Versione italiana It's the end of June, a Sunday morning. For many people it had to be the moment to permit themselves a day on the beach, at last. But, in spite of many prayers, the sun didn't even show for a moment. Big thick grey-marbled clouds loom over the historic centre of Martina Franca . It's eleven. In XX settemvre Square, the "stradone", tourists walk under the trees, near to the benches of retired people: they fix a spoiled trip on the beach. There's a group of children, all with the same hat guided by six adults: a summer camp, surely. Either they have the hybrid outfit of the tourist betrayed by bad weather: flip flops, Bermuda shorts and jacket. They look up in the air and observe the Saint Martin on a horse that is above the arch of the 18th century from which you enter the town. It starts raining. Entering a covered place is a need.