The drive from Siena took me past vineyards and small villages. The roads narrowed as I got closer, and the hills began to roll out on both sides. By the time I arrived, the light outside had turned soft and golden. Lucia, who ran the farm, waved from the gate as if she’d been impatiently waiting for me all day. The farmhouse was small and pretty in a subtle way. The walls were the colour of old stone, rough in places and soft in the light. Terracotta pots lined the steps, filled with herbs and a few bright flowers. Vines climbed up one side of the house and disappeared beneath the roof tiles. The shutters were painted green, a little faded from the sun, and everything looked worn but cared for.

That first night, I sat by the window and read a book. There was no traffic, no voices, just the sound of the countryside settling for the night. Each day followed an easy rhythm. I woke early, made breakfast, and ate outside in my pyjamas. After, I walked the road that curved through the olive trees and ended up in a small village about a mile away. There was one café, a grocery shop, and a few houses.

Lucia spent most of her days outside, tending to the garden or feeding the animals. I enjoyed helping her, and sometimes we talked while she worked. Her English was limited and my Italian was worse, but the conversation came easily and we found ways to understand each other. She told me her family had lived on the farm for generations, and that the land was passed down.

When I left, Lucia gave me a small jar of olive oil from the farm. She told me to save it for something special. I packed it carefully and kept it on my shelf at home for months. Every time I saw it, I thought about that hillside and how it felt to stay somewhere that didn’t ask for anything. Tuscany has a calm that stays with you, the kind that makes you slow down and appreciate every little moment.