This is possibly the most romantic place I know.
It’s a village perched on an outcrop high in the mountains on the edge of a vast ancient lake bed.
I feel it ought to be inhabited by poets and artists, but in reality it’s more a place for hard-bitten shepherds and farmers used to isolation and long winters.
In due season, the lentil fields are full of poppies and cornflowers, but more magical for me are the expanses of wild flowers which change as the year progresses and reach a climax in early summer just before the hay is cut.
The people of Castelluccio have been leaving in droves in the wake of the recent earthquake and an appeal has been made to try to urge them to return by celebrating the place in words and photographs.