It was a day at the end of September in San Giorgio Morgeto, and the sultriness of August had given way to a cool wind, which channeled through the alleyways brought with it the smell of the sea that stretched before my eyes. The gaze embraced the countries of the Piana, which from up here seemed like small interruptions of the great Mediterranean forest that enveloped them. I observed with great love the Calabrian landscape, so varied and evocative, so picturesque and unique. Behind me the Apennines that divide Calabria into two, a line parallel to the coast, which clearly separates the Ionian from the Tyrrhenian Sea, two seas that flank more than seven hundred kilometers of coastline of a predominantly mountainous region. I was leaning against a wall of the castle that was partly ruined; I had climbed up here after having walked the many alleys of the small center of the Piana, built by Morgete, son of Italo. I had spent the afternoon in the streets of the village, getting lost in the narrow alleys often characterized by steps that connect scenic terraces, churches, craft workshops and historic buildings. I had arrived around four o’clock in the afternoon, starting my journey from Piazza dei Morgeti, in the middle of which there was a large monumental fountain. Not many cars circulated: the particular conformation of the country obliges most of the streets to be pedestrian, leaving the streets and squares to the people, real protagonist of the place. So I went through the alleys that suddenly opened up to the landscape, and if in the beautiful Scilla the streets ended on the sea, in San Giorgio the alleys allow extensive views of the woods and the immense Mediterranean Sea. Wandering through the streets of the town, between ancient churches and the many terraces, I arrived at the Passetto del Re, which with only forty cm of width is the narrowest alley in Italy. The upper part of the village, reached when the sunset already offered its spectacular landscape, offered an orange-colored sun that, laying on the Tyrrhenian, drew the dark silhouette of Stromboli, the Sicilian volcano that was now visible in front of my eyes. I took a deep breath, thrilled in front of the beauties of San Giorgio. A special place, where Time had chosen to live … its own time.