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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