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A large, dusty piazza studded with cropped Etruscan columns looked curiously like a spaghetti western set (donkey races take place here in early June and September). Dominating the humble square was the cool and sombre Romanesque church of San Donato, remodelled in the 16th century to include frescoes by the school of Perugino and an enormous wooden crucifi x by the school of Donatello. A modest bell tower stood poised beside the church. Undamaged by war and unravaged by modernity, Civita felt strangely enduring. Without the gaping crowds and gaudy souvenir stands, it was soothingly quiet. It was surreal to fi nd, tucked behind the deserted piazza, a tiny but thriving restaurant, Osteria al Forno di Agnese, run by delightful Manuela and Raff aele Settimi, who inherited it. In its charming leafy courtyard, our excellent lunch confounded all expectations: plentiful bowls of delicious antipasti (such as warm beans with anchovies or fagiole con alici), handmade pasta (including the local speciality, umbricelli) and decadent tiramisu. Th e restaurant is certainly a passion for the young couple, who commute there daily – by Vespa, naturally. Th ey are part of the community that runs the tiny collection of Civita’s three restaurants, six snack places and crafts shops, and are committed to the ‘sinking’ city by family history: Raff aele’s grandmother was born here in 1913 and founded the osteria in 1968. Eighty-Three Below: Paolo Crepet, an eminent psychiatrist, moved to Civita in 1994 and opened luxury B&B La Corte della Maestà. Left: one of the imaginatively designed rooms at La Corte della Maestà Bolst ered by whimsical furnishings, an enchanting garden and antiques and art, La Corte is a sophist icated haven of tranquillity After lunch, I came across an elderly resident perched outside a gate who ushered me gently into her garden. What Maria was so eager to show was an epic panoramic view of the canyon. At the eastern end of the village, a small staircase led down to Etruscan burial caves, now used for storage, which also house a chapel. Never far from the edge of the abyss in this small village island, the most disconcerting monument I encountered was the facade of a Renaissance Palace. Th e rest of the structure had been lost in a landslide and the windows looked through to thin air. Exposed, vulnerable and housing just a handful of people, it’s unsurprising that Civita became known as La Città che muore (the Dying City). It was a depressed patient who drew Paolo Crepet, one of Italy’s most eminent psychiatrists, to Civita in 1994. ‘She said she was living in such a diffi cult place, a little town with a bridge,’ he tells me over an espresso in the piazza’s chic little cafe. ‘I was working in Rome, but had never heard of Civita. I was curious so she invited me to visit her. I drove up here in horrible weather, and what I saw looked like a fable, or a drawing. It was such a strange feeling and I immediately asked about fi nding a house here.’ Other wealthy urbanites from Rome and Milan have also recently set up home here (though merely as a holiday retreat), transforming ruins into subtle luxury residences and quietly reinvigorating the fl ailing city. Crepet bought the bishop’s former residence (though in grave disrepair, it featured
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