Two Weeks In Tuscany

Sitting in the Sydney Airport terminal waiting for our flight to be called we drank coffee from paper cups knowing that in Italy real coffee awaited us. Attendants finally called our flight to begin boarding passengers. The 380 was ginormous so those boarding joined long queues to present boarding passes. Excitement plus, spring in our steps this was the Sydney to Singapore leg of our holiday.Overhead lockers crammed with essentials and possibly those just in case items too. Seat belts buckled, warm, soft white hand towels distributed by attentive cabin crew. Cleansed and refreshed we viewed the obligatory safety procedures before returning to the images in our mind's eye that we each conjured about Tuscany. Food, movies and conversation consumed the long stretch between Sydney and Singapore. Descent pronounced by the pilot while Singapore slept below us. Taxied to terminal. No problems. No delays. This was surely going to be an uneventful flight. Good to be able to stretch our legs before boarding our next flight to Milan. Sleepy companions cruised the now closed tourist shops that usually bustled with last minute shoppers keen to depart with those last few dollars.
Again flight called and a repeat of the Sydney protocols everything was going smoothly. Cabin crew had served refreshments. We weren't moving. Sitting, waiting. Waiting and sitting. This was not the normal pre-take off activity that we'd expected. Around midnight the pilot stated that the plane had a fuel leak so as a precaution we'd be off loaded and be transferred to another plane. Safety my mantra and that of a fellow traveller, Gary, for whom occupational health and safety was paramount were glad that the fuel leak was discovered prior to take off rather than in mid air.Locker cleared but left the food menu behind as surely the new plane would have one. We all filed back into the empty terminal lounge. Several hours passed. An airport spokesman addressed the awaiting passengers and advised that dinner would be served here in the lounge area. Not a good sign. Surely the replacement plane would soon be available.
True to his word trolley loads of food were pushed into the lounge. Where had the food come from at such short notice? Who had cooked what appeared to be mountains of schnitzel-like meat and rice dishes at this hour of the night? A great number of the assembled crowd lined up to partake of the offerings but for me it was now almost 2am a little past my regular dinner time. To be fair the food did smell delicious but that was not enticement enough for me. I'd wait for breakfast.
Food eaten, new plane produced. Yay. Take off. Surprised to find the dinner menu in my seat pocket that I'd left on the plane with the fuel leak. I'm not suspicious by nature but others noted similar finds in their original seat allocations too. Coincidence? Surely vigilant cabin crew had checked every passenger's seat pockets for items and they had kindly placed them as found on the original plane. Slumber nudged too heavily at my eyelids and I was soon asleep and believed that if I fell out of the sky mid-flight I'd be blissfully unaware. One thought did niggle me. Train tickets purchased in advance in Australia would now be useless as we'd missed that connection. Sort that when we arrive in Florence or was it Milan? Too tired to focus.
Cabin lights illuminated so it must be time to wake. More food. If you scrutinised the cabin too carefully you noted that others looked somewhat dishevelled having slept upright in their seats for too long. If they look like that what must I look like to others? Off to the loo to repair the damage before breakfast. Lots of little packages, interesting morsels in each kindly placed on the dainty tray table mounted on the rear of the seat in front. Careful not to spill that morning coffee. Not in paper but plastic. Things are looking up. Paper cups at Sydney airport had upgraded to plastic on board. Italy must be close. I smelled the brew before sipping. The aroma strengthened my resolve, not long now.

Calm skies greeted us in Milan. A few fluffy white clouds and mountains in the distance. Luggage riding carousels, passport in hand off to be stamped and enter Italy! The gentleman who examined my passport photo didn't speak. I smiled. I had rehearsed Bongornio. Why wasn't he responding? I wanted a stamp to show that I'd been to Italy. Didn't he realise how excited I was to be visiting his country for the very first time? He did eventually look up from the paperwork and he returned my passport. Was it my Australian accent that offended him?

Hire cars had been booked in Australia but they were not here. Coach would convey us to the hire car pick up point after a short train ride. Coach seats were comfortable and almost spacious after the plane. Sites whizzed by as the bus, sorry coach, delivered us to Milano Centrale station. Tickets would they be reissued or had we lost our money? Up elevators, into the booking office to determine our fate. Milano Centrale station was under renovation but it was still apparent that behind and above erected hoardings it was an impressive structure.

Stephen had booked the tickets so he was charged with negotiating their worth. Eventually, a station staffer stated that all we had to do was to board the next train and pay a small fee of only eight Euros to the conductor upon presentation of the tickets. Scrambled shouts to those travelling with us. Jump on this train! Quickly! It's about to leave! Heavy cases dragged along the platform until we met an open door. Up into the welcoming carriages we swarmed like bees who'd discovered a honey pot.

Luggage stowed a uniformed man approached seeking lunch reservations in the dining car. Were we interested? Absolutely. Suddenly aware that each of us had not showered since leaving Sydney thirty plus hours ago. What kind of welcome might we receive in the dining car. We had First Class tickets so maybe the other train passengers might find us less than fragrant, shower fresh. Hunger overtook etiquette; we booked.

Dining in elegant surrounds. Too many for one table we were split between two cubicle-like tables. Wine, yes thank you. Pasta? Yes please. Long thin bread sticks to nibble while waiting to be served. In hindsight the experience was basic past with red wine and dessert but it was so Italian that I loved every mouthful. I'd travelled all the way to Italy for this. No packaged plane food not when we had package train food.

Familiar with our need to bathe and rest we enjoyed the reminder of the train excursion with reasonable demeanour. Unlike the earlier taxi ride through congested streets busting with energy, traffic and people.

To Florence airport to the hire car depot. Each depot was assigned a hole in the wall through which business was transacted and keys exchanged. Rattle suitcases just a bit further to the allotted parking bay. Stephen had impressed me we were to ride in style. A Merc! Bags booted, us belted but in positions to which we were not yet accustomed. Left hand driving. Pleased that Stephen was driving and not me. I had heard about the autostrade and the recommended speeds. He was either brave or crazy after such a long journey.

We'd follow Gary as he had wisely brought his Nav Man fully downloaded with appropriate maps for Italy and France. Merc tracks the Fiat in front.

Are We There Yet?

Thirty six hours had elapsed since we'd left home. We were now in convoy, streaming down the dusty road to Villa Melabiccia, just a short distance from the medieval town of Petroio. Petroio itself was a maze of hidden stairs that wound mysteriously beneath, between and away from stoic doorways but we were unable to stop today as we were off to find the villa that we had rented for the first two weeks of our holiday.

Upon our arrival we met Gorgio and Rosa, the caretakers or otherwise known as the rustic farmers, according to the co-op's chairman. I almost forgot, the villa's pig greeted us too but it was not to be distracted from its meal of fallen pears.

From the outside, the villa was an enticement to journey back in time, to climb the weathered Tuscan, coloured steps to open the faded, old wooden door with its dozen raised panels and many more wooden studs. You knew as you turned the ancient metal key in its lock that the stairway would reveal other relics of historical note.
So up, past the terracotta potted pink and white geraniums we ventured, each weary but buoyed by anticipation in what we'd unearth within the villa's walls of hotch-potch old stone. We entered an enclosed verandah and there, high overhead bird cages swayed rhythmically in the gentlest of breezes.
Unusual; not exactly what I had expected, but non the less fascinating. From a large, rusted nail hung a green, wire cage that probably once was home to a bird. That unknown bird had long since, ceased to sing. Next to it was another cage of similar vintage. The other cage of wood was more fragile in appearance. It had no metal frame to bolster it against the ravages of time. This cage also hung so very empty of life.
From the verandah more doors, off to the right, two in fact, each of heavy glass panels edged with builder's steel and hinged to the thick, stonework, entry ways. Through the first of the glass panelled doors we were unsure of what we'd discovered. Was this to be our kitchen for the next two weeks? Where was the stove? There was a well used open fire place and hearth gaping at us from across one whole wall and off to the each side of that cavernous fireplace more doorways. In the centre of the room sat a wooden table with seating of similar fashion pulled roughly to its edge.

One of the party noticed the magnificent light overshadowing both table and chairs. Its placement intended to support the ambiance of the room. However, upon closer inspection fishing line shone not so discreetly from the rafters and at the end of the line dangled the light fixture. The assembled group was not yet cognisant of the implications of the fishing line used to suspend the light from the beams. We had other places to discover and things to find so onwards and upwards yet again. So weary were we that we missed another set of steps leading down from beyond the gaping fireplace.
Ah! A solemn moment in time. Before us all rose a most spectacular winding staircase. Crisp white walls, cool to the touch stretched and wound upwards. This was the stuff that Rapunzel would have known. Memories and images of childhood fiction came to mind. A real winding staircase leading to a tower. A narrow rectangular window beckoned safe journey to those who would venture further. Vaulted timbers and hand laid bricks or were they tiles that intrigued the eye? Brilliant architecture so painstakingly restored that it looked like it was built yesterday. Fingers trailed the walls with every step taken. One felt drawn to connect with the wall.
At the top, another steel framed, glass, slab, door. It divided the tower from the rest of the villa. The tower room boasted an ensuite. Ensuite or WC? I'll explain. There was a toilet and if you sat down you could reach the vanity taps opposite and wash your hands at the same time. Behind the toilet attached to the wall was the hand held shower rose so that one could wash whilst seated. Some time much later I realised that when using this shower one should remove the toilet paper from its holder and place your towel outside the door to prevent water damage. Soggy toilet paper is another story.
More metal, in the double bed, complete with squeaks and rattles was stationed against the inner wall while a smaller single bed rested to its right. Several windows and an additional glass door that lead to a balcony filled the room with light. So different from dark and almost shadowy unnamed space below.

Back down into the dappled light to see what else the villa had kept secret from us until now. A small lounge area with seating for several people and beyond this lounge nested two more bedrooms and a bathroom. But I mustn't rush the lounge for it too had its unique touches. A round table upon which sat a lamp with no globe, antique cupboards with an odd assortment of linen and mementos filled the room. Someone really lived here. Not visitors but this was some one's home when not rented to tourists.

Now the two bedrooms adjoining the lounge were clean and respectable. Exhausted travellers would be glad to sleep anywhere but in the seat of a plane, so each appeared welcoming. A bedside table. No look again. The true identity was exposed when I was searching for

fresh linen. This was no ordinary bedside lamp stand. It was a salubrious commode.
These two bedrooms by the lounge were spoiled with a large bathroom provided for their sole use. Shower, bath, toilet, bidet, vanity and mirror. Every modern convenience. Well almost every modern convenience if you exclude running hot water. I know that it was included in the tariff so I had not considered it further until I had the need to take my first shower in that beautifully tiled space. For two days I was unaware that I had a choice of cold or hot water flowing from those elegant taps.
Perhaps I had woken cramped and a little grumpy from having slept on the lounge but I was most determined that I and the rest of our party would have hot showers. I must explain the sleeping arrangement in detail but needless to say the bed that I'd selected quickly on our first night had a single pillow and clearly in my state of sleep deprivation I had failed to notice this fact. Had I registered this information I would had recognised it to be a large single bed and not a double for my husband and I to share. The villa did accommodate ten and there were only ten of us in our group. What we didn't know when we booked was the tenth bed was the other single located in the tower room alongside of its double counterpart.
Still edgy from the cool waters of my ablutions I set off to find Rosia or Georgio and ask about the water predicament. Lucky for me but unlucky for the chairman I spyed him working down in the villa's garden studio. I advised the others that today we were to have hot water.
I set off with a fixed expression and gait and warmly approached the chairman. We exchanged greetings and then I began my rehearsed recitation. My husband had always dreamed of coming to Tuscany and now we are here we are happy apart for the lack of hot water. I know why my husband loves this country but his dream did not include cold water showers. My heart is heavy and I am sad for my husband and indeed my friends too. I left the chairman and walked back, without turning, to the villa's real kitchen. Thankfully we had hot water for the remainder of our stay. All it took was for someone to switch it on. The chairman was my hero that day.

Palazzo Brandano

A second win this day of hot water was the chance discovery of the Palazzo Brandano. Words can not express our joy at entering the doorway of the Palazzo Brandano. Jorgan greeted us warmly and yes, he most definitely could serve us real coffee. A tiny bit of heaven secreted away in the centre of Petroio. So good was the coffee that we made reservations for lunch that same day. The restuarant's atmosphere relaxed all who entered and sat to feast. Since arriving in Tuscany this was the most exceptional restaurant that we'd found. Osmond in his black suit, his excellent English and his deep voice made this a lunch to reminicse for years to come. The luncheon menu was nothing short of superb. Soft, warm bread baked on the premises to begin followed by several courses of mouthwatering mains and desserts. So impressed were we that by the time we were paying for lunch we'd booked for our entire party to return on Friday night. No mean feat as it meant that we'd need the entire restaurant.
Over the next two weeks we became regular visitors at the Palazzo Brandano. Often for morning coffee or breakfast whilst sitting on the terrace overlooking the hills surrounding Petroio. Vistas from the terrace ensured frequent patronage. So generous were the staff at the Palazzo Brandano that when we returned home we purchased a book showcasing Australia and posted it to the Palazzo Brandano staff to show just how much we appreciated their hospitality.

Cooking Melabiccia

A kitchen with character. I loved that kitchen. My fellow traveller and I had been shown the intricacies of the electrical appliances along with the age old wooden stove. To operate the dishwasher one takes the large scissors from the utensil stand on the sink, smile and then extend the narrower of the scissors prongs into the hole on the dish washer's console. Voila, ready for use. However, lighting in this room is most important too. Watch, point, follow my finger. See the wire running across the wall from a light globe to the fridge. On top of the fridge resides the in-line switch; the means to turn the kitchen light on or off. Another smile but this time add a nod to seal our understanding of the lesson.
Later this kitchen witnessed the making of pasta by novices whose hands were willing but lacking in style. Negotiations about shapes such as bows, shells, spaghetti and fettuccine created much consternation. Would we cut the spaghetti by hand with a sharp knife or would we try and roll pieces for shells? Pasta requires considerable attention and the wine waiter was somewhat enthusiastic and generous with the wine that we'd purchased from Sinalunga. It became evident that pasta could be identified pre wine and post wine intervention.
I should pause to enlighten my blog readers that each of the ten members of our party had been assigned roles in order to create the notion of team. The IT expert was the afore mentioned wine waiter and his partner was responsible for all EPA (Environment Protection Activities). Another housemate was a volunteer firefighter so it was declared that he should be the chief wood pizza oven stoker and controller. Yet another was the pizza man. Remembering pizza night. One of our travellers, Andie, was urged to demonstrate his cooking skills in making pizza bases. So with great excitement we assembled in the downstairs kitchen to learn the finer points of pizza making from scratch. Very basic utensils that might assist were identified in the kitchen's aged sideboard. However, missing from that collection was a rolling pin. No problems, while we couldn't use the five litre demijohn there was an empty wine bottle from a previous dining event that would double as a rolling pin.
Bordering the villa's real kitchen was the formal dining room. A dining table that could comfortably seat all ten of us. A slight dipping crack running through its centre elevated one side of the table so that those seated opposite appeared either shorter or taller depending on which side of the table you were seated. Following each meal I liked to reset the table with place mats and cutlery because the table was so enormous that it seemed undressed otherwise. The dining room housed the grappa and demijohn that we'd purchased in Sinalunga. The sideboard proudly displayed the grappa and damagella. The damagella has its own tale. On our first trip into town to purchase groceries we noticed large glass bottles placed next to roadside garbage bins. Elisa and I pleaded with the driver to stop so that we could rescue one of those beautiful bottles. His abject refusal was a source of considerable disappointment. He was not stopping the car to rummage though refuse. Imagine our joy when we entered the supermarket and saw the same style of demijohn. The big glass damagella complete with handle was in fact a wine vessel. So it was agreed that would be a more respectable manner in which to acquire the desired bottle. It was heavy but it was worth it. Into the trolley it went. Pride of place. We were happy little travellers.
Each morning and evening we'd all congregate to map the incursions into the surrounding towns and villages. Remind me to tell you about road travel and music etiquette rules. The Nav Man's are worthy of mention at this juncture since they played such significant part in our lost and found routes most days.
As we'd hire two cars for the ten of us it was necessary to share tourists between the Merc and the Fiat. The Merc rules were very basic. There was a CD wallet that contained a variety of musical genres and each traveller was obliged to take their turn in selecting what was played. As travellers rotated the rule was explained again and if a new member of the car pool declined the offer they were reminded of the democracy under which this car pool functioned. No other could deny them their opportunity to select from the library of music.
Car pool members were particularly generous for they arrived with sweet treats to be shared as we journeyed through those Tuscan hills and villages. I recall one car pool member rotation well. Brendan enquired were we aware of what is happening in the Fiat that we dutifully followed each day? No. What do you mean I asked? Brendan explained, "The Fiat had two Nav Man's. Each had been set to a different spoken text. One male, one female. Very often one set of route instructions contradicts the other. Hence, the hapless driver must decide whose directions to follow. So confusing. An end to understanding the mysterious circling at roundabouts, going down stretches of road to suddenly stop and go another way.
Squirrels and Tuscan Electricity

Tuscany had squirrels. Australia does not have squirrels. Novelty factor was the little black squirrel that ran like the wind from ground to trees behind and beyond the villa. Sitings were infrequent but daily. Someone would announce a siting and all came running to catch a glimpse of that energetic little critter. It was probably the squirrel that encouraged one of our group to explore the villa's perimeter. At the villa's perimeter a brick pillar housed the electricity fuses and so forth. Vital information we were to later need.

On our second or was it our third night at the villa that everyone rallied, as usual, in the communal kitchen to assist with dinner preparations. Some were dicing tomatoes or onions, others were grating cheese when the oven was tuned in to preheat for cooking. Total darkness engulfed the room. So far non of us had connected the oven with the blackout.
Then the wine waiter, took off like the proverbial squirrel that we'd been watching in recent days. Out of the kitchen in the dark, down the dirt and grass track, past the rosemary to the brick column some way from the main building. Clever wine waiter knew just where to find the fuse box and soon we had electricity. Yay for that multi-skilled wine waiter. This was to be the first of our experiences with blackouts. Our wine waiter had earned his grappa that night. File this important information for future reference. Oven, blackouts and location of fuse box. Check. Only one issue, how to locate the fuse box in the dark amongst the trees. Did our wine waiter have a torch? Probably not as we were all performing our domestic duties when the power went out. A few nights later I wished that I had asked him. Dinner events were always well planned as with ten travel companions catering required considerable forethought. Kitchen was the venue for preparing, cooking and chatting whereas the dining room was ideal as the serving area; for large platters could be laid buffet style for each to self serve from the offerings. Most nights we feasted on antipasto platters with predinner wine before sitting to delicacies discovered at the local supermarket. I should mention the fine meats that Elisa successfully bought using her eloquent range of Italian. It was apparent that some other customers appreciated our attempts to converse in Italian, albeit with an Australian accent. I sometimes wondered what was being said as locals would reveal broard smiles, grin and then nod as they reached for what we thought we had ordered.
Activities included trips to most of the regular tourist spots. Early in our holiday we descended on Pisa. The place with the tower, cool iced coffee and a photo op with one of the locals. Along with hundreds of other tourists we made our way to the tower. We walked around with necks cranned to capture every detail in the camera lens. Whilst attempting a group photo in front of the tower a German tourist kindly offered to press the shutter button on our behalf to save us running to join the assembled group. I was so impressed with his offer that I lept to my handbag to reward his efforts with an Australian souvenier. A little gold koala pin for his lapel. In my excitement to thank the fellow tourist I placed my glasses on the grass (near the sign that said 'Don't walk on grass') as I rummaged though my bag in search of my prized trinkets. Without thinking we walked off having no second thought about my glasses. Should have known that karma would be challenged by walking on the grass when it clearly said not to do so. The loss of my glasses reminded me to be a better tourist in future and therefore, a fine ambassador for Australia.
The loss of my glasses prompted me to want to connect with a local enforcement officer. In my worst Italian I sought his permission to pose for a photograph for my holiday album. How trite. Love that picture. Serves to remind me to be a model citizen when visiting another's country. To celebrate the photo opportunity four of us sat beneath a cafes huge umbrellas to cool off, for the Tuscan sun was more intense than anticipated for that time of the year. I greedily ordered an iced coffee. Something simple for it was almost lunch time.
At Pisa there was an amazing shop devoted to chess sets and unique gifts. No pictures were permitted but it is fair to say that the incredible detail in both pieces and board designs displayed the most artful skills of the creaters. Intricate and delicate pieces that were works of art in their own right. A must see experience when visiting Pisa. At lunch, touts approached as patrons awaited their meals to be served. Offers of special jewellery bargains supposedly just for us. How kind of them. They were good natured enough not to be offended when we declined their most attractive prices and they moved on to other more hopeful sales at nearby tables. Lunch was pleasant as we'd wondered for several hours and the trattoria enabled us to regroup and chat before sampling slices of bruschetta topped with fresh herbs.
Market stalls in and around Pisa were ample distraction to make a few purchases and part with a couple of Euros. I selected a basic line drawing of the tower for Stephen. He was to have it framed and hung. Alas it still remains unframed and rolled at the top of our wardrobe in the plastic tube that was sourced after much searching, at a little shop, in Sinalunga. One day it will be framed and hung along with the other two drawings that he purchased when visiting an abbey. That tube was well travelled. It was carefully packed for the boat journey down the Soane River, overnight train to Paris, to Lake Como and thence, to Milan to fly home. Should have had its own passport.
During the first week of our sojourn in Tuscany we trekked to a different destination most days. On the seventh day all ten of us set off to find the abbey at San Antino with explicit route instructions relayed by the fine people from the Palazzo Brandano. Easy when you have local knowledge. Go to the roundabout with the'ugly' statue and turn left. Jorgan was postive that we'd have no difficulty in recognising the ugly statue. A landmark we were sure that we'd miss and would find ourselves lost in Tuscany once again. To our surprise having driven via our mud map there in the middle of the road in front of us stood the landmark that we sought. The car erupted in laughter. Could that be the 'ugly' statue that dictated a left turn? Art and beauty is in the eye of the beholder I'm still not sure that I agree that the landmark was ugly. Time to debate the question was given to the scenery and not the artwork that day. As you approached the abbey you felt the sense of time had evaporated. The cliche time stands still! From afar, the scale of the abbey was overwhelming. We parked and walked to the front of the building admiring both architecture and location. Our voices hushed for some inexplicable reason. We shared our awe in whispered tones. The imagined comings and goings of daily life at the abbey could only be guessed as we stood tranquil and still inside the magnificient structure. A true monument to the artisans and those who envisenged its creation. The cool air of the abbey was refreshing. Deliberate quiet steps lead us to the crypt, the pulpit and beyond.
This was the first abbey, church or cathedral that we'd entered since arriving in Tuscany. Therefore, the reverance for the faithful who'd dwelt here such a long time ago was most understandable. Stephen purchased two drawings of the abbey. A permanent reminder of the magnificient composition of the abbey's 12th century interior and exterior design.
Hungry following such an inspirational morning as tourists we toyed with the idea of a light lunch. Hills surrounding the abbey dressed in vinyards accentuated our mood to sit and absorb the view just a little while longer. A small osteria with long bench seats either side allowed us to share more Tuscan hospitality and simple but delicious fare. More bruschetta for me and if I recall correctly, Stephen ordered wild boar and tagglitelli. The Osteria Bassomodo was a family operated business. Its menu reflected what we'd come to love about Tuscan fare.

Another afternoon when we arrived back at the villa I decided to photo log the interesting artefacts located within the grounds. Armed with Stephen's camera I roamed the villa capturing the images of anything and everything that I'd grown to love in the short time of our visit. I especially liked to ramble beyond the old brick courtyard with its weather beaten timber gate; complete with rusted hinges and bolt. Behind that courtyard in a sunken garden a fine array of herbs and spices grew in no particular order. Rows of tomato trellis had collapsed and self seeding cherry tomatoes clung from wiry strands of vines. The reddest of them invited eager visitors to pluck them and eat them. At the rear of the dining room ancient strands of wire provided a makeshift clothesline for the villa's residents. Breezes stretching up from the valley below dried the lines of washing quickly.