The common destiny of the islands, Lesser. Whatever language you speak, wherever we gowns and from wherever they start, one street will be that to get here. L 'have a unique route, one and only one perspective, a sort of a straight line, like that every day from Naples or Pozzuoli draw the ferry to Procida.
And so they become places become memories that are relived every time with this slow approach the coast, with the gray shapes on the horizon beginning to color, the more detailed design of the houses, the smell of the salt air of the peaks on the pier when launched will tend to lower the bridge.
Procida is the beauty there, archaic, tuff and volcano, which inhale walking without a clock. Sure there are no roads, cars, shopping and other modernity, but there is something that resists as to reveal the nature of the raw and primitive at every step, at every glimpse, at every meeting. Maybe they are small beaches protected from the high coast dark, bleak, bent by the winds.
Or are houses put there, so in bulk, to meeting the ground, scalarne rock. There are certainly those few words to hear, just the necessary, as if here, the procidani wanted to keep a secret, defend themselves from the masses, not to have a price.
The port will be first, like many others, with its perpetual motion. You come, you go, you wait. A life apart. Meanwhile, a few shops, bars and restaurants of the tables. Then or shooting the sea or climb. To enter the island. Then the bus will be small and fast, remember them inches measured on the lanes, with the leaves of the lemon that you enter through the windows.
And yet seek the lighthouse with her loneliness but also the Chiaolella with its small marina and the shores of the beaches cluttered by sun loungers and parasols.
Then, with time, happen to be amazed of the views of the heights, just a few dozen meters here enough to know that the vertigo, so, with that arm stretched into thin air, a touch Ischia and the Phlegraean coast. And a little further Vivara, the island that does not exist, denied by the long bridge that links it with the iron prolonging the indentations in the rock.
Finally, the Corricella. Pure wonder. Nativity of the ocean at the point of recognizing the shadows of the Magi descend from the steep asphalt. Soft geometries of colors where the levels of the houses are simultaneously first and last. Earth and sky.
Here, fortunately, the other ten months of the year, those who do not belong to summer, the cats again become the true protagonists of the nets to dry on the dock.
