A poetic Baroque park, tinged with the charm of decay. It is saturated with the remains of magnificent fountains and sculptures of the 18th century, now in a depressing state. It hurts to look at armless crippled geniuses, allegories of months, virtues and vices and complain that there is no Sobyanin in Rome who would put things in order here. At the same time, it is pleasant to give oneself up to thoughts about the unstoppable and destructive passage of time, wandering alone with oneself and smiling crippled putti, since tourists do not get to this remote place.