Le Marche has been described, in many ways but two phrases particularly spring to mind; “Italy in one region” and “Italy’s undiscovered secret”. Both are undoubtedly true. Where else could you find the blue water of the Adriatic only 50 minutes away from skiing in the Sibillini Mountains. In between the two, there are rolling hills, not unlike Shropshire, and little villages perilously perched, on top of hills seeming more like little coronets in a vast panorama lying before you. The people still move in a time honoured fashion, to the rhythm of the seasons, and not the ticking of a clock. Certainly in the countryside this remains true. It is a tranquil place to be.
Culture abounds too in Le Marche. There are many museums, art galleries, castles and theatres and most villages too, can boast of their own, tiny theatre, as well as in the towns. There is also a thriving café society in the summer months alongside the International Opera Festival, the Blues Music Festival, the Summer Jazz Festival and others besides. And of course, every village holds some festa or other to celebrate the local produce of the month, or a Palio, commemorating an historic local event. Le Marche is a land of contradictions in that it is both the place to get away from it all and the place to indulge in feasting and partying in a local village, almost every night of the summer. You can make it your own Marche. It is perhaps best summed up in the words of possibly Le Marche’s most famous son, Giacomo Leopardi, in his poem;
This solitary hill has always been dear to me And this hedge, which prevents me from seeing most of The endless horizon.
But when I sit and gaze, I imagine, in my thoughts Endless spaces beyond the hedge, An all encompassing silence and a deeply profound quiet, To the point that my heart is almost overwhelmed.
And when I hear the wind rustling through the trees I compare its voice to the infinite silence.
And eternity occurs to me, and all the ages past, And the present time, and its sound.
Amidst this immensity my thought drowns:
And to flounder in this sea is sweet to me.
