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Updated: May 3, 2025
As we approach Fosdinovo, the hills above us gain sublimity; the prospect over plain and sea the fields where Luna was, the widening bay of Spezzia grows ever grander. The castle is a ruin, still capable of partial habitation, and now undergoing repair the state in which a ruin looks most sordid and forlorn.
And they have the dusty courtyards, the massive portals, where portcullises still threaten, of Fosdinovo to themselves. Over the gate, and here and there on corbels, are carved the arms of Malaspina a barren thorn-tree, gnarled with the geometrical precision of heraldic irony. Leaning from the narrow windows of this castle, with the spacious view to westward, I thought of Dante.
The road to Fosdinovo strikes across the level through an avenue of plane trees, shedding their discoloured leaves. It then takes to the open fields, bordered with tall reeds waving from the foss on either hand, where grapes are hanging to the vines. The country-folk allow their vines to climb into the olives, and these golden festoons are a great ornament to the grey branches.
From Fosdinovo one can trace the Magra work its way out seaward, not into the plain where once the candentia moenia Lunae flashed sunrise from their battlements, but close beside the little hills which back the southern arm of the Spezzian gulf.
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