There are places that are part of us, and even when life leads us far away from them, we know that in returning there we’ll find a piece of our soul. There are corners of the earth that smile at us more than others, which we only need to take in for a minute to still feel like ours. There are places where every morning it’s summer and where we feel young forever.

Fumone, the Olympus of Ciociaria, is my Ithaca: a mother always ready to welcome me with a warm embrace and the source that regenerates me at the end of each journey. Every alley, every stone polished by time strikes me as ancient and home.

Fumone’s origins, just like those of Mount Olympus, are lost in the mists of time. The tolling of the bells, the same for centuries, marks the slow rhythm of the village and of its valleys. The beginning of a new day is accompanied by the scent of freshly baked donuts and the fresh air sharpens the senses more than coffee.

Here I am again, 800 meters above sea level, at the top of an isolated cone of the Ernici mountain chain. The three hundred and sixty-degree view that the hanging garden offers fills the eyes and the soul. It is not difficult to step back in time and imagine the ancient foreign legions approaching in an attempt to conquer these places.

In an instant, I am surrounded by the Pope's soldiers, busy sending smoke signals: Campagna is in danger and the people must be warned! Cum Fumo fumat tota Campania tremat, says the old saying. And old people, you know, are always right.

I leave the defenders of the fortress at work and, a few steps away, I find myself in front of a small cell: this is the place where, on May 19, 1296, Pope Celestine V fell asleep forever. The earthly events of "the one who made the great refusal" are still a mystery, but his teachings will live forever: nothing can overcome the power of forgiveness. 

Perhaps it should be explained to the numerous ghosts who still today seem to wander within the walls of the ancient manor in search of revenge. Cries, laments, noises of chains being dragged, lights that turn on and off, and gloomy atmosphere, continue to hover over the Longhi De Paolis residence, filling its millenary history with mystery and legend. 

Closing the heavy door behind me, I return to reality and to the light. The square in front of the castle buzzes with activity. It is Sunday morning and the Baron's heirs opened the doors of the city to the walkers of the new millennium: comedians, jugglers and musicians perform in front of an increasingly lively and numerous audience.

It's time for lunch and I go to the nearby Taverna to taste the local delicacies: cold cuts and cheeses, fresh homemade pasta, roasts, and a good glass of wine, served by waiters dressed in typical costume, and accompanied by the notes of an accordion.

After a timid start, I join the other diners to sing out loud the stornelli in dialect. It is a succession of double meanings and of unmistakable humor described by Pascarella in his epic Journey to Ciociaria.

To make the atmosphere even more magical, actors in medieval outfits wander around the tables, alternating quotations from Molière with funny jokes.

It is now late afternoon. The sun hides behind the mountains, colouring the sky of a thousand hues: Fumone's sunsets are the most beautiful in the world!

I meet old friends, those with whom a glance is enough and words are useless. The evening passes between music, laughter, and a few glasses, actually… too many: simple gestures, which are the rituals of a lifetime.

My heart is at peace. Ulysses has returned to Ithaca.

Cover:
Fumone, winter view of the valley © Danilo De Rossi

Slideshow:
Castri Fumonis Ludi © Francesco Caponera