Paul Ryder, a long time contributing writer for Atlas F1, had a chance to visit Imola a few months ago, days before the Italian Grand Prix. It was a peaceful and quiet day when he visited the place where his idol was killed, some 7 years before. Now he tells the story of his emotional visit

Finding myself in Imola, Italy, was beyond my wildest dreams. Never since the San Marino Grand Prix of May 1st 1994, when I watched television in horror as Ayrton Senna crashed to his death, had the circuit been the same. It had changed, but the memories never died.

During the following years, I felt the desire to visit the place that had ended Senna's life, the corner that he had lead for the final time before sweeping off into the harsh barrier that would determine his fate. I am not sure why I felt this. Perhaps it was to pay tribute to a great driver; perhaps it was just knowing that he had now found some peace.

2001 presented me with the opportunity to visit Italy for the first time, when a friend invited me to come to the Italian Grand Prix, preceded by a visit to other racing venues in Italy. Imola was included in the itinerary.

We arrived at Imola by Monday night, getting somewhat lost in the confusing interjunctions of nearby Bologna. The famous Hotel Olympia - right across the street from the Enzo e Dino Ferrari circuit - would be our home for the next couple of days.

The next morning, would mark the day that I would get to visit Imola for the first time. The morning was taken up with a Minardi marketing event we attended, which was held at the circuit. Paul Stoddard, Tarso Marques and the very young-looking Fernando Alonso entertained their guests and took a lucky bunch to a ride in the Minardi 2-seaters.

You can actually drive around the track and see almost all of it up close and personal, you know. In fact, there are people actually living right in the middle of the track and on an off-GP day, the place is as peaceful and quiet as you could never imagine an F1 track to be.

Once the Minardi event was finished, I had the opportunity to explore the circuit itself on foot. And there was one specific place I wanted to visit: Tamburello. A sweeping left corner just after the start/finish straight, it claimed Senna's life a few years before. I wanted to see it myself.

You can not help but admire the beauty and magnificence of the Imola surroundings. The circuit is located almost on a hillside, surrounded by grapevines, Italian villas and small town roads. Next to the circuit runs a long river, hugged by two lines of deep trees which stretch alongside it.

My journey to Tamburello began at the main gate to the circuit. After explaining to a friendly but firm looking guard that I wanted to leave the circuit, I casually walked out. I was now on the outside of the circuit. To my right, a road ran into the town of Imola itself. A bridge spanned across the river, carrying cars and cyclists. Across the road appeared to be a well worn line of grass, that had obviously been walked across, marking out a path. I decided that this may lead to something promising, so crossing the road, I began to walk along.

After a short walk, I reached a small hill and found myself on now a larger path. To my immediate right was the river, covered in reeds that stretched out of the quiet and peaceful water into the air. Across the river I could see what appeared to be a boat house, and several people relaxing at the side. To my left was the circuit fencing, which appeared to stretch around into the distance. I continued walking, following the fencing around.

Turning around the bend, I looked up and noticed several towering metal pillars which stood high into the air. Around three of them stood together, separated apart. I remembered them vividly from the television footage of Ayrton's crash. They towered high above the barrier he struck. Flanked in tree cover, they stood darkly still. Noticing some yellow marks on one of the pillars, I scrambled up the grass embankment to get closer. As I made it up the hill, I was met with a wave of what was a mixture of emotion and amazement. Upon the pillar, a small helmet had been sprayed, covered in the colours of Ayrton's home nation, Brazil. It was his helmet.

I looked to the next pillar, and again, a helmet was sprayed upon the concrete. And then my eyes fell on a host of wall-writing and flowers. Carefully I walked along the fencing, revealing more and more tributes to the driver. People had visited this place, and left their mark, writing their names on the walls. Leaving personal messages. "Accelera Ayrton". Slightly dead flowers where placed into the fencing, carefully intertwined into the metal. On the wall itself, was a bronze plaque, showing Ayrton driving a chicane.

The place was peaceful. Occasionally, the silence would be broken by the sound of a Formula One car, that would power past the corner performing testing laps. The sound of the lone Formula One car passing was haunting. I could not see the car due to the high boarding, all I could hear was the sound.

After 20 or so minutes of quietly admiring what had become a shrine, I scrambled down the embankment. Across the river, I noticed people fishing in the calm lake. What a calm place this was.

I began to walk back. I had decided to attempt to locate the statue of Senna that was erected within the circuit itself as the main tribute to the driver.

Imola allows you to walk under the track via a bridge, and arrive inside the circuit. A road runs right into the middle of the circuit, to allow the inhabitants of the area to reach their houses. I began to retrace my journey around the first corner, but this time on the inside of the circuit itself. I passed a children's playground, filled with the sounds of children playing. The pathways lead down past some trees. What impressed me the most was how beautiful the area was.

I soon arrived at an open space - the statue for Ayrton erect in its center. Placed in front of the statue, on the gravel floor, where two or three tubs of fresh flowers. They had been placed there recently. In Senna's hands, I found a bag of marbles - the bag placed carefully inside his hands, the string trailing around his fingers. The black bag was full of glass marbles, and I could only guess that perhaps a child had given up his valuable possession to allow Ayrton to play with them.

I sat down on the bench in the sunlight next to the statue and rested. In the distance, the sound of children crying out with joy and fun drifted in the calm wind. It sounded peaceful, youthful. For a man who was so dedicated to improving the lives of children, the atmosphere was perfect. The statue stood immaculate, not a scratch or mark of graffiti.

It was magnificent.