Pebbles of the Olona
My stones come from the river. Each stone has made a longer journey than you imagine: from the water to the lime, from the lime to the wall, from the wall to me.
A castrum razed to the ground, a tower left standing, a cycle of frescoes that no one can date.
“Welcome, archivist. I am Aliberga: or rather, it is the name that an unknown hand wrote beside a nun painted in my tower. I like to think it was mine.”Aliberga, the Abbess
What the narrator asks you. The answer, and the true fact behind it, is for you to find on the spot.
My stones come from the river. Each stone has made a longer journey than you imagine: from the water to the lime, from the lime to the wall, from the wall to me.
Here, once, a train whistled. It carried not pilgrims but farmers, workers, sacks of goods. It opened when I had already been dust for centuries, and closed in the last century. Even railways know how to become ruins.
Climb up to me, on the hill. There was a city here. In 1287 Bishop Ottone Visconti decided there should never be one again. But there is always something that survives.
Come down from the hill and look for a little church that looks like a three-petalled flower. It is not inside the walls, it is outside. That is perhaps why it is the only one that never needed to hide.