Nestled in the heart of Northern Italy, Candelo was the kind of village that felt like it had been plucked from the pages of a fairy tale. Its fortified ricetto stood proudly, a sentinel from the Middle Ages, as if daring time itself to wear down its ancient stones. Visitors who stumbled upon this hidden gem were often enchanted by how effortlessly it married history with modern-day magic.
I arrived on the cusp of December, just as the village began to prepare for its annual celebrations. The ricetto loomed ahead, its sturdy walls whispering tales of centuries past. The word itself, ricetto, sounded foreign to my tongue, but its meaning was simple and comforting—a "refuge."
Back in the Middle Ages, the people of the countryside relied on these strongholds to protect their most precious resources: their families, crops, and tools. When a guard spotted danger—an army on the horizon or the faint shimmer of swords in the distance—a horn would echo across the fields, or a fire signal would pierce the night sky. Villagers would gather whatever they could and flee to the ricetto.
But this was no bleak fortress; it was alive, vibrant with stories. Inside, families had their own cellars where they stored grains, wine, or even cheese, each with its own carved insignia to mark ownership. Narrow cobblestone paths, called rues, crisscrossed through the ricetto, and the faint echoes of footsteps reminded me of a time when these streets bustled with frantic activity in moments of peril.
December, however, transformed the ricetto into something even more extraordinary.
The village’s famous Christmas festivities began with the opening of Santa Claus’s post office. Children flocked to a small stone chamber within the walls, clutching carefully written letters addressed to the North Pole. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine, and the square hummed with the chatter of locals and tourists alike. Towering fir trees were adorned with handmade ornaments, their lights twinkling like stars against the ancient walls.
I wandered through the marketplace where local artisans sold honey, jams, and delicate lacework. Owners of the rented cellars proudly displayed their goods, their weathered faces glowing with holiday cheer. A young woman, her cheeks rosy from the cold, handed me a small wooden carving of a bell.
“For you,” she said, her accent lilting. “To remember Candelo.”
The festivities culminated in a parade through the rues. Santa Claus himself appeared, to the delight of the children, his booming laughter echoing off the stone walls. For a moment, it felt as though time had folded in on itself—children’s joy mingling with the spirit of those who once sought refuge here centuries ago.
As the sun dipped behind the distant hills, the ricetto glowed with the warmth of countless lanterns. I found myself drawn to the highest tower, where the guards of old once stood watch. From there, I looked out over the surrounding countryside, now dotted with modern homes and bustling roads.
The ricetto was no longer a refuge from danger, but it had become something else entirely—a sanctuary for tradition, history, and the quiet magic of community. It was proof that even the smallest of places could hold the biggest treasures.
As I descended the steps, the sound of carolers rose to meet me. Candelo had stolen a piece of my heart, and as I left, the little wooden bell in my pocket jingled softly, a reminder of a medieval jewel and the warmth of December celebrations.
"Virtual visit" of this place is HERE: https://exegi.substack.com/p/small-tourist-attractions-big-treasures
