Every year, between April and May, the rice fields of the lower Novara and Vercelli regions transform into vast expanses of water, acting as mirrors that reflect the sky and everything around them. It’s a picturesque, almost magical event that draws photographers and curious visitors alike. This year, heavy rainfall—causing significant damage and concern in the area—flooded the fields earlier than usual, creating ideal conditions for someone like me, eager to capture the beauty of these landscapes. Among these places, the Principato di Lucedio, an ancient complex nestled amidst the rice fields, became my photographic target.
Discovering new locations is at the heart of my passion for photography. Sometimes I spend hours on Google Maps or social media looking for inspiration; other times, chance leads the way. In May 2024, while returning from a work trip in Turin, I took a wrong turn, deliberately ignoring the satnav. I wasn’t in a rush: the idea of getting lost in the quiet Po Valley, far from the frenzy of the motorway, appealed to me. After a few kilometres, a sign caught my eye: Principato di Lucedio. I pulled over in front of a red-brick building with a bell tower rising amidst endless rice fields. In that moment, I imagined how it would look reflected in the flooded fields at sunset. A quick online search revealed breathtaking shots by other photographers, along with an intriguing history blending esotericism and historical events—tales of monks, mysteries, and dark happenings from centuries past. This made the place even more captivating to me.
Over the following months, I returned to Lucedio several times to study the area. I walked the surrounding paths, trying to figure out the best spots to shoot, the ideal times for light, and how to move around without disturbing the rice farmers. Each visit showed me a different side: sometimes the sky was clear and crisp, other times cloudy, completely changing the atmosphere. I took notes, marked positions on a map, and planned my project: I wanted to capture the Principato reflected in the rice fields at sunset, with that warm, golden light illuminating the red bricks and creating a perfect contrast with the water.
In April 2025, a photographer friend messaged me: they’re flooding the rice fields. Without a second thought, I set off. I didn’t check the weather or confirm which fields were actually flooded—I was blinded by excitement, like a moth drawn to a flame. When I arrived, the rice fields were dry, with tractors preparing the ground. Disappointing. Still, I took a few test shots to try out the angles and ideas I had in mind. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but being there felt rewarding nonetheless. While shooting, a farmer on a tractor passed by and waved, curious. We exchanged a few words: he told me the fields would be flooded soon, which gave me hope.
Weeks passed, and the weather seemed determined to thwart me: torrential rain, biting cold, grey days. While browsing social media, I finally learned that the Lucedio rice fields were flooded. Now the challenge was the weather: I spent days obsessively checking forecasts, waiting for ideal conditions. The more it rained, the more the fields filled, but I needed a perfect sunset for my shot. At last, one Saturday, the forecast was spot-on: clear skies, warm light, no wind. It was the moment I’d been waiting for. I set off, but on the way, doubt crept in: what if the fields were dry? Some nearby areas along the road had been sown with varieties that don’t need water. I hoped with all my might that the social media posts weren’t misleading.
When I reached Lucedio, I was speechless: the building reflected in the water, more beautiful than I’d imagined. The red bricks glowed under the sunset light, and the reflection in the water was crisp, almost perfect. I wasn’t alone—other photographers were wandering around with tripods and gear—but I had an advantage: I knew exactly where to go. I’d already scouted the paths, knew which lens to use (a 16 mm wide-angle to capture the whole scene), and had a rough idea of the timing. I positioned myself, took a deep breath, and shot. After the first click, I paused: the scene I’d dreamt of for months was right in front of me. I kept shooting, trying a few variations, but I was overwhelmed by emotion. It was all too beautiful to think coldly about settings and GPS. I looked up from the viewfinder: dusk was falling, the sky turning shades of orange and purple, with only the croaking of frogs and the buzzing of insects around me. It was a brief but intense moment, lasting just long enough to capture the image I’d envisioned. For the first time, reviewing the photos on my camera’s display, I felt truly proud of what I’d achieved.
