A smell of brackish and mediterranean resins, almost sublime and ancient at the same time, filled the early morning air, crossed by a tense earth breeze that made the branches of the trees on the hill that dominated the entire surrounding landscape rustle. The majestic silence, as in all places steeped in history and ancient legends, imposed an austere respect for the magnificent church high above the village, like a Goddess who takes care of everything under her wing. After passing through the evocative area dedicated to the prayer of the faithful in the central nave and then the marble altar, where the paintings on both the left and right walls seemed to enrapture the observer, I arrived in what used to be a centuries-old sacristy. It was made entirely of wood, with an enormous central table whose strong smell of oils and waxes instilled a venerable fear of the unknown, wanting to imagine the many tomes that had been placed on it for the reading of abbots and hermits of past times. It took one back to the time of other traditions, of men and women who had remained in the memory or in some writing so as not to forget the secrets and knowledge of centuries. It is perhaps appropriate to say that it was a magical place.