I have never been to Tuscany. In fact, I’ve never set foot in Italy. The nearest I have been to Italy has been on an aircraft, 37,000 feet above this country everyone I know who has been there says I must visit. The captain, when you get one who can be bothered to make an announcement, that is, sometimes says, “We’ll be flying over Venice today” but you can never see it when you’re above the clouds. And a few times, I have looked down on the beaches. “There is so much history to enjoy,” folk say, but I don’t do history. I do hot sunshine, rolling hills, small bonfires tending traces of smoke into the warm night air, a private swimming pool, a barbecue, Chianti and all my family and friends. In Tuscany.
That’s been my dream, pretty well throughout my adult life. To book an enormous house, deep in the Tuscany, in the height of summer, where everyone would stay, for two weeks, or just a part of it. The house would be big enough for people to do their own thing, but there would also be a long trestle table in the evening, groaning with the weight of local food and drinks, acquired from a local village.
We would watch the sun slowly setting, possibly accompanied by chilled out Ibiza sundown music, playing board games and telling tall tales and laughing. I imagine the nights going on forever.
The next day, people would come and go at their leisure. Some would go for walks, lie by the pool, read books. Others would visit nearby towns, explore quaint markets or even stretch out and visit the big cities and towns. I would probably lie by the pool all day, if given a chance, but I would also walk into the hills and enjoy the solitude I so often crave.
Arguing and quarreling would be outlawed. A condition of staying would include an outright ban. Everyone would have to be kind or they would have to leave. No exceptions. Eat whatever you like, whenever you like, do whatever you like. All beneath a Tuscan sun, which I have only ever seen in pictures and stories.
Dreams do, sometimes, come true, but I’m afraid mine will remain just that, something for me to imagine when I am falling asleep at night, or maybe to help me nod off again following the inevitable nocturnal bathroom break.
In all probability, the dream would be far better than the reality, what with the hassle of coordinating dates and people and the inevitable last minute cry-offs and withdrawals. I’d probably make a complete hash of it.
Maybe, someday soon, I will make Tuscany with my partner because it tops my bucket list, alongside that lifelong ambition to loaf around in Maldives luxury. Maybe if I hadn’t over-indulged in Corfu, visiting an absurd 25 times in 39 years, I could have gone to Tuscany, the Maldives and Christ knows where else, but then I’m still very lucky to have been abroad on holiday at all.
Under a Tuscan sun? One day, maybe.
