Under the Tuscan Sun

Those of us prone to daydreaming run a serious risk when heading off on holiday that we have elevated or exaggerated our temporary holiday abode. It’s the one holiday failure you can’t insure yourself against - the suffering of massive disappointment.

And so with trepidation we left our very comfortable and effortless French villa for a Tuscan adventure. Ten nights is not a long time but if you’re staying somewhere average it can seem like a lifetime. Of course it goes without saying that in leaving paradise we ran the risk of falling flat in our holiday finale.

But oh…I have died and gone to rustic Italian heaven.

Vittorio (“I am an All Black’s fanatic, not a fan, a fanatic”) rushed out to greet us as he heard our car pull in to the driveway. With his Italian/American english he had a rather dishevelled look and a welcoming handshake. Good start I thought.

Towering above us was a four storey Tuscan farmhouse that would make a Churton Park castle dwarf in comparison.

And then the magic that was the Vittorio one-hour guided tour began.

His great grandfather purchased it as a farmhouse. I’m not sure what year - it’s possible he told me but had I planned better I would have pressed record on my phone to capture every little detail.  He purchased the house because it was close to some woods and, among other things, he wanted to make charcoal. Like any good Tuscan farmhouse it also came complete with grapevines and olive trees so many of his needs were met. Making charcoal was not his primary trade, more a folly as was the house.

When he died the house was divided amongst the family - in to four equal parts. Our quarter measures 140 square metres on each of our two floors and with high ceilings is a vast space to live in. I cannot quite fathom what the building was like as a whole.

Big wooden and iron doors opened in to a small porch before the glass interior front doors gave a view of the inside. The first thing I noticed was the floor - rough stone mosaics, perfect for a messy family for us. A huge cavernous space greeted us - high vaulted ceilings, large rugs, antique furniture, lamp upon lamp upon lamp, aged and worn seating. This place is patina heaven. Nothing fussy but everything precious. It’s the kind of decorating that looks effortless and thrown together but in reality is the work of a master - just enough, not too much and with spadefuls of cosiness thrown in to the mix.

We turned one direction to find another identical space. A cosy internal sitting room lined with dark bookshelves and precious editions. On the wall were two large imposing portraits. No-one is sure, we were told, but the man on the left looks identical to my father. It has been assumed it’s a family portrait from generations ago. And then a study space that has been created where the old workhouse of the farm had once been. The room would have been used for processing the olives, storing charcoal and dealing with the grapes.

The kitchen is exactly what I imagine a working Italian farmhouse kitchen to be. A large chimney where the original fireplace would have been, a long (around a metre) shallow sink carved in to the marble and in the middle a marble-topped table perfect for rolling pasta, pastry work and Italian mamma chit chat. It joins a formal dining room, three of the four walls covered with large, dark paintings by Vittorio’s great grandmother.
 

Up the stairs there are ante rooms, bedrooms the size of half our house. Soaring vaulted ceilings - many of them with frescoes painted. Matilda especially likes hers - a monk in the centre holding a sign talking about ‘pax;. She liked it when I told her that meant ‘peace’, said she could fall asleep thinking about God and happy, peace things. Each room is full of beautiful old antiques and furniture - large standing wardrobes, desks with chairs ready for creating correspondence or some Tuscan-inspired poetry, proper dressing tables and paintings to contemplate while drifting off to sleep.

Out the bathroom window is the 12th Century church (Chiesa), with its Italian square tower.  And I don’t mean off in the distance, I mean 20 metres away from me as I brush my teeth.

If all this was not enough. The layers of furniture, art, floor coverings, books, old linen and photographs are augmented in their beauty and curiosity by the tales behind them.

As we walked around exploring every tiny space Vittorio spilled out details of his childhood and explained the history of individual pieces. He talked of the time when his grandparents lived here and he would be sent for summers. Those were months, he told us, of darkness. While the sun would bake outside he would be stuck inside with the old folk, shutters closed, as they sat around escaping the heat and dishing out orders to the maids. Not much of a summer for a young lad.

But by far the house’s most fascinating piece of history is indeed a dark and rather menacing one.  During the second World War the Nazis occupied the house. It had a perfect view of the Vespa factory down in the valley which was being used by the Germans and Italians to build warplanes to bolster their numbers, thus making it a prime target for the Allies to bomb. The Germans, Vittorio explained while standing at the window in George and Henriette’s bedroom with his hands cupped around his eyes like binoculars for dramatic effect, would watch out for the enemy planes to then shoot down.

This all sounded like a fascinating story until bedtime. George was petrified and very reluctant to sleep. But eventually he did. I understood completely how he felt. I was fine until darkness came and then could not shake a sense that we were sitting in seats, walking the hallways and perhaps even sleeping in beds that Nazi soldiers did (the furniture is certainly old enough to make this a plausible reality). At night I can imagine soldiers coming in and out of the front door as part of their duties and occasionally as I turn a door handle or open a shutter I have a sense that it has been handled by something dark and evil. It is a strange and odd sensation. Thank goodness walls cannot talk.

Stories aside, our house in the Tuscan Sun is truly the stuff of movies or epic novels. It offers an insight in to a different lifestyle. One that I think we could quite happily slot in to. I am one sixteenth Italian afterall…it’s just like coming home isn’t it?