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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