(Tuscany, Italy)…The road, the Via Empolese in Cerbaia, that goes alongside the sublime Villa il Poggiale near the small village of San Casciano Val di Pesa seems always to be busy, a small mystery to me, but a step off it onto one of the side roads leads to a nether world (see photo) of olive fields, vineyards, sun-kissed Tuscan farmhouses, narrowing lanes and grassy driveways marshaled by Black redstarts. In November, the smell of olives perfumes the air, and half-hidden men armed with long poles and large blankets move along groves and, their modus operandi escaping me, select trees from which to strip off fruit. The next day I visited the Fattoria di Maiano (www.fattoriadimaiano.com/en) to see where some of these olives end up. On the other side of Florence, just south of Fiesole, the Miari Fulcis family, made counts and countesses (the current head is a countess, Contessa Lucrezia Miari Fulcis dei Principi Corsini) centuries ago, run this fattoria. It’s the largest farm in the area, and produces the delicious Laudemio olive oil (other oil manufacturers also market their wares with this name, as a collective; www.laudemio.it). Their house—well, mansion—possesses a columned courtyard, a terrace overlooking mazelike topiary, a church, Spinello Aretino’s fresco, La Madonna della Misericordia, and an olive press, called a frantoio in Italian. A tap gushed oil, and you are welcome to dip a finger in the flow. Parts of the movie adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel A Room with a View were filmed in the main dining room.
One of the countess’ relatives was Lorenzo Corsini, who became Pope Clement XII in 1730. He was responsible for the façade of San Giovanni in Laterano, which is Rome’s cathedral (St. Peter’s is the Vatican’s), and the construction of the Trevi Fountain. Two Benedicts, XIII and XIV, bookended his papacy (I loved writing this sentence). Another relative was St. Andrew Corsini, who died in 1374, was Bishop of Fiesole and once floated over the field of the 1440 battle of Anghiari, which is the subject of the “Lost Leonardo,” a painting by Leonardo da Vinci that has, obviously, disappeared. Some believe it is “hiding” beneath a Giorgio Vasari painting, which, if true, will itself become “lost.” In San Giovanni in Laterano, there is a chapel built in St. Andrew's honour by Clement XII, which obviously was not a coincidence.
Back at the ochre-yellow Villa il Pogialle (www.villailpoggiale.it), I marvelled at never finding my way from my room—Room 1—to anywhere I wanted to go. It was fantastic to get slightly lost and discover new sitting rooms, the kitchen, the back door, the side terrace, etc. It, too, had a sense of mystery about it, which was added to by it being administered by a diminutive Scottish woman from Selkirk.
The road to Florence passes by the village of Pozzolatico and the basilica of San Miniato al Monte (St. Minias on the Mountain), which gives one of the best views of Florence’s Duomo and Campanile. St. Minias was a survivor. The Roman Emperor Trajan Decius disliked him and threw him to the lions, which refused to eat him, so the pontifex maximus decided to take things into his own hands and have the man beheaded. Even this did not stop Minias, who coolly picked up his head and walked up the hill to where his church now stands. He should use such immortal skills to clear the “entertainers” away from another scenic overview of Florence, along the same road, which include an utterly incongruous Chilean pipe band and two Native American dancing “shamans” selling Kachina dolls. Perhaps this is just our new global world, for wandering up the slope, on the auspicious date of 11/11/11 (Nov. 11, 2011) was a newly married Chinese couple surrounded by Chinese friends. The church has some ornate interior decoration, which extends between small details of knights wearing conically shaped helmets while attacking dragons to large frescos completed by Aretino. The exterior stairs leading to the basilica also are dramatic and reminded me slightly (although these stairs lead straight up) of those at Bom Jesus do Monte in Braga, Portugal—probably just because both were coloured white, either of whitewash or Carrera marble.
Back to Pozzolatico, we took the vegetables we had purchased in Florence’s San Ambroglio market and started to prepare lunch at the expansive I Tre Pini (www.ristoranteitrepini.it) restaurant, which is owned by the marvellous named Libero Saraceni (“Free Saracen”). I was in charge of the tomato tapenade soup, and I also helped make ravioli. All of this was possible because I had the great fortune of being on a trip organised by Trafalgar Tours (www.trafalgar.com/usa/bemyguest) on, specifically, its Be My Guest progam, which opens usually closed doors and permits travellers to utterly savour the tastes and notions of a region’s life. Normally, I avoid group tours, but I was so busy, laughing and learning on this trip, none of the usual group tat—monotone guide voices, instantly forgotten facts, half-stabs at visiting anywhere, etc.—was able to seep in. And joy of joys, while we cooked, there was red wine and fried courgette flowers to sip and munch on.
Stomach filled, I investigate Florence. The exterior of the Duomo is quite beautiful, as are the Gates of Paradise on the Battistero di San Giovanni, which is where Dante was baptized. It is a short walk to the Ponte Vecchio, but I’d rather look at that bridge from the adjacent Ponte Santa Trìnita, which was destroyed by the Nazis in Aug. 1944, and see the Vecchio’s colours and shapes reflected in the River Arno, rather than the reflections in the tacky gold on display in its tacky gold shops. Vasari, as well as painting, also built the Vasari Corridor, which connects the Ponte Vecchio with the Uffizi Palace in Florence—just another of the connections that make history and modern life here fascinating and palpable.
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(Provence, France)…The TGV train (www.tgv.com) from Paris’ Gare de Lyon station speeds down to Avignon, the main town of the Provence region, at a fairly stunning 180 mph. In Great Britain, my country, I imagine this would be accompanied by destroyed towns, grandiose claims that actually were 20-mile rail tailbacks and forced slow downs caused by town anti-noise committees, while in the United States, my home now, any notion of high-speed rail is met with the same suspicion as if the proposal was to open Communist Party offices in every major city.
The nose-coned train pulled out of the station three seconds late by my watch, which probably was three seconds too fast. The mist was heavy, which made a line of hunters and spot dogs creeping over a rutted field hunting for partridge in Fontainebleau all the more delightful.
Two hours later, the countryside changed dramatically and we headed over the western sections of Rhône-Alpes and onwards to Avignon, a dramatic city dominated by the Palace of the Popes, in which lived all the popes from 1305 to 1378; the city remained the property of the Vatican until 1791, two years after the fall of the Bastille. For another two years after 1378, it was home to the two Antipopes, Clement VII and Benedict XIII. It’s other major site is the ruined Pont d’Avignon, which sticks halfway across the Rhône River and also goes by the name of Pont Saint-Bénezet; to summit it costs an exorbitant €10 (I arrived there five minutes after the last ticket time, thus avoiding me having to ask myself if I would have been too miserly to pay).
Annoyingly, right below the Palace of the Popes was the Provençal Kenny G, tootling away when all tourists wanted was to marvel at the setting sun illuminating in orange the sandstone of the palace’s impressively high walls topped with a 23-foot-high Virgin Mary in gold; later on, Kenny G was replaced by a Beatle, equally droll, who played energetically to a flash mob of Japanese tourists who literally ran to the large main square, the Place du Palais, snapped away, ignored John/Paul/George or Ringo and disappeared.
If I had come here in high summer (it was mid-November), they might have been drowned out by the noise of cicadas. I heard none and saw only one, part of a stained-glass window along a dark street that my camera’s flash only just picked out. The cicada was made popular here by poet Frédéric Mistral, who decorated the covers of his books with them, above the motto—in Provençal—Lou souleu mi fa canta (“The sun makes me sing”).
Visit the Rocher des Doms gardens above the palace for wonderful views, and poke your nose along the narrow streets around the Place Carnot and Place de la Principale.
L’isle-sur-la-Sorgue is a classic Provençal town bordering the Sorgue River, which when I was there was almost overflowing its banks and was running at the fastest speeds anyone could remember. A terrific storm had devastated parts of France and Italy but thankfully preceded me, and all I saw was the damage; several people died, notably in the Italian Cinqueterre area. I ate at the excellent Le Jardin du Quai (www.danielhebet.com) and met the young but Michelin-starred Daniel Hébet, who showed me how to make macaroons. His restaurant is an oasis of peace in what is a pretty peaceful place anyway, famous for its antiques. It was also here where one of my childhood heroes (and I am no chef of note) Keith Floyd, the rakish TV presenter who progressively got more tipsy as his cooking programs went on, had a restaurant, probably just called Restaurant, like many of his others, in the late 1970s.
Aix-en-Provence is truly delightful. Head there. Wake up early in the morning and walk through its neat, attractive, revealing streets to the Place du Verdun and Pôle Judiciare for an Aladdin’s Cave of fresh produce. Very early, stall holders are more likely to hand out little pieces of food. One huge table contained at least 10 different species of my favourite food, mushrooms, and cheeses, sausages and vegetables are displayed so beautifully, it seems mean to actually buy any and spoil the arrangements. I did buy a handful of cumin-rubbed mini-sausages, which I forgot about until I got back to New York City. They were delicious. Another pretty square, sometimes with a market, is Place des Fontêtes, and the place to stay is the Grand Hôtel Roi René (www.accorhotels.com/gb/hotel-1169-grand-hotel-roi-rene-aix-en-provence-mgallery-collection/index.shtml) to the south of this compact city; I tried to find the café where Paul Cézanne and Emile Zola used to take their coffee, but I could not, and then ran out of time.
I did run out of town along the Cours des Arts et Métiers to the eastern fringes of town. A road called Chemin de Beauregard climbs uphill and past villas of increasing beauty, before narrowing. Asphalt led to cracked asphalt and then gravel and large stones, the hedge to either side closing in, too, and then brushing both shoulders. I thought I was lost but then saw two cars parked with their backs to me, so assumed a larger road lay close. It did, as did a weathered, wooden sign saying that La Tour César was a 20-minute walk. The roads here are sunken slightly, the birds tweet (November was suddenly very clement) and all is pleasing. The medieval Tower of César I can find few notes on, but it seems to guard the city’s eastern approaches at the beginning of the lofty Luberon Mountains, dominated by Mont Ventoux, which rises more than 6,000 feet, sees the Tour de France on occasion (the last grueling time in 2009) and was painted by Cézanne on numerous occasions. Cezanne also painted the Tour de César, from his perch on the Bibémus Plain, but his rendition shows it sitting on a bare hillside. Today all is trees, the path going straight up a ridge in the Luberon foothills, circling the tower and heading off to the left.
Another stop was the gorgeous Château la Dorgonne (www.chateauladorgonne.com), which I was told meant “house of the shepherd’s pie” in French. Part of the Côtes du Luberon appellation, between the Cavalon and Durnace rivers, this organic vineyard near the town of La Tour-d’Aigues produces a wonderful red, and I drank from a 2009 bottle. A Berber woman with small crosses tattooed on her chin (see photo above) and forehead raked leaves and told me that she had worked for the owners for 20 years, one of which looked very much like Prince William.
A perfect day ended after visiting the mountainside town of Gordes with a visit to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, where the Sorgue river begins. I popped up to the source between my appetizer and main course at Hostellerie le Chateau (the brave among us chose frogs’ legs), and even in pitch blackness the force of the spring emerging from the hillside can be felt, seen and heard. This village was called by the Romans Vallis Clausa, or Closed Valley, and I like that very much.
