Furore, the country that is not there, the country that is not a country, with its built-up area scattered on the mountainsides overlooking the sea, offers itself in small doses, lets itself be discovered with coquettish reluctance.

You will beat paths and petingoles, squeezed between handkerchiefs of land miraculously wrested from the rock and cultivated with ancient love, almost stubbornly.

You will drink wines-white and red-fresh and spirited, "capable of throwing in all the sunshine and all the cheerfulness on your skin."

You will admire vineyards and gardens, terraces and pergolas, hillocks and hairpin bends that slope down to the sea. And walls: dry-stone walls, painted walls, historiated walls. Talking walls. Author walls.

And churches, and soaring steeples and arabesque domes.

A vertigo of panoramas bathed in soundless light, suspended, unreal and secret like a fairy tale.

You will listen to the silence.

You will catch the breath of the universe in the distant voice of the sea.

You will smell the scent of myth in the breath of some love-struck nymph who has always inhabited these ravines.

You will experience a dreamy yet eerie atmosphere, where every look is already emotion and every thought is already a dream.