Scorci di vicoli del castello
It is easy to fall into the
rhetoric talking about your native country.
And it is easier still to stop us, in rhetoric precisely, when this
native country is, in reality, a "small and cute little village"
like my unforgettable Ilci.
When Clelia, one day a few months ago, proposed to me to participate
in the creation of a website dedicated to Ilci, I had a "ferment" of
For 34 years now, I live my country and its people, which is my
people, only on the day of the "parish festival". I go back every
Sunday to tell the truth, even if only for a few hours. But it is
not a return to the real country and this, rather, it is a return to
the paternal house, made of walls, agree, but above all the color
and warmth of the eyes of a father and a mother (and up to a few
years ago by a grandfather) who are enlightened to see me and my
family together with me, who has happily expanded over the years,
with attached and connected facts of a daughter-in-law and
Doing this for my country was therefore also and above all for
myself. It was a retrace the places of a happy childhood and revisit
them with the loving eyes of memory, in the middle of those alleys,
that square, the streets that, many times, have welcomed me "little
runner" never stopped and never tired out.
It was a review of all the faces that have observed and greeted me
in those races to the world and to life.
It was a rediscovery of the warmth of friendships that I lived there
and enjoyed first as a child and then as a boy. Those friendships
that are and will remain inside, forever, without the years and the
ailments of the body and the mind able to scratch memories and
Ilci has been "my country" for 18 years, for 18 fast and beautiful
years. Now it is still "my country". When I close my eyes, more and
more often to look back rather than forward, Todi is seen from the
"Voltone" that I see. Or the "Madonnuccia" seen from the "Portella".
It is the "Macchia di Boccone" covered secretly up to the "Buca del
Falco" with the sense of adventure and the mystery of who knows what
danger and the joy of incredible discoveries that, with my eyes
closed, poking sweetly in my memory, magically, I find.
Between oblivion and memory we
have chosen to remember ..,
the "m'armentovo" in fact.
Because as in every segment of his DNA the story of a person is
written, so, in a small country like Ilci, the history of this
corner of the world is deposited.
And like the elves, whose branches and leaves can be ruffled by the
wind, beaten by the rain and hail, but with the mighty trunk and the
roots well planted in the earth, survive the adversities, so it is
for us, that we were born here.
These are our roots.
And as a contemporary sage he said:
"Above us, benign,
Umbrian stubbornness always lingers ".
e Clelia Salvatelli