Not a Villa, but a Comfy Country Home

We wanted the “real Italy,” far from tourists and crowds, this was it. A modest house, three or four hundred years old sandwiched up against its neighbors.

We cherished having the marvelous Tuscan ceilings of terra cotta tile and chestnut beams on each of the four floors, two 20^th century bathrooms (good!) and two kitchens, two living rooms, two dining rooms and a marvelous deck accessed externally via a spiral staircase.

There were glorious views over the Val di Nievole from the deck which became our favorite place for early morning coffee. If we managed to get there early enough we had a few moments of peace before the weed-wackers and chain saws started up. The agricultural life is still part of this community, and this was the season to prune the olive trees and to cut the long grass underneath them. We later noticed that many farmers and homeowners also cut the long grass on their properties to avoid fire. The roadsides were cut as well and I was very sad to see large clumps of arum lilies cut along with the grass close to where we parked our car. In earlier times there must have been goats (too steep for cows) grazing on the steep slopes keeping the grass short, and who wintered in the stalle, a part of many of the houses we saw, including ours.

The whirring of machines did not stop us from enjoying the contented clucking of chickens punctuated by a crowing rooster (who also exercised his voice at night) and constant birdsong including that of a cucolo (cuckoo) and what may have been a dove or pigeon whose call was a monotone “boo, boo, boo.” We heard many different songs but other than the cheerful chattering of martins nesting in our neighbor’s stalle, and perching on the overhead wires, we seldom actually saw any for long enough to identify.

I have to say, with all of the a detailed and helpful information our hosts provided prior to our stay and the numerous questions answered via e-mail, they certainly made us feel wanted and comfortable in the house and to enjoy it -- and we did. They thoughtfully provided many tourist brochures and books, games and maps which we used a lot. The beds were comfortable, the linens attractive and plentiful and the kitchens well stocked.

The day after our arrival we investigated the Alimentari, a small one room store accessed by a door in the church wall, just a few paces from our front door. It stocked just about everything you might need if you didn’t want to drive down (about 10 minutes) to the nearest supermarket. Radhia, the storeowner, a Tunisian immigrant married to an Italian, proved to be a good source of information for many things. After 38 years of living in Italy, her Italian was fluent, of course, but she had learned French in school and so our conversation wandered in and out of Italian and French, which I resorted to every time I couldn’t think of a word in Italian. Her shop was open from 9 until noon when she closed up to go and cook in the couple’s restaurant, Il Corno Rosso in San Gennaro, the next village down the mountain. We ate there later in our stay. It was good, but the ordering was challenging as Rahdia’s husband had a local accent and there was no menu. By the time he’d got through explaining one menu item, and I’d translated, we’d all forgotten the previous ones.

The Contessa Gambero owns the Fattoria (farm) Gambero which includes much of Petrognano. Her large villa, several rental properties, and the small olive oil factory, the winery, and an adjoining restaurant make up the “agriturismo”. It must be a hive of activity in the fall with the grape harvest, and in early winter with the olive harvest. The Italian government stipulates that in order to be designated an agriturismo, and rent rooms or apartments to guests, the farms have to be working operations. At some guests may have the option to participate in the daily work of the farm, at others there are cooking classes, there may be communal meals prepared with all local produce. They vary a lot in what they have to offer. We wonder if this is a way of subsidizing farmers. Many of the Olive processing operations service people who have small groves and no equipment to make their own oil. Lilia, our neighbor told me that the house above hers with a small olive grove is owned by an English couple who visit in the summer and who have a local man take care of the property including the olive harvest.

We visited our hosts' friends, Doris and Doug who restored a lovely mill house built over a mill stream and situated in beautiful valley. They rent out an apartment on the ground level, live on the middle floor and rent another apartment on the third floor. Doug showed us the lower apartment where part of the floor was glass and you could look straight down into the mill stream rushing below. He also showed us their massive pizza oven and olive press with the original straw mats between which the olives were crushed. It was quite a little paradise but we preferred the wonderful views from our house.

As it was early in the season, we appeared to be the only tourists in the village. A young Englishwoman introduced herself to us one day while she was preparing one of the rentals across the street for the season. “I had to say hallo,” she said, “as it was so great to hear English spoken.” Lorna lives year-round in Petrognano about 1K further up the mountain and acts as the Contessa’s companion during her summer visit to her large villa. According to Lorna, the Contessa speaks excellent English, and she hires her to help her keep her language skill up to snuff. Lorna’s husband commutes from London when he can. She described her Italian as “only just enough to get by.” She must be lonely.

It didn’t take long to engage our next-door neighbor in conversation. Lilia has lived in the house all her life. She has six brothers who all left home leaving her in the family home which she now shares with her widowed sister-in-law. Sara didn’t appear for a couple of days as she had recently had hip replacement surgery. We talked at length about her surgery and her recovery and I was amazed to learn that she went to another hill town, Barga, for her therapy, about 40 minutes away instead of Pescia in the valley, so much closer.

Although their house was grander than ours, Lilia still does the laundry at an outdoor sink and they have a bathroom in a small stone structure in the yard. I didn’t have the nerve to ask if they also had one indoors. When running water first became available some Italians did update their houses with indoor toilets and tubs, while others preferred to leave them in the back yard. After centuries of bad drains they considered having a loo inside the house could not be sanitary. We had a loo with outdoor access only but it was within the walls of the house, not a separate structure.

Lilia taught me the Italian for several herbs in her garden and invited me to take whatever I wanted, including Kumquats for which she had no use. Her tree was covered in the pretty little fruits and I gathered enough to make some marmalade, what joy! I gave some to Lilia and Sara the next day. They enjoyed it and pronounced me a “brava signora!”

As we were packing on our last day, our neighbor told us there was to be a wedding at the church. We’d wondered why the bell ringers were working double time so we slipped outside the house and walked the few dozen feet to the church to await the wedding party's arrival. One of our neighbors told us that the couple was from Lucca, and had probably chosen the church for the lovely setting. The bride arrived looking storybook beautiful, the groom wasn’t so hot, but they were both very elegantly dressed in contrast to this rustic setting. The whole crowd followed into the church, which turned out to be standing room only so we went back to our packing. We could hear singing, riotous cheers and applause from the church for at least 3 hours afterwards. It seemed a fitting ending to our stay.

[Thanks to Valerie Pegg for sharing this story. Edited by Bob]