This is the land of silence and wind that smells of millennium of history, wet once from the salty Alto Adriatico sea with its tide puddle between swarm of insects. This is the land crossed from via Annia that lengthened toward the august capital, shined by St. Mark and Teodoro di Aquileia mosaics. This is the land of great reclamations, of idro-arch of triumph, of green valley of war along the Fiume Rosso banks. It’s the land of reeds, where Ernest Hemingway still wanders. This is the land that extends until disappear to the feet of the blue mountains, where the sky flows and filled of perfumes and tastes of fire, bread and wine.