Debbie Travis - Joy: Life Lessons from a Tuscan Villa

IF YOU HAPPEN TO BE LOOKING for me this morning, please walk past the kitchen door that is usually ajar, past the geraniums tumbling from mismatched terracotta pots, and head down the stone steps towards the pool. Take a right along the terrace of lemon trees, and feel free to grab a fewthey are ready for picking. Chances are youll meet Eva picking flowers from the enormous oleander bushes and possibly hear the drone of Lucas tractor in the nearby field. Continue following the narrow grass path, but be carefulit is steep in parts. You will soon spot the wooden yoga platform perched over the valley. Stop for a moment to drink in the sweeping views over velvety hills of gilded wheat, dotted with vineyards, rows of grapevines as neat as soldiers lined up and ready for battle. In the distance is the medieval town of Montepulciano, a fortress of butter-coloured stone shimmering in the summer heat. Now take a sharp right past the young olive grove, and there, shaded by a walnut tree, is a rustic wooden hut. The door will be open to let in the scented air, and this is where youll find me, plonked on a worn leather chair.

There are three massage huts, built from uneven planks faded to a smoky grey, scattered along the periphery of the gardens of Villa Reniella. On any given day, guests at the retreats I hold here will be kneaded into peaceful oblivion by Lalla, the doors flung open, allowing the breeze to whisper over naked bodies dozing to the sound of summer crickets. I have commandeered the roomiest of the three cabins, replacing the massage table with a desk and stocking the shelves with pens, paper, books and sticky notes. So here I am at my laptop on day one of my new adventure: writing this book. The simple wooden hut is the epitome of peace, just me and my thoughts.

But you have to laughthis is Italy, after all. Minutes into my solitude, the silence is broken. Fabio, Stefano and Fulvio, some of the remaining ragazzi who originally restored the property, have appeared out of nowhere to dig a trench right behind my hut. Initially Im irritated by the disturbance, but before too long the familiar music of life here swells the heart. The three men laugh along to each others stories. There is much humming and whistling. As time rolls on, the chatter intensifies. Though my grasp of Italian is basic, I understand theyre in the midst of their daily lip-smacking discussion about whats for lunch. They throw ideas around with the intensity of a parliamentary debate. Should they fire up a bonfire in the old metal wheelbarrow and grill sausages, or return home to Mamma, who is making her special rag, or just grab some panini in the village caf? After much animated deliberation, they decide on the local trattoria. Why, you ask? Because it is Tuesday, of course, which means the owner will be serving his legendary homemade lasagna. As the clock strikes one, the three grown men set down their tools and skip off in the thrilling expectation of a hearty pranzo.

I am left smiling, quiet again, one with the world.