Chapter 1 I guess my love affair with Italy began when I was in my late teens. My friend Janice was engaged to an Italian waiter called Bruno, who at the time was working at 'Gino's', a popular Italian restaurant. She promised me that if and when they moved to Italy I could visit them at any-time, she even lent me her 'How to speak Italian' learning course, which in those days was recorded on a vinyl disc. Sadly, promises and acquaintances made in those busy, still growing-up years, were rarely kept, my fault I think. Intransigent as I could often be, it was as easy to make friends as it was to lose them, to drift to new places, new situations and new experiences. There was no room for sentiment, no time for thoughtfulness, no time for permanence; I never saw them leave for Italy, I don't even know if they did, but I will not forget that first beginning; a spark had been ignited, a seed planted in my mind and over time nurtured, and the day was coming when I would know why. I adored everything that was Italian; the food, the wine, the cars - especially the Ferraris, and of course the clothes. It wasn't until later, when I was thirty, that my dream actually started to come true, and my partner and I spent a long romantic weekend in what I can only describe as one of the most beautiful cities I had ever come across, Rome. The people were warm and friendly and seemed to have a different outlook on life, their interactions with each other genuinely vivacious - the pleasure at meeting people palpable; a kiss on both cheeks or a warm hand shake, a smile to light up the day. Mine, on the other hand, was an everyday struggle, my concern not with sharing a pleasantry but getting on with things, head down, unhindered, avoiding recognition, no time for anyone or anything but the business of the day. "Good heavens, haven't seen you for ages, must catch up some time", I would say walking backwards. "Sorry, have to dash, short lunch hour," was the nearest to a conversation I would get. Lunches in Italy are relaxed and can often take hours, we were on holiday and had all the time in the world, and I wondered how so many people were allowed to have so much time off. "No wonder the Euro is in a mess," Nick would say. The romantic old sausage! We would sit in the Piazza Navona in a street café, savouring the ambience, staring out on the three Baroque fountains, Romans walking past without a second glance at the Quattro Fiumi, one of Bernini's finest works. The dishes coming out from the kitchen were, I was told, 'lovingly prepared from recipes that had been passed down through generations, a secret kept among families, shared only with the special few'. "An edge against the competition, I expect," the old sausage said, liberally sprinkling parmesan onto his spaghetti carbonara. My eyes soaked up the comings and goings of regular clientele and passers-by with equal gusto. "Italian's dress so well don't they?" I said. They do of course, not always formally, judging by the unsuited business meetings going on around us, but stylish, sort of neat, well groomed. I thought I was being ignored, until I heard, "You haven't mentioned the women, I notice," he says looking over the rim of his glass of Brunello. "I did read somewhere that the men would prefer to wait until they have enough money saved to be able to buy that special Armani suit or Bulgari watch." "White trainers with a black suit is not my idea of stylish," he says. We stayed in a lovely hotel right in the heart of the city, a former palace, once the home of a distinguished Count, which meant we could walk to most of the famous landmarks. We did the normal tourist things, taking in the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, the Coliseum, and the famous Piazza's, overwhelmed by the scale and beauty presented at every turn. On the night of my thirtieth birthday we dined at the famous Hassler Hotel in Piazza Di Spagna, at the top of the Spanish Steps, where the royals and glitterati used to stay. The restaurant is situated on the top floor and has the most beautiful views of Rome's skyline. It was a marvellous evening and one I will never forget; the meal and the wine were exceptional, as was the impeccable waiter-service and the magnificent, almost regal surroundings. I can still conjure up the memory now, the piano music playing softly in the background and the Venetian crystal glass chandeliers sparkling overhead like diamonds glimmering in the soft ambient light. It was a real treat, and not one that we could afford to repeat every day of the week, as the prices too were similarly out of this world and, rather surprisingly, only listed on the menus presented to the men. The stunned expression Nick was trying to hide said it all! Another memorable birthday, this time for Nick, was fast approaching and as a surprise I had secretly booked two weeks in the Maldives. A few months later, and after I had paid the first payment to the travel agent, Nick expressed a desire to visit other parts of Italy, saying how he would love to go back. I was now in a quandary, and perhaps I should cancel the Maldives. I knew he would hate having to have the vaccinations, I had already had mine - a most unpleasant experience, keen as I am to be organised well in advance. Nick has a penchant for history and renaissance art, and I had this feeling that once we had experienced the usual snorkelling expeditions there would be very little to do except perhaps to bask in the torturous heat under a palm tree. Mmmm.I thought, but after convincing myself that there is nothing worse than sharing a stretch of sandy beach with a bored restless male, I at once set off to cancel the holiday. I managed to exchange it for two weeks in a self-catering apartment in Artimino, a small fortified hamlet North West of Florence. The location was central Tuscany, and after hiring a car we could go off touring all the local places of interest and, as there was a railway station close by at Empoli, we could jump on the train to Pisa and Florence and lots of other places; it would be perfect. So leaving behind the inclement British summer weather we arrived in Pisa, where Italy was in her full glory and bathed in sunshine. That warm dry heat that hits you as you descend the aircraft steps, blue skies with not a hint of cloud, dark green Cypress trees lining the rolling hills, served to raise our levels of excitement, the landscape dotted here and there with towers, castles, villas and farmhouse ruins. Our route, decorated with the last remaining poppies that danced with the oxeye daisies and blue cornflowers on the afternoon breeze, was romantic to say the least; we were back! The hotel apartment was perfect; the cicadas hummed late into the night as we sat on our terrace drinking that compulsory first bottle of Chianti and admiring the view from this beautiful hamlet. During the late afternoons we would sit and sunbathe in the warm hot Tuscan sunshine, distracted only by lizards chasing each other across our shared space. The weather was kind to us and we had two glorious weeks, and most nights we went to the local bar or circolo and had an assortment of cold meats, cheeses and olives, washed down with a nice bottle of Rosso di Montpulciano. Here you could meet the local people away from the hustle and bustle of other tourists, where you had the chance to practice some of the Italian you had learnt from your phrase book. After a few smiles and a couple of glasses of wine, we finally managed to pluck up the courage to have a conversation, albeit in rather poor Italian. The locals visibly enjoyed the effort we were putting into it and we had great fun trying to share our limited linguistic skills, each mastering the odd word with perfect pronunciation, more laughter than conversation. Whilst driving around exploring many of the beautiful old towns and villages we couldn't help but notice the number of sadly decaying ruined buildings, often set on the high ground; large cypress trees a remnant of gardens previously cared for, the only clue to a life-long since abandoned. We were curious, because in Britain agricultural barns for conversion into homes were in short supply, driven almost out of existence by the demand for character and diversity, a move away from the 'little box' culture of previous decades. In Italy there were literally hundreds of such properties and a glut of people willing to sell to - in their perception - gullible foreigners. With no real intention of heading off on a property-finding excursion at the time, we asked our waiter about them and he gave us the name and website address of the local estate agent and said that many young Italians, when they inherited properties from family, were not interested in restoring them and that they would rather live in modern houses and apartments on the edges of the towns and not in isolation in the hills. Perched as we were on the top of a hill, the ever present cool breeze made a welcome contrast to the heat of the sun, its warmth still in evidence late into the evenings. The views at night were spectacular, and the lights in the nearby towns glistened like jewels as far as the eye could see. In the afternoons, after sunbathing, we would amble around the narrow streets, taking in the scenery and looking at the buildings and...
