Brush strokes of light from the Val d'Orcia

The light.
From this enchanted land, first of all, the light strikes.
Darting in the ploughed fields, climbing the rows of cypresses, caressing the white roads.
It spreads lazily across the wind, to cloak orange vineyards, hills and swaying oceans of wheat.
Val d'Orcia at sunset is a song of sirens. It bewitches, stuns, makes you drunk.
Ti soffia maliziosa in un orecchio per sussurrarti che qualcuno lì sopra, acquattato dietro una nuvola
She whispers to you mischievously in one ear that someone up there, crouched behind a cloud, had fun giving shape to Bello's platonic idea.
Few places in the world know how to scream their archetypal uniqueness so loudly. And writing about all this beauty sometimes seems superfluous and disrespectful.
Indeed, almost sacrilegious.
It is necessary to experience it, Val d'Orcia, to breathe its intimate essence.
You have to get lost among the rows of grapes of Montalcino, between the castelletti of the hills, between the Renaissance palaces of Pienza.
You have to sit on the edge of the thermal bath in Bagno Vignoni, certain mornings of May, and watch the fog that dances flickering on the water unravelling until it vanishes.
You have to sit on the benches of an old outdoor tavern in Monticchiello, in front of a glass of red and a plate of local cold cuts.
The light.
From this enchanted land, first of all, the light strikes.
Darting in the ploughed fields, climbing the rows of cypresses, caressing the white roads.
It spreads lazily across the wind, to cloak orange vineyards, hills and swaying oceans of wheat.
Val d'Orcia at sunset is a song of sirens. It bewitches, stuns, makes you drunk.
Ti soffia maliziosa in un orecchio per sussurrarti che qualcuno lì sopra, acquattato dietro una nuvola
She whispers to you mischievously in one ear that someone up there, crouched behind a cloud, had fun giving shape to Bello's platonic idea.
Few places in the world know how to scream their archetypal uniqueness so loudly. And writing about all this beauty sometimes seems superfluous and disrespectful.
Indeed, almost sacrilegious.
It is necessary to experience it, Val d'Orcia, to breathe its intimate essence.
You have to get lost among the rows of grapes of Montalcino, between the castelletti of the hills, between the Renaissance palaces of Pienza.
You have to sit on the edge of the thermal bath in Bagno Vignoni, certain mornings of May, and watch the fog that dances flickering on the water unravelling until it vanishes.
You have to sit on the benches of an old outdoor tavern in Monticchiello, in front of a glass of red and a plate of local cold cuts.