Writing this book was by far the most fascinating journey of my life to date. The moment I stood for the first time at the top of Monte Sant’Angelo in Southern Italy right next to Archangel Michael’s grotto I knew I had to write this novel. And as writers do, I was first using only my imagination and evisioning things I felt I wanted to come alive in my story. But as a habit after studying for my doctoral thesis, I couldn’t help later doing thorough research into archeology and history of that area to keep historic facts and details straight. I wanted my readers not only to be entertained but also genuinely informed. Imagine my surprise, my immense surprise, to discover that most of the studies I read confirmed that what I was writing and that the product of my “IMAGINATION” was true(!) All the cults and temples were really there and all most probably looked like I imagined them. That whole experience was truly mindblowing. I couldn’t help thinking that I must have lived there in some past life and now was simply recalling the whole scenario, instead of inventing it. Indeed, this book is a product of narrative fiction, but its’ up to you whether you choose to read it also as a soul memoir.

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Read a chapter from the book ‘Angels Feet’:

Gargano, June 1268
She felt a grasp of a strong hand on her wrist. So strong that the blood almost drained from the tips of her fingers.
– It’s dangerous. Someone could recognize you – he said.
At the market in Manfredonia, as in a kaleidoscope, winded forward native people, horses, carts and boats of the merchants, local and out-of-town, it smelled of fruit, shellfish, ginger, cardamom and cassia, imported from far way. She remembered like not so long ago, thanks to her strong will and stubbornness, they met here, in this place. “I am Torismondo. And you? Please, reveal your name to me.” „ I am the one who commands the streams and reflects the light of the moon”, resonated back in her memory.
 – We need to go.
– One moment more – asked Giuturna fascinated by circus-like mixture of sounds, shapes and colours. Even more than the colourful fabrics what tempted her were the stands full of patterned cowries, from almost white and slightly dotted, to those resembling the fur of wild cats and the eyes on the butterfly wings. The bottom side of these tiny shells gave indistinguishable illusion of the female door to paradise, giving pleasure and life. Women milled around picking through them completely leaving their senses. Not so long ago they sacrificed them to the Goddess of Love. Nowadays were still buying them for the charms protecting from infertility and helping maintain pregnancy.
– Take it – the woman behind the counter pulled her hand towards Giuturna noticing her interest. On her hook-like middle finger swayed a necklace made of tiger cowries. Smooth, as precious china, it’s surface glistened reflecting warm rays of sun.
– It will protect you from the curse. There are people who don’t wish you well… – said the woman. Giuturna looked her deeply in the eyes to check if she was telling the truth. They probed each other for a few seconds before she took from her the ornaments. After all it was just a cunning fishwife, adept at selling her stock, why on earth she should trust her? Who knows why, but these words resonated deeply somewhere inside of her being, activating a familiar recognition. Either this woman really was a seer or in this very moment, completely outside of her awareness, the universe used her to talk to Giuturna and warn her. Six of one and half a dozen of another. Cypraea lurida caught in the surrounding waters hang on her red-hot cleavage cooling it gently. She grasped Toridmondos’ hand clenched around her pulse and, climbing with her eyes up his shoulder, she put it on the cowries.
– What do you feel? – she asked finally laying her sight on his face. He was pale as a corpse.
 – We are leaving now – he proclaimed.
– …. I  want the women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, adorning themselves, not with elaborate hairstyles or gold or pearls or expensive clothes, – in that moment reached the ears of them both. Amidst the dust of the market a man dressed in black recited holy books – A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not the one deceived; it was the woman who was deceived and became a sinner – Torismondo pulled her powerfuly and dragging her behind him accelerated his pace. This time she did not resist. She knew what awaited her, if anybody found out who she was.
I hope this novel takes you on the mysterious journey to the region of Gargano without you leaving your room. But when you read it and then do feel like leaving your room, come with me to the heart of that sacred land, to learn what I learned and discover more of it’s secrets together (Sacred journeys)
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In search of her spiritual identity, Ines returns to a southern Italian coastal town, near the cave of the Archangel Michael, surrounded by a cult. Amidst the inheritance from her aunt, a mysterious illness among the local women, an intriguing sculptor, and a well in an old villa Ines falls into a spiral of events leading her further down a path of self-discovery. Is there a connection between the ancient well, the dancing disease associated with spider bites, the legendary grotto, and the lineage of the women in her family? Discover for yourself…

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