Early in Autumn, in the evening at the quiet hour of the Angelus one can breathe the scent of leaves, grass and smoke. Those who smelled it once will recognize it among a thousand: it is the scent of Sordevolo.
In spring you can smell a note of violet and false acacia in the background, but after all, the odor is the same, sometimes spread by soft rain, which is not rare in this stretch of land squeezed between the sky and the bare rock of the mountains.

At 620 m. above sea level, brushed by the green flowing of the father Elvo, the Elf, there is Sordevolo; after all it is only a handful of people and houses, surrounded by the exuberant growth of this secret nature. In old documents it is called a land of “cloth-weavers” and “mule-drivers”, whose story flows in the maze of the family trees of the Bruco and Ambrosetti families; its story winds, like the water of the torrent, on the very hard, resistant flint and becomes a legend, like the one of the devil and his cart, which left the marks on the edges of the mule-track the ancestors built with great toil with their bare hands to reach the Buggi pasture.

There are about 1300 people whose hearts are inflamed by a single great passion for the Passion. Since 1850, (this at least is the date of the first document in the archives but the tradition goes much farther back) the whole village, normally every ten years, gets to work.