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Pitigliano just appears behind a curve.

Because Pitigliano is not planned. It just appears.

Like a vision, like a dream, dreamed by a pure and crazy soul. Clinging to its cliff, it is designed in non-Euclidean geometries, unusual and unexpected spaces.

It pierces the green of the forest and places itself there, altering, between history and the eternal.

It is an earth-coloured sketch, a tufaceous representation of the human ability to think beyond that already considered, to compete with the perfection of nature through an instinctive rather than rational constructive wisdom.

A village like this is not planned.

Instead it grew. Stone by stone. A tuff hill that became itself a town, defying the boredom of gravity and the world already seen.

Like a sand castle petrified by the centuries, lost in an overwhelmingly green and beautiful land, it is more than a caress.

The towering houses, the Belvedere, Palazzo Orsini, the cathedral, the ancient ghetto.

An anthology of arcane wonders, proud of their uniqueness, which unfold in a tangle of alleys and squares, placed there to guard an austere and no-frills beauty.

A beauty that does not need to shout, to dress up to be noticed. So confident that it cares not about the passing of time.

Pitigliano is there, and shows itself for what it is.

Without tinsel and without make-up. On the other hand, it is the daughter of the Maremma.

It is the birth of a land that has never been illuminated by the spotlights, but by the stars and fireflies that light it at night, wild and cheery as it is.

Capalbio, Sorano, Sovana, Saturnia. Sweet names, which melt in your mouth and remind us that there is not a single Italy, but tens, hundreds, thousands.

There are many villages that speak a language that we should all know perfectly.

The language of beauty of a town of dazzling splendour.

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