a pearl thrown into the pigpen. From the big windows of the Centre attended the evening in the front row Ariberti Mayor Silvio Borelli, President of the Province of Imperia, local councilors and mayors neighboring countries.
lights that turned crazy, they stopped on the marquee. The music was lowered. Hits rhythm of drums. The scene slowly opened. I felt all the idiot suspense created and lived by the audience. I prepared for cialtronesca representation with a smile. Maybe I would have changed his mind.
Three instruments of torture made by the protagonists. A table equipped with chains, an iron maiden and a hook hanging from the theoretical ceiling of the torture room.
horrified. Three actresses play the part of incarcerated. Realistic as I had ever seen. We were so let down in part by stay there. That had tangled beyond belief? They had the appearance of three arrived last bust act. In addition to stiff were petrified: imprinted forever in this never ending the first act. The reality was stranger than fiction. The days of what looked like rigor mortis. Wooden posture as in skin color. I looked around to see if I was alone with the flock clouded. Reality is like a meteorite struck the square smashed. The hysterical screams of onlookers broke the silence and breaking balls. Damn hysteria, collective or not. Only caused trouble. A strange film popped onstage like the wandering dazed survivor of some distant war. Aurelio Ravens stammered into the microphone.
-Gentlemen, keep calm, "said after three attempts to start up the vocal cords. The appeal fell on deaf ears. As an orator he was not worth a quid. He looked horrified consumatosi his show even before it began.
manforte came to give him a second man. He had lost its boldness, while running up the stairs of the Centre. It took three bodies, or rather a grain that would have ruined. Panzer
Ariberti advancing with the tracks stuck in the shit that was overwhelming. Notes the deaths, with the hope that the theater company were insured. Already thinking about how to fix the glitch. He had no time. The square reacted. Each in his own way. Throwing eggs, tomatoes and nuts (the hardware store in those days had done a roaring trade) invested him with forcing to retreat. After advancing on Poland, the Panzer lived the defeat of the Russian front.
Aurelio took shelter from flying objects such as bullets. He fell behind the scenes. The other actors do not even try to go on stage. It was scorched earth.
Excerpt from "The petrification of Triora" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher

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Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes




Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes
So I walked into a romantic moonlight stroll arm in arm with lady solitude. She never leaves me, and above all it was the only one that I hated.
M'inerpicai from the lower part of the village, going up Via San Bernardino.
Avevo letto nel libro di Oddo che il fanatico predicatore era passato a Triora un secolo prima che cominciasse la caccia alle streghe.
Il santo, sempre che così potesse definirsi, aveva lasciato una traccia indelebile del suo passaggio: una chiesa a lui dedicata con un affresco raffigurante streghe, eretici fatti a pezzi, e bambini morti prematuri destinai al limbo. Quando si dice un messaggio di pace e d’amore…
Il silenzio faceva da sottofondo alle mie meditazioni anticlericali. Respiravo affannosamente in salita, maledicendo la mancanza di un mezzo di locomozione. Gli antri delle cantine mi osservavano come le orbite vuote di una montagna di teschi. Di notte le vie assumevano le sembianze di cripte a cielo aperto. La maggior parte of the houses were closed (not in the sense that I was hoping ...) or uninhabited for some time. There was an atmosphere of charming sadness that after all I liked. A sign indicated the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes. I followed the curious claim. The alley opened into a roof terrace. Here, an artificial grotto welcomed the statue of the Virgin. The sight that awaited me was just very sacred and profane. Four babbazzi hair in pigtails enjoyed a bottle to take the Virgin, by making changes to the angelic face of the mother of God I found myself making a decision. The civic sense prevailed over the bourgeois indifference. They had the excuse of drunkenness that unites us, but not the political party which militated for. I hesitated because of the presence of a boy of his strong religious feelings honestly tried to lay a candle at the foot of the statue. The shards of glass rained on him, but he continued undaunted. When he thought it best to reclaim peace of mind to wash from head to toe with two bottles of beer left. The general hilarity not touched me or the victim. Drew her attention to their common appellation "dickheads", a title which could boast fully. Once captured the eyes, put on the table my civil reasons. The blued barrel of the Colt 1911 was an excellent card. The expression of two-bit thugs he was incautious of disbelief. It will not be
- mica true, brother? - openly challenged me the most talkative of the quartet. Unfortunately for him I was an only child and did not believe in universal brotherhood. Then no one had ever spoken to Thomas and his lack of faith.
-try it-the contented, quoting the late Guido Angeli, seller of furniture. I was not playing with water pistols since elementary school. Mirai
to one of the cans remained on the floor, centering on the first try.
The explosion sounded like a cannon. Triora trembled. Four of the Hail Mary as I had baptized, the curtains rose scoured their underwear.

excerpt from "The petrification of Triora" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher

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Piazza Beato Tommaso Reggio




Triora Piazza Beato Tommaso Reggio, 28 October 2008, at 3:00 pm

After a hearty lunch at the Golden Dove-based herbal Ligurian rabbit dell'omnipresente flat rate gave the brothers Padovan the early afternoon had to be terminated because the relief operations to the tank before opening the castrum of the square. So after lunch I found myself wandering around the country to kill time and to pull the tanker rendezvous with the oldest and perhaps the most interesting. I hoped that at least in that the dead were waiting for us. In my ignorance I feared that having a tank, I'd seen it all, but I promised myself that I would not have pulled back from exploration. Because of my mental and physical wanderings returned after a short in the ancient village into via San Bernardino and going to the fountain Sottana, hence always in the shadow of centuries-old houses taken away Sambughea whose name was derived precisely from plants grown on elder housing destroyed at the time of plague. I walked to the old times covered with moldy, covered passages of the beam which were blackened by the torches that once were lit to illuminate the streets. I found myself shortly after being Camurati I knew that during the plague houses in this street had been plagued with literally walled in to prevent the spread of infection. Then I went off to Tamagni and finally arrived in the square where a few small tourist Tommaso Reggio Triora showed that continued to attract someone with a time of wolves. Mindful of my previous investigations began to sentirmici home, a bit 'as its few inhabitants and dour, suspicious of everything that came from outside. I sat under the arches of the square on an old stone seat held by ancient capitals probably belonged to some old church. The church of Santa Maria Assunta with its neoclassical façade looking towards the gray sky made me feel small. I looked at the bell tower silhouetted against the endless sky. I decided to walk around the church in which I had entered only once and which has a fine memory. At the time of my investigation of the petrification of Triora, being demented during the celebration of Strigora, the church was the only place around the country that was saved by the hordes of imbecilloidi occultists and the like who were besieging the town for the show. I remembered Don "The Winds of War", the burly priest who was then showed off his skills to good boxer in the public square. I crossed the threshold of the house of the Lord for comfort. The smell of incense made me strangely good mood. This put me on the specter of failure to be a priest. The church with its baroque interior sported a highly questionable, but in the midst of this gilded stucco perfect for redundancy la reggia di un re, compariva qualche bella e importante tela. In fondo ero pur sempre un mercante d’arte con velleità da investigatore privato. Accesi un cero ricordandomi dei miei cari che non c’erano più. Poi naturalmente l’occhio da specialista si posò sulla bella tavola di Taddeo di Bartolo, un bellissimo quadro fondo oro di uno dei maestri toscani del Trecento, firmato e datato 1397. Il quadro raffigurava il battesimo del Cristo. Avendone diversi in collezione non potei fare a meno di apprezzarlo e di sospirare di fronte al fatto che non avrei mai potuto acquistarlo. -Amen, non tutto si può avere nella vita- pensai facendomene una ragione.

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Il cimitero
I left the perimeter of the castle and the usual way imboccai Castle rising and crossing the last houses of the old town. The castrum of the fountain was the only sound that accompanied me down the road. I let myself slowly behind the center of the village. Come on the road took a deep breath and looked back. Below me the town emerged as the day before the sea of \u200b\u200bfog, dark and steep roofs looked like the limbs of a corpse floating suddenly emerged from the Deep. And under the roofs of uncertainty I could see the outlines of the gray houses, buildings and decrepit perdutisi dark oblivion of the mountains. I felt terribly alone, as if behind me there was nothing. In a way it was così. Avanzai moribondo per la mancanza di fiato. Attraversai la strada asfaltata e proseguii lungo un sentiero ripido e scivoloso. Vi salii alla meglio sforzandomi di non scivolare come un pollo. Certamente non era la strada principale per giungere al cimitero, ma era sicuramente la più diretta e la sola che conoscessi. Dopo cinque minuti di arrampicata libera sul percorso accidentato arrivai alle mura di quello che un tempo era stata una fortezza. Mura a secco, antiche, fatte con blocchi di pietra e sassi, si alternavano a tratti più recenti e a rattoppi vari, dando al luogo un aspetto inquietante. Il camposanto pareva una corona di pietra posta sul cranio nudo del monte delle Forche rassomigliante a un teschio. -Un luogo ideale per un prendere il sole o per andare Camporella-making me courage in thought and pushing the heavy iron gate that creaked horribly like a script. I received a quite unrealistic, perhaps even worse than that breathed in the country. I did not expect a rave-based tablets, loud music and free sex, they are my favorites. I noticed that the burials were placed within the former parade ground in no particular order, but scattered here and there. Tombstones corroded and worn by time, cracked and sunken crosses in the ground moist and crumbly, but also the tombs of the cemetery were recent Triora. Fiutai plagued the air smells sweet, intense and nauseating in places. Had to be that bunches of flowers soaked in water and dripping wet. The chrysanthemums in pots were drowned in the water of the same and almost rotten. Always accompanied with Tuscan in the mouth, locked in my bomber, took his first steps sinking feeling the steps on the layer of fat and green grass that covered the ground rotting around the plates. The oldest headstones were removed, sucked in by climbing plants whose branches looked like the tenacious tentacles of dozens of giant squids. It was as if the plants would like to erase the sight of the old inscriptions, almost keep a secret destined to remain so. A gust of wind stronger than others I had to slam the gate behind a blasphemy for suggesting the scare. I apologized to the Virgin for my intemperance due to the contingencies of place. I continued reading the names of the dead and losing myself in the faces of the dead part of Triora faded. There were people born and buried in the nineteenth century. I was facing the very soul of Triora, the sight of dozens of eyes that pierced me like a hot knife through butter making me feel extremely uncomfortable. The discomfort turned into an electric thrill when the corner of my eye, to my right, next to an old cypress sick, I saw a dark figure move and sway with a flutter of wings. I was certain that he had been until then by himself, but perhaps not excluded that there were any other visitor. I turned with a jerk. I was just a perception of something that was just before and just after it was dissolved. I felt an instinctive thrill a second. I felt a breath on my neck shaved, at first light as a faint whisper, then the cold air in a gust of wind hit me, forcing me to shiver with cold. The cemetery, not being an underground place, was beginning to close andarmi. Stepped along the walls that surround it and who still had an air of bleachers from which to defend themselves from any attack or siege based on arrows and musket-shots. The number of burials was disproportionate. They had crammed everywhere there was the dead of the place, as if afraid to bury them in another place. At the center of the cemetery stood a building like a truncated tower, above which was built a kind of mortuary chapel or modern, frosted glass and raw concrete. I made some steps and arrived in a glass door locked. I laid my face against the glass in the vain hope of being able to see anything inside anyway. Approaching saw reflected in the opaque surface expanse of graves behind me. At that brief, but clear, I saw a multitude of people crowded behind me. The faces deformed and grotesque contours are twisted into bizarre expressions showing mouth instead of teeth and sockets filled with a cosmic void. I screamed like a madman in the grip of mad visions. Indeed I was. I cursed for the second volta girandomi e fronteggiando le tombe. Ero nuovamente solo. Il cuore prese a tamburellarmi come un ossesso mentre il sigaro mi cadde dalle labbra. Mai prima di quel giorno il Campari mattutino aveva avuto effetti così deleteri sulla mia immaginazione. Sudai freddo mentre una fitta di dolore mi colpiva alla schiena ricordandomi insieme che ero vivo e terrorizzato. Come in una sorta di incubo feci i gradini tornando sui miei passi pronto a fuggire al minimo rumore sospetto. La nebbia sembrava aver preso la consistenza del pane, solida, impenetrabile. Arrivai al cancello che spinsi come se stessi spingendo l’uscita di sicurezza di una discoteca in fiamme e traboccante di persone. Nella foga inciampi in una nel pietrame viscido e per poco non piroettai nell’aria esibendomi in a flip, in name and fact. I kept in balance by a miracle and continued the descent at breakneck speed along the path from which I had climbed. I did the slalom between holes, bushes and rocks until I found myself on the road. I had the feeling to come back to reality, to wake from a bad dream. That language seemed asphalt lifeline of a civilization that until a few moments before had seemed distant. I wondered if the cemetery was only a deposit of bones moldy or something I did not want to know anything.

Excerpt from "The nights Triora Gothic" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher

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The Cemetery The church of S. Agostino




La chiesa di S.Agostino
Dal castrum, al posto di scendere attraverso i carruggi del paese, optai per la strada che passava al di fuori dell’abitato appena sotto il cimitero. M’incamminai non vedendo l’ora di arrivare a destinazione. Risalii ancora per un pezzo via Castello e mi trovai in cima al paese. Qui emersi dalla nebbia che avvolgeva il paese ormai da ore e che non dava l’impressione di potersi dissolvere. Acqua e nebbia tutto il giorno, a intermittenza. Erano da poco passate le cinque delpomeriggio e stava imbrunendo velocemente senza lo scorcio di nessun tramonto. Naturalmente in giro neppure un cane. Arrivai alla chiesa di S.Agostino, e a ciò che rimaneva del convento. Sapevo che la fondazione della chiesa affondava le proprie origini in un oscuro omicidio. Era il 26 luglio del 1615 quando il dottor Agostino Oddo era stato ucciso da un gruppo di sicari mossi da motivi politici e personali. Il fu Oddo però, probabilmente volendo fottere gli eredi e assicurarsi un posto in paradiso, aveva disposto perché tutti i suoi averi finissero ai padri Agostiniani di Genova purchè costruissero una chiesa. Ecco come nacque la chiesa di S.Agostino a Triora. Di fronte all’edificio c’era un grande spiazzo dove d’estate ci si poteva sedere all’ombra di maestosi castagni e godere della frescura. Continuai a camminare imperterrito. Mi accesi un Toscano per riprendere fiato e farmi compagnia in quel deserto di solitudine. L’aria particolarmente peroxide and loads of flavors coming from the woods behind me, creating a tobacco blend perfectly with the flavor even better. I breathed deeply. I passed in review in a row of large chestnut trees and other planted there by the student Luca Capponi in 1843. Nowadays the kids out of schools are dedicated to a very different type of activities that have nothing to do with botany. I kept going until you reach Italy. I crossed the road, skirted the town and got to have seen the war memorial, where the little fountain gushed forth by the company to the victims of the war. I dissetai approaching the fountain and nearly causes a clumsy maneuver, there ended up inside, the rubber soles of his boots era simile a un paio di pattini sul ghiaccio. Dal buio alle mie spalle un uomo mi stava osservando immobile seduto sulla panchina.
Brano tratto da "Le notti gotiche di Triora" di Ippolito Edmondo Ferrario, Frilli editore

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La strega del Duemila
Le botteghe di souvenir non si contavano, affollate di gonzi che si facevano accalappiare da patetiche statuine di streghe in ogni posizione.
M’imbattei nella strega del 2000, scultura metallica, posta all’ingresso del paese. La ferrea megera con l’inseparabile pentolone faceva sorridere grandi e piccini.
Avanzai nell’esplorazione. Da ambo i lati le secolari case-torri, alte a sette piani, osservavano la marmaglia di persone che s’addentrava nel borgo. Lo slargo di Piazza del Mercato mi colpì per la bellezza. Avevo letto di quell’angolo pittoresco nel romanzo “Les lions de Calvi” un noir degno della penna di Pino Rauti. L’autore era Ippolito Edmondo Ferrario, collega gallerista milanese con la fissa di Triora.
Si trattava di una serie di abitazioni costruite sulla roccia viva.
Vi si accedeva attraverso una maestosa scalinata adatta a una dimora principesca.
La fiumana di dementi mi obbligò ad uno sforzo sovrumano per godere di quella vista. Poi la beota turba mi trascinò lungo le volte coperte che portavano alla piazza del paese. Qui sorgeva la chiesa della Collegiata. Mi refrained from drawing out my Colt to get me off.

Excerpt from "The petrification of Triora" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher

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Triora Two thousand and the Holocaust



Triora and the Holocaust

Dear Friends, Dear Friends,
as you return to the Shoah Palare and denial, I propose that this particular story that he saw theater as Realdo, fraction of Triora.
Throughout the period of German and Italian Social Republic, in the hamlet of Creppo Moraldo Francis (Creppo 30/12/1906 - 28/04/2001) kept hidden at home and protected from deportation two orphaned German Jews.

Moraldo was butler Angelo Donati jew lawyer in France who had taken the children under his protection in July 1942 when their parents were deported to Auschwitz from Nice.

When Donati had to take refuge in Switzerland after the September 8, 1943, Moraldo bore two children with him to his home country. The entire population of the village, made aware of the situation, worked actively to their salvation, despite the danger as the fighting and frequent raids in the area.

For this commitment to solidarity, February 11, 1999, Yad Vashem Institute in Jerusalem has given Francis Moraldo the high honor of the righteous among the nations.

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Valley Argentina




Valley arrived in Argentina
Taggia like lightning, here began the Provincial Road 48 crossing the Valle Argentina. Just outside the village, the former convent of San Domenico, in which were preserved valuable fund boards Ludovico Brea. The friars of the place I had been kicked in the pants when I proposed buying the entire collection of paintings by offering in exchange Genovese Alessandro Magnasco, in one of these Lissandrino had painted the work on Pulcinella Pulcinellino with a big enema. The Dominicans had not enjoyed my collegiate and entrepreneurial spirit. From the Shrine of Our Lady of Lampedusa, just above Castellaro filtered through the last dying light of day. It was nine and a half. The waters of the stream flows gently downstream Argentina losing in the dark caverns of the gorges and green reeds next to the sea. The air smelled of musk and wood smoke. I crossed Badalucco, repository of medieval taverns frequented by growers of Calabrian origin. In short, the poor murals that decorate the old houses in the town were a memory, just like my ex in-laws who live there.
Have a can in the hands of an idiot and do an artist, this was the dogma of art that sullied after the big cities had reached the walls of the said country covering them mercilessly. I left the issues of public decency in the name of office that I had just taken.
I thought it disappear into thin air in a place like that would not be difficult.
impenetrable forests and countries like Montalto Ligure, Andagna, the Court looked out on the road to the land of witches. The first light of Triora Mills appeared on the horizon. A store full of knick-knacks worthy of a witch overlooked the main street. It was the shop Angelamaria, a kind of attraction in the area. A group of foreigners stationed outside the hotel the Holy Spirit, whose name conjures up images from my school for the Knights Templar or withdrawal for CL. Better not to look into. The first were part of history for the latter was still wait. I preferred, however, that the deceased had left a good memory of their epic feats.
I pulled straight, regardless of the idiotic expressions of local drunks, sitting in a line outside the bar. The hurry to get turned into dangerous accelerate the brink of the precipice below. Triora old Podesta of Genoa and its secular bulwark in the far west, was the last inhabited outpost in the desert of forests and mountains. A Las Vegas, compared to fractions of Realdo and Verdeggia, shelters for genuine hermits. For me it was more than enough peace of mind Triora.

Excerpt from "The petrification of Triora" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, editor Frilli

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On the way to the Castrum Vetus Triorae Via Cima



Sulla strada per il Castrum Vetus Triorae

Avanzammo con tutta l’attrezzatura lungo la via Castello che portava al Castrum Vetus Triorae, com’era chiamata una delle cinque fortezze poste un tempo alla difesa del borgo. Questa era l’unica rimasta in piedi a testimoniare epoche lontane e bellicose. La strada, o meglio il caruggio, si inerpicava ripido versò il borgo sano, ovvero la parte alta del borgo prossima alla cima del monte Trono. Passammo in rassegna a nmerose case antichissime le cui finestre erano protette da spesse inferiate finemente lavorate. Maledii le bombole da sub che portavo sulla schiena, anche se i miei compagni non erano meno appesantiti. In quanto a fardelli facevamo invidia a un gruppo di profughi in fuga da qualche guerra. Arrivammo ai ruderi del castrum. Presi fiato sdraiandomi a terra e boccheggiando come un pesciolino rosso in crisi d’asfissia.
-Hai bisogno di una mano?-mi chiese Gianluca preoccupato nel vedermi in quello stato non dissimile da quello di uno sciamano imbottito di pejote.
-No grazie, mi sono fermato a godere il panorama!-dissi con indifferenza sforzandomi di fare a meno di una tenda a ossigeno che avrei gradito.
-Andate pure avanti che vi raggiungo- dissi ai due che si addentrarono tra i ruderi della fortezza costituiti dalle mura in parte divelte e da un torrione circolare. Per ristabilirmi mi accesi un toscano che mi infuse nuova vita. Imprecando mi ritirai su e seguii brothers Padovan up the stone stairs that led to what was once the place of arms of the castle. Currently, he looked like a simple green lawn where the grass grew in the shade of two large fig trees. The operations were to start caving.

Excerpt from "The nights Triora Gothic" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher

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Via Cima

horizon there was a shadow of a tourist visiting the country of witches. We looked out of curiosity the windows of the specialty food store The Witch of Triora which was empty at that hour. Recognized the owner, Luana Bertol, behind the counter of meats and cheeses committed to putting in some blank pieces of Toma, a cheese produced in alpine pastures above Triora. Italy continued along the course regardless of the rain. We walked in silence, looking straight in front of us the old village that once stood with its cluster of old houses. On our left were opening the vaults of the porch of the old hospital recently renovated and adapted to psychiatric hospitalization.
addition to the primacy of the witches had Triora now is crazy. Under the arcades of the so-called Fountain Hospital gushed fresh water with which we turn to drink. I wondered what would be the next. We continued to reach the site of the former Museum Ethnographic and witchcraft which now lay empty and closed, with its underground once used as a prison for witches. The foundation of the museum dates back to 1960 through the work of Father Francis Ferraironi, which in addition to writing books, was a pioneer promoter tourist vocation in a country plagued by the problem of emigration country. We entered the narrow street leading to the center of Rome Triora. Once there stood one of the gates to the village, called or commonly called Peirana career for the simple fact that needed to go to the old church of San Pietro. Of all this nothing remained after the German reprisal based explosive. We passed the clearing of the market square which is overlooked the tall tower houses built on rock, with steep walls of stones piled on each other which opened arched windows and slits. We stop to admire the architecture simple, but bold at the same time. At one time this was where he turned the market Triora. We arrived at the portico of Masaghin, which covered a number of times they took us under the old Palace Amero Stella, one of the pearls of the village. Masaghin The name derived from that of the room where the original town, which collapsed during the earthquake of 1587. Stella Palace Amero, the fourteenth century and owned by one of the most powerful families of the village, Stella's just, I knew him well as a seat of research center on witchcraft.

Excerpt from "The nights Triora Gothic" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher

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The Colomba d'Oro



The Colomba d'Oro Triora

The white wooden door with glass panes seemed to clear a gateway to a world stopped the sixties, when the hotel was working at full speed in every season and every winter closure was celebrated with a lavish masked ball. I made my entrance at the hotel, certain that nobody would recognize me. I had not even booked in spite of my planning / habits. Since my last appearance I had completely shaved his hair and I was almost certain to be incognito. I found myself retrieved from the great hall of what had once been the church of S. Francesco, with three naves and the adjoining convent. In those early days the track was the clearest bell tower that still appeared next to the roof and raised the curiosity of all who giungevanoper the first time. It was clear that the building, over the centuries had suffered more than rehashes of Alba Parietti: First church, then barracks, after school, and then colony Alpine hotel. Here is the Colomba d'Oro, the legendary hotel still led by Pastor Simon tenacious that soared busy behind the counter for the umpteenth time to tell the story of the witch trials of 1587 to a group of clienti. Se fossi stato in lei avrei affidato l’ingrato compito di riassumere il tragico episodio ad un mio sottoposto o peggio ancora avrei rifilato agli sventurati uno dei terribili libri che un certo Ippolito Edmondo Ferrario si ostinava a pubblicare per raccontare ogni volta, con parole diverse, la stessa storia. Un autentico genio letterario del male e della truffa. Mi guardai intorno riconoscendo il pianoforte a coda, i muri intonacati di bianco e le perlinature anni cinquanta che nascondevano le imponenti arcate di pietra di quella che un tempo era la chiesa. Per un attimo mi chiesi se con qualche colpo di mazza ben assestato avrei potuto nel giro di poco riportare l’edificio all’antico splendore eliminando quelle sovrastrutture moderne e dando un tocco of elegance to the whole.

Excerpt from "The nights Triora Gothic" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher

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Trip Triora




Trip Triora

I left at the exit Arma di Taggia and from there, after a few km, I took the road 548 which runs down the valley Argentina. Triora was the last country, reaching out to high mountains, near the border with France and Piedmont, in a strip of land where the soul of the Ligurian sea disappears completely, giving way to agriculture, the most beautiful and authentic. Posizionai the gear shift from automatic to manual position tip tronic Totto checking with only two buttons on the steering wheel. I did not want to exaggerate considered the most slippery asphalt of the Comacchio eel, but I felt the car was unapproachable limits thanks to all the technology that was padded, starting with four-wheel drive. I spent an overview of the countries bordering on the tarmac snake that crept through woods, rocks and gorges carved by the river that gave its name to the valley. I watched with admiration the town of Montalto Ligure I remembered very well. He looked like a raven perched on a rock: he was high and impregnable medieval houses, attached to each other and dominated by the central nucleus where stood the church with its bell tower. Mi rammaricai solo che a turbare quell’immagine dal sapore medioevale in cima al paese campeggiasse un mega ripetitore, probabilmente caldeggiato da qualche sventurato amministratore comunale. Il tutto naturalmente in cambio di soldi. Ma a parte quello scempio erano i fitti boschi e le montagne a incantare il visitatore che arrivava per primo in quei posti. I colori dell’autunno avevano tinteggiato di rosso i castagni secolari, i larici e gli abeti, insieme al sottobosco fitto e abitato dai cinghiali. Le foglie secche avevano creato uno spesso tappeto disteso a coprire l’asfalto, quasi a cancellare il segno che la modernità era penetrata in quella valle come in altri luoghi. Non avevo fretta di arrivare,ma preferivo godermi ogni singolo istante di quel viaggio nei ricordi quando avevo percorso quelle strade con la mia vecchia Zagato, fregandomene del paesaggio, ossessionato dalle mie indagini.
Feci una sosta a Molini di Triora, un tempo frazione del paese delle streghe e ora comune a sé stante. Era un paese vecchio, con poche case dai camini sbuffanti, radunate intorno alla strada provinciale che li faceva una serie di curve, stringendosi tra le costruzioni rurali e serpeggiando su per la montagna. A Molini c’era una farmacia, un’agenzia immobiliare, un bar, l’albergo ristorante Santo Spirito e il negozio di Angelamaria, una vera e propria attrazione per turisti e indigeni. Anche quel giorno vidi tutte le cianfrusaglie stregonesche che aveva in esposizione fuori dalla sua vetrina; era un piacere vedere quel disordine che sapeva di vecchio, ma che risultava affascinante per chi come il sottoscritto era ormai assuefatto all’ordine cinico e gelido degli ipermercati moderni gestiti dalle multimanzionali. Da Angelamaria ti addentravi fra scaffali ricurvi per il peso dei generi alimentari, di libri e libretti sulla stregoneria e sulle tradizioni della valle, di souvenir, di streghe di terracotta e di pezza, di amenicoli vari. Tutto questo era condito da un’atmosfera da vecchio bazaar di paese in cui il tempo pareva essersi fermato a quarantanni prima.
Parcheggiai fuori dal paese, nei pressi del laghetto artificiale che si trovava a un centinaio di metri dall’Albergo Santo Spirito. Il laghetto stava appena sotto la carreggiata e siraggiungeva it with a dirt road. In summer the area is a popular destination for excursions to picnic on Sunday, was now deserted and so wonderful. The water flows gently from the river into the lake and passing down through the valley. I stretch my legs for the journey never mind the rain continued to fall in drenching the black bomber jacket and watering the crapa recently shaved bald. I found two beautiful Romanesque stone bridges spanning the river, one after another. In the emerald waters of the recent movements of small glittering fish frightened by the approach of my shadow. I thought of that as a nice place to sit in peace. I stayed there about ten minutes to absorb the beauty of the tranquil waters sure non esistesse al mondo rumore più bello e rilassante di quello delle acque di un torrente. Chiusi gli occhi e mi lascia cullare dalla natura circostante, dal suo anelito di vita che mi cingeva sotto forma di un vento freddo che spirava dall’alta valle. Godetti di quella sferzata fredda e ritemprante. Dopo le mie meditazioni agresti e bucoliche partorite nella quiete della vallata decisi di ripartire per mettere la parola fine a quel viaggio.
Era mezzogiorno quando parcheggiai di fronte alla Colomba d’Oro, l’albergo di Triora, già scenario alla mia indagine sul pietrificatore.

brano tratto da "Le notti gotiche di Triora" di Ippolito Edmondo Ferrario, Frilli Editore.

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comes from the pages of the Triora told Petrification Nights and Gothic. First comes the track



Il Borgo.
few lights lit up the village clinging to the rock. Ippolito Caffi, Venetian painter of the nineteenth century would have the opportunity to make one of his poignant views of the full moon night with lots of fat and drunk on the houses. Unfortunately I was not an artist and my job was to sell and buy paintings by dead artists for some time.
I was in front of a big puzzle.
Triora was San Remo, where I could go to extract information around kicking people. I felt small compared to the centuries-old history condensed in the handful of houses lost.
The evening air caresses my face. With the eye sweeps over the mountains woodlands. A symposium of stars down from the hump of Mount Block, east of Triora. A big kiss full moon illuminating the ruins of the ancient castle of the board and roof terraces to reach the windows of the hotel. The Castrum Vetus Triorae, that was the surviving fortifications, remained cut off a tower and four walls.

The petrification of Triora.
Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, foreword by Andrew G. Pinketts (Frilli Publisher)

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Triora told from the pages of Petrification Nights and Gothic.




comes from the pages of the Triora told Petrification Nights and Gothic.

There is no much less than a month the long-awaited festa di Halloween che quest’anno a Triora si preannuncia particolarmente suggestiva. (www.triorahalloween.it )
Per l’occasione da oggi a fino alla fatidica festa verrano pubblicati sul blog del paese delle (www.triorailpaesedellestreghe.blogspot.com) e sul portatle di Triora www.triora.org una selezione di brani scelti tratti dai romanzi noir di Ippolito Edmondo Ferrario “Il pietrificatore di Triora” e “Le notti gotiche di Triora” .
Gli estratti del libro hanno tutti una particolarità in comune, ovvero qualla di raccontare specifici luoghi del paese delle streghe, dalla Cabotina, a Piazza Beato Tommaso Regio, passando per le vie del centro storico.
Ogni brano è dunque un frammento del paese che seppur romanzato viene offerto ai lettori che magari già conoscono Triora, e che vi ritroveranno luoghi e particolari famigliari, o che magari pur non conoscendola vi troveranno spunti interessanti per future visite.
Dunque i visitatori del blog e poi del portale avranno modo di conoscere e apprezzare Triora attraverso un pusto di vista completamente diverso, quello della narrativa, specificatamente noir, che in questi hanno ha avuto il merito di contribuire alla rinascita turistica del paese delle streghe insieme a tutte le iniziative turistiche e culturali che da anni scandiscono la vita del borgo in provincia di Imperia.