Gradara is a sonnet written in a harmonious and fluent language.
It is there, resting in its cocoon.
A dozing queen, suspended between land and sea.
On one side you can admire the bright Marche hills covered with sunflowers, on the other your gaze dives to the horizon of the Adriatic. It declares its uniqueness with sumptuous words.
The story of Paolo and Francesca, who loved each other in their castle with a yearning and desperate love, fascinated Dante, who narrated it in the Divine Comedy with the deafening crash of his genius.
Gradara is a vision surrounded by two round crenellated walls, which protect it as an oyster would do with its pearl.
And as the Malatesta, the Sforza, and the Della Rovere did for centuries. All those who fought to defend it.
When you enter through its heavy wooden doors, the world remains outside, with its miseries and lies.
Here everything is enchantment, splendour, wonder. Its narrow streets, squeezed between the low medieval buildings, are teeming with inns, taverns, shops.
They beat with a life that has within itself the premonitory signs of the eternal, the stigmata of the absolute.
They are the Big Bang of pure beauty, of man’s ability to rival the gods when high and noble ideals guide him.
The web of streets and alleys then climbs up towards the castle and the fortress; a vision in itself. An overflowing, fairytale exaltation of the immense Italic talent for the harmony of forms and concepts.
Up there, lonely, it becomes intoxicated with the scent of saltiness and olive trees.
Then, when night falls, it closes its windows as if they were large stone eyes. To reopen them at dawn in front of an always unique and always different show.
A show called Italy.