Idylling in Italy

The sky had turned from brilliant blue to threatening gray, illuminated by sporadic and alarming streaks of lightning. Not the best weather, you would think, to opt for lunch under the vines of a roadside restaurant hovering on the edge of a hill somewhere in the middle of nowhere. But it was Italy, it was lunchtime, we were hungry, and the view, glimpsed through the trees, was spectacular.

Also, the menu made our mouths water and we couldn’t resist the thought of being served by a saturnine waiter, wine bottle and glasses in one hand, cellphone in the other, deep in conversation (with whom?) while negotiating the national road that separated the kitchen from the al fresco tables to serve the waiting diners.

The threatening storm, orchestrated by intermittent bursts of thunder was, it was to turn out, nothing compared to the storm that was brewing in that restaurant kitchen. Between the presentation of the menu and the delivery of the drinks, the peaceful rural lunch hour was shattered by screams, torrents of abuse and the unmistakeable cacophony of shattering crockery. Minutes later, our waiter emerged, cellphone replaced by an armful of … screaming, struggling female.

“Ah well, so much for lunch,” we all assumed, as he set her down and the two headed towards the horizon.

But no … not many minutes later he was back, sans girl, this time singing opera, apparently oblivious to the curiosity of the assembled diners as he expertly doled out wine and scrumptious pasta. Could this have been the cabaret? Is it repeated at noon each day? What happened to the evicted woman? Alas, we will never know.

Ah, Italy!

It all began with a birthday wish: to introduce the family to the Tuscany we had fallen in love with five years before.

Thanks to friends who had previously rented her home we found Alessandra, owner of a 16th-century villa in that enchanting Tuscan region affectionately nicknamed Chiantishire by satirist John Mortimer in recognition of the number of Brits who are sensible enough to leave their horrible climate and retire there.

The location of Villa Alzato was perfect — it was set in gloriously expansive countryside a mere 40 minutes from Florence, if you didn’t get lost (which we, invariably, did); an hour or so from the magical medieval towered town of San Gimignano; not far from Siena; ideally placed for an exploration of history, art, architecture, spectacular mountains and valleys; tiny, exquisite and ancient hilltop villages and the culinary riches of a region famed for its glorious food and wine.

The population of the villa included an elderly brain-damaged tortoise with a foot fetish, assorted mini tortoises and an affectionate cat. All of them were central to the atmosphere. Other contributors to the ambience and entertainment value were our landlady, the irrepressible Alessandra, in whose family the glorious old building had been for six centuries; her English husband — academic and rose gardener supreme, Michael; and a host of ghosts of ancestors, who included a prime minister of Tuscany.

The wonderful bonus of spending time in one area in another country is the liberty it gives you to explore as much and as often as you wish but to return to a place that rapidly becomes “home”; to experience a taste of what it must be like to live there and not to feel guilty about spending time relaxing with a book, “chilling” at the swimming pool and eating home cooked meals created from goodies acquired at the local alimentari (grocery shop) or village market.

And we had an array of those around us. Practically at the bottom of the garden was the minute village of Lucignano — total extent a couple of streets but with an alimentari to rival many of South Africa’s fanciest Italianate delis. At our nearest town of size, San Casciano in Val di Pesa, the Monday morning market, along with its array of flea-market grunge, offered newly harvested fruit and vegetables, freshly baked breads, pastas and olives and olive oils, cheeses, roast chickens, salamis, prosciutto.

Not that we would have needed any of these had we wished never to turn on the stove or wash up in the somewhat daunting stone sink in our country kitchen. The countryside and the towns are littered with wonderful restaurants. With a vocabulary of a few disjointed Italian words and a handy phrase book, you need never frequent a tourist restaurant in Italy and, as in most places in the world, the best culinary rule to follow is to eat where the locals eat.

Our first meal after we arrived, exhausted, hot and thoroughly intimidated by our introduction to the madness of Italian drivers, was to set the tone. By the time we found the recommended restaurant the kitchen was about to close, but the six of us were welcomed with warmth and charm by the (Croatian) maître d’ and given a full menu choice, with no hint that they would really have preferred us to go away and let them enjoy their siesta. On the strength of that we returned twice more and were never disappointed.

From our beautifully central base we visited Pisa (an unremarkable city, we thought, apart from its lopsided chief attraction and splendid Duomo), and, because it was there, we climbed the tower to survey the lush surrounding countryside (one climbs a lot of towers in Italy). The family football fanatic was delighted to be able to look down on the soccer field below where Piacenza was playing Chieva. He’d really rather have been in the stadium with the banner-waving fans, but you can’t have everything.

We spent an absorbing day wandering the ancient streets of beautiful San Gimignano, admiring local ceramics; captivated by the silversmith carving his intricate designs, surrounded by his glowing creations; overwhelmed by the views from the city walls. The ghouls among us explored the famous and bizarre Museo di Criminologia Medievale, emerging shaken and disturbed by the sheer inhumanity of humanity.

Another day’s exploration took some of us to Siena, with its challengingly steep streets; its spectacular, multi-colour marbled cathedral, the breathtaking Piazza del Campo and, of course, a bell tower — the Torre del Mangia — to climb so you can admire the view.

An outing to Lucca, birthplace of Puccini, was less than successful — a timing disaster (and a wrong route taken — again!) resulted in most of the visit covering siesta time when, like all sensible Italian cities, it closes down. But we visited the cathedral (another day, another duomo), took in the view from the ramparts, lost the car and spent our final hours walking the ancient streets trying to find it. Oh, and some of us climbed a tower — at the medieval Palazzo Guinigi — to see the view and the famed trees that have planted themselves up there, their roots reaching down to the room below.

And between the towns we took in the postcard-perfect scenery — deep greens, occasionally slashed by the scarlet of poppies; an isolated farmhouse surrounded by neat fields; a spectacularly-sited villa or castle.

En famille, we descended on Florence, splitting up to pursue our assorted interests — the Duomo (and, of course, its bell tower); the spectacular doors of the Baptistry; Santa Croce, with its intricate wooden ceiling and the tombs of the famous; ice creams from legendary Vivoli; a stroll across the Ponte Vecchio, with its myriad shops.

At last I got to meet the real David. On past visits I had seen him in replica in the Piazzale Michalengelo and in the Piazza della Signoria, but the endless queues outside the Galleria dell’Accademia defeated me. This time nothing but the one in the Accademia would do. I discovered that it is possible to reserve a time in advance and go to the head of the queue. I did. But there was no queue. What with severe acute respiratory syndrome and fears of rampant terror, the Americans have deserted Europe in droves. Very bad for Europe. Very good for other tourists. He is breathtaking in his white marble glory, magnificent on his plinth under the dome that lights him up.

On a patch of grass beneath a bridge next to the Arno, two teams of schoolboys are playing soccer. Above their heads we stroll in the sultry late afternoon heat, ogling the wondrous fashions in the elite boutiques we pass. Florence is a place of great art, great sculpture, great religious buildings. But it is also a place to be savoured just for its atmosphere, its charm and the joy its citizens derive from life in what must surely be one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

There is a warmth there. It is a warmth that pervades the Tuscany in which it is set. As we said the previous time, we say again. We will be back!