Il Ciclamino
First floor
Nobody plants the cyclamen: it comes up on its own, in October, and fills the undergrowth along the Path of the Gods.

Campora di Agerola · from 2027
Two apartments on the fairytale mountain of the Amalfi Coast. From 2027.
The house in Campora was built, in the early 1900s, by Therese’s great-grandfather: my wife’s family, the Medaglia. The house carries their name, and Domus Prete runs it — same sign, same people, the same face that opens the door for you.
Then it emptied out. Nobody had lived in it for decades and it was going down: fatiscente, we say — crumbling — and we won’t look for a kinder word.
In 2023 the will came back to put it where it had been. It took three years of work. What you see in these photographs is not a rendering and not a plan: it is finished, it exists, and it is only waiting to open.
The rooms
White walls, and niches cut into them instead of furniture pushed up against them. Large-format stoneware, light coming in low and crossing the room. On the walls, contemporary canvases and one black-and-white photograph of the Coast — no souvenirs, no fake antiques.


A hundred years ago you built for the sun here, not against it. The windows are where they always were and they still do their job: in the morning the room lights itself. Behind the sheer blinds, a step away, there is the green of Agerola.
The two houses
In Scafati the houses are named after the flowers in the courtyard. Up here, above the Coast, the flowers are different — but the rule does not change: each house keeps the name of its own.
First floor
Nobody plants the cyclamen: it comes up on its own, in October, and fills the undergrowth along the Path of the Gods.
Ground floor
The hydrangea is the flower of the Coast's gardens: in summer it turns a blue that looks stolen from the sea. Here, on the ground floor, you get in without a single step.
In both
In the middle of Campora, a step from the church square: not in the middle of nowhere, but in a village, where there is a bar, bread, and people who live here all year. Seven hundred metres above the sea, on the fairytale mountain of the Amalfi Coast. The Path of the Gods starts five minutes away, Amalfi is twenty-five. And in summer, while down on the coast road they cook in the queue, up here you need a sweatshirt in the evening.
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