by Pádraic Gilligan, Co-Founder, SoolNua and Research & Consultancy, SITE

It was like a needle stuck on a vinyl record, endlessly replaying the same groove.

At times, it was a church choir rehearsing the same notes, again and again, ad infinitum.

Sometimes the sound swelled into a cathedral organ, all the stops pulled out, still hammering that one relentless motif.

Now and then you noticed it.

Mostly, it droned on in the background—unceasing, invisible—until those rare silences before it wound itself up again.

Crickets.

That’s what I’m talking about. Scores of them—maybe hundreds—providing the constant, shimmering backdrop that defines bright, sun-struck days in the Apennine hills.

We’re in Cingoli, tagged the balcony of the Marche, though in truth it’s a little-known hamlet on a hill, somewhere to the west of Ancona—the nearest city, about 45 minutes away along roads that can’t decide whether to go up or down, left or right.

We connected with the Cherubini family through the magic of the internet and have been staying at their beautifully restored villa, a house with two faces: on one side, Cingoli perched theatrically on its hilltop; on the other, the Adriatic coast shimmering beyond an undulating vista of forest, sunflower fields, wheat, and olive groves.

Lauro, Giose his wife, and Gioia their daughter live nearby, up an implausible incline (1:5 for the brave-hearted cyclist) where they run Gli Ulivi—The Olive Trees—an agriturismo project offering guest rooms and rustic food. But more of that anon.

It’s ten minutes up the steep hill to Villa Torre, where the church bells chime on the quarter hour, sending their notes rippling across the valley. There’s a solitary shop-cum-bar up there with a terrace overlooking everything. We drink our morning cappuccino there and watch the light drift lazily across the fields.

In the opposite direction, another punishing incline leads to San Valentino, where there’s a church of uncertain origin—La Chiesa di Sant’Anastasio—probably dating from the 7th or 8th century. Inside, there are ancient frescoes, apparently, but as the structure is locked tight, you only know this thanks to the discreet heritage sign posted outside. In fact, many of the old churches here are sealed up, casualties of the 2016 earthquake.

In the cool of the evenings, when the heat finally drains away, the locals gather and chat on the benches in the churchyard—just as they’ve done for centuries. Certain habits don’t change in Cingoli.

For all its deep connections to the past—evident everywhere across the roller-coaster landscape—this pocket of Italy hasn’t stood still. Many of the ancient farmhouses have been stunningly restored, the sandstone masonry set snugly back into place like a completed jigsaw, the buildings standing proud again. The churches too—some dating from early medieval times—still tower over their parishes, though you’ll notice the steel braces and scaffolding, quiet reminders of how easily the earth can shrug us off.

Surprisingly, for a country known for its love of cash, contactless payments work without a hitch and waste management is second to none: bins are plentiful along roads and trails, everything meticulously sorted. Wayfinding is superb too, with information for visitors in Italian and English and QR codes ready to scan. With a population of less than 10,000, Cingoli is a small masterpiece of judicious destination management and marketing, finely balancing the needs of locals and visitors.

Thanks to this thoughtful wayfinding, we found the wonderful network of benessere trails—footpaths that lead you deep into dense forests of hornbeams, yews, oaks, beeches, and birches, all growing profusely along the steep hillsides that cradle the town. Here, the civic authorities have carved out a series of mapped routes, from gentle five-kilometre rambles to seventeen-kilometre hikes that leave you with aching legs and a soaring soul.

After our morning marches, we usually hike up to the Cafeteria del Duomo, Cingoli’s highest point, where three of us pay less than €6 for a round of cappuccini and cornetti—and a free browse of the newspapers, including Corriere dello Sport. Newspapers are still a thing here, and tell me—can you name any other country in the world with a daily dedicated exclusively to sport (and seventy percent of that, soccer)? They know us there now and no longer frown at our scandalous habit of ordering cappuccino well after noon.

When it comes to food, we’re genuinely spoilt for choice. The Taverna di Ro in the old town is just one of many places within a fifteen-minute drive where you can eat extraordinary food at gentle prices. Italian gastronomy has always been about local wine (here Verdicchio and Rosso Piceno) , seasonal produce, and time-honoured recipes. That’s what you get: traditional crescia flatbread, ubiquitous; cured meats and cheeses arriving moments after you sit down; pappardelle al cinghiale, tagliatelle al tartufo nero, porchetta marchigiana.

A short walk up the hill from our villa is Ristorante Ugolini, where host Pierino sits down with you to discuss what you’ll eat—no printed menus but you do get a personal consultation. Though we’re lost in the hills here, we’re less than fifty kilometres from the Adriatic, so fresh fish often features. The oven-baked sea bass with rosemary potatoes was a particular highlight.

And then there’s Gli Ulivi. Lauro and Giose run one of the best restaurants in the region, and conveniently it’s five minutes’ walk up the other hill. There’s a kind of quiet sophistication there that doesn’t detract from its bulletproof authenticity. One evening, we found ourselves at a special dinner hosted by the cousin from New Jersey, whose father emigrated years ago, and attended by the hordes of other cousins from Cingoli who’ve rarely ventured as far as Ancona. Spirits were high, though words were few—the American cousin spoke little or no Italian, and the locals little or no English!

Lauro and Gioia work the room, while Giose holds court in the kitchen. The antipasto is a rich showcase of Marche’s rural gastronomy—zero-kilometre and abundant—crescia, bruschette, local pecorino, ciauscolo, salame di fegato, lonze, prosciutto, salame di fico, vegetables in oil. The pastas are homemade, the meats cooked alla brace and the olive oil is Lauro’s own production.

In places like Cingoli, you realise that travel doesn’t have to shout. It can whisper, slowly, gently, reshaping the soul in the hush between cricket choruses, in the cool shade of an ancient yew, on a trail no one else thinks to take.

That’s the true magic of being off the beaten path.

It’s transformational.