Colle Lungo in Tuscany, Italy

Tuscany has a certain smell to it in the morning. Opening the heavy, wood-framed windows as the landscape surrounding the old, stone farmhouse is painted with the pale rays of sunrise allows the fresh breeze to carry in with it the smells of turned earth, flowers and rosemary bushes. The city dweller's expected hum of traffic is absent, replaced instead by a morning symphony of swallows, finches and the soft, rhythmic call of the cuckoo.

Neat rows of vines cascade down the rocky, sunburned slopes; poppies swaying gently in the breeze; a quiet village beckons invitingly on the horizon.

My Dad posing with the little Renault that somehow managed to lug us all through the steep Tuscan hills between Florence and Siena.

Meals. The day lazily revolves around the gathering of food; vegetables brought into the village from the surrounding fields, cheeses and meats from the next town, wine from the land you trod on to get there.

Tuscany. A drive along its winding roads brings one vista after another, the countryside spread out in scenes of improbable beauty, each town guilelessly romancing the visitor with effortless charm. One has but to spend a few hours touring the picturesque hills and sleepy towns before beginning to suspect that they are not, in fact, in a region or place, but in more of an idea of a place; some model or set from which one expects to abruptly exit, revealing only stage lamps, scaffolding and an embarrassed film crew. But another turn around yet another mountain bend does not bring the visitor crashing from the walls of a studio, but instead into yet another scene of casual elegance; the stone church perched on a rise; a small villa framed by tall, solemn cyprus trees; a wide valley of forests and fields playing the part of canvas as the sun and clouds paint it with light and shadow.

The bustle of the train station. Laura and I - tired and travel-worn from our journey from Rome - waiting impatiently for parents scarcely seen throughout our long absence. Florence; a chaos of streaming traffic and narrow avenues at street level; a magical image of Rennaissance charm when viewed from a rooftop. A hasty meal, anxious conversation. All four of us thinking only of the rolling countryside lying in wait beyond the mountains encircling the city.

Four adults, more bags, and only four cylinders. A small car to take us all to a place which we all tried not to elevate in our expectations beyond what could possibly be fulfilled. It was to be a wedding gift, but the mere thought of it was too far beyond my range of experience to be apprehended. A week on a vinyard in Tuscany. Who knows about Tuscany? Hot rice, some pickles and a bowl of soybean soup. Nervous glances at my wristwatch. A train that arrives within seconds of the appointed time. Faxes. Reports. A flavourless beer on the return train; equally punctual. That's what I know.

The stone steps leading up from our room at Colle Lungo...	...and the view from our front door into the vinyards beyond.
The view up the hill of the village of Castellina, where we would make our morning pilgrimage for cappuccinos.	Me and Dad at one of our many amazing meals out, this one on a patio set in the middle of a vinyard.

Put you shoulder into it! The trunk of the car reluctantly closes, the enginge whines as we pull from the relative safety of the curb into horns, one way streets and roundabouts. Maps, a compass and chaos. Mother; holding map in reverse, North and South transposed in a morass of winding streets and bewildering directions. Laura; whitefaced and quiet, ill from quick turns and winding roads. Father; white knuckled, brow furrowed and pondering the Citroen inserting itself into the tailpipe of our car. Me; confused, quiet and thoroughly unhelpful.

The keep of the castle in the village of Castellina, the town nearest Colle Lungo.

Benvenuto. A small sign on a dusty road. A row of newly planted cyprus trees, flanked by olives and grapevines. The road curving, everyone feeling the same apprehension; can it be as good as we imagined? Will those grainy photos seen across the Atlantic have concealed an oil refinery looming beyond those quaint little buildings?

The dust around the Renault settled. Doors clicked open, creaking legs extracted from cramped seats. Father's fingernails pulled from the steering wheel. Mother's sense of direction restored; 'See, that wasn't so bad!' Laura drawing air. No oil refinery.

The air was filled with that warm, pregnant silence of a country afternoon. The crunch of the gravel under the car tires had given way to the sounds of a place far removed from the hustle of the city. Sturdy buildings of faded stone, topped with slanted, terracotta rooves lay comfortably surrounded by spring flowers and olive trees. Everything crafted and laid out in a simple, elegant and unpretentious style that was no style; it simply was.

Sampling the wine at Colle Lungo...

And there we were; Colle Lungo. It was a gift unimaginable, and a week unforgettable.