There is a precious place where time seems to stop. There, where various underground rivers intertwine and emerge in pools and streams and where the stone and the wood merge their essences. An intermediate area between the mountains and hills that fade into valleys and woods.
Right there the only population is made up of deer, roe deer, fallow deer and wild boar accompanied by the squealing of jumping squirrels and funny porcupines. In the skies like pendulums the flights of peregrine falcons and young buzzards or low-flying eagles. The great and powerful fir, chestnut and pine grandfathers and the oak, acacia and birch grandmothers whisper stories and legends of those woods and their inhabitants... but only at certain times of the day or night... and only for those who can to hear them.
They express themselves through perfumes, smells and movements, so light and imperceptible that they escape the fixity of the gaze.
Bubbiana is hidden in a gorge in the woods and Its essential gift is invisible to the eyes.
Far from any interaction with civilization, It Is. Exists.
If it could be observed with a Kyrlaand machine we would see a bubble-shaped aura of all the colors of the rainbow. That's how I see it.
The forests and woods all around are varied of mixed flora, untouched and often artfully impracticable, not to alter the native ecosystem. There the trees are happily masters. Wherever are paths to follow, you can enjoy panoramas of valleys and horizons.
Inside the garden, the sun greets you among the age-old fir trees in its fuchsia and cyclamen colored sunsets, waiting for the new enchanted day.
Veruschka Moncini
