Most of the locals have hightailed it down to the Ligurian coast or headed north to the alps; the bus-loads of truffle-snorting food pilgrims are still a few months off. The streets of Verduno are hot and bone-dry, shuttered and empty, save a phantom population of bas-relief children, the work of Valerio Berruti. They line the narrow streets, gazing forever forward: Where are you, dear Valerio? they seem to be saying. He, too, is at the beach. Up in the castle garden, there’s a fragrant, lilting breeze. The multi-generational chatelaines uphold the gentle rhythms of viticulture and Saturday night mass all year round, along with a steely, distant form of hospitality. The bees soften the silence, then there’s a Favorita’s slow, lurching slosh into your glass. Here’s to being out of season.