Travels With Tozers Tuscan Tours

Nothing is amusing about two middle-aged couples in a hire car. You have the driver, the co-pilots, and the backseat drivers. All experienced experts who think driving on the “wrong side” of the road is a walk in the park. And then you have the GPS. An unfortunate woman with a posh accent who, according to the male passengers, knows bugger all. A woman who delights in leading one on a wild goose chase with the sole intention of getting you lost? Oh! And ours was Italian. Cor blimey, it was mayhem. Our poor, confused map-reader got it in the neck for a couple of wrong turns until the kerb jumped up and hit our front tyre, causing a bubbled profile. Our next stop was the garage for a new tyre. 

Of course, as soon as the rental agent heard about the prang, she told us in no uncertain terms that all hell would break loose and waffled about responsibility and our being irresponsible! We returned the car in immaculate condition 14 days later.

We needed to regroup, have lunch, catch our breath, relax and calm our nerves. Lunch did the trick. An enormous platter of Italian fare. Parma ham, melon, a selection of cheeses, plump Rosa tomatoes, basil and a flagon of Chianti. We were off to Chianti after all. The GPS was reset to UK English. Our address was entered. We relegated the map reader to the back seat and told him to mind his P's and q's.

Off the highways, we skedaddled and took a slow meander along winding country lanes, through forests and over mountain passes, to our destination. The architecture! Right out of Condé Nast.

Greve (pronounced grey-vay with a fast Italian accent, of course) is where we’d spend five glorious days in the countryside, enjoying all things Chianti (Key-jan-tay, said quickly). We arrived, exhausted, moody, and slightly antsy, but our excitement grew as we looked forward to the beauty ahead.

Our beautiful apartment in the village square, decorated in creams and blonde wood with soft honey hues, instantly made us feel at home and eager to explore more of Tuscany's charm.

We spent our days hiking to various villages, enjoying the countryside, and indulging in fine food, savouring exquisite meals in fine restaurants, visiting vineyards, cellars, and

Galleries.  Each day we’d spoil ourselves with a late-evening ice cream from a local gelateria. The flavours and varieties are staggering; they make your taste buds tingle with delight.

Close your eyes and imagine Tuscany. Rolling hills, pencil cypresses, winding roads, blue skies, and magnificent vineyards and orchards, the yellowest lemons and purple figs. Take a deep breath and inhale the flavours of Tuscany: smoky cured meats, green olive oil, fragrant pomegranate, earthy mushrooms, and musty truffles; then savour the rich, fruity wines, tart lemon of Limoncello, Sangiovese grapes that make the famous Chianti, and oozing flavours of herbs, dried fruit, and the blackest berries or cherries. 

Pink sunsets. Yellow and orange sunrises, shades of mauve, French blue, baby blue and the lightest lavender skies. Apple and greengage, sage, silvery olive or mint landscapes dotted with homesteads in oxblood, ochre, tangerine, blood orange or honey.

Tradition still rules. A deep love of the earth is evident everywhere and reflected in their rich culture. Families gather under ancient olive trees or beneath a wisteria pergola to celebrate at mealtimes, lingering over pottery bowls of pasta in simple sauces while breaking crusty loaves and dipping the ends into the greenest oils and rich, tart Balsamic vinegar, aged in oak vats for decades to a concentrate. Fragrant and sweet.

Each morning we’d have our first cup of coffee outside on the square, where the barista would get to know us and, with disdain, announce to the world that I had an American coffee laced with cream. Snotty, but with a twinkle in his eye. He baked the most delicious Pain au Chocolat, so I forgave him. Next time it’ll be “Espresso or caffè con Panna, Grazie, Señor”!

Tuscans love art and generously display sculptures in gardens and along paths and roads leading to homesteads, vineyards, and orchards, with splendid wrought iron, marble, or bronze often as a homage to the earth and what it allows us to produce. Ceramic art is plentiful, and homes are adorned with beautifully crafted, cherished pieces spanning many generations, on display for all visitors to enjoy.

I spent days browsing small shops where artisans still produce the finest bespoke leather goods, and I found it hard to resist the painstaking stitching that goes into a fine handbag or a pair of mules. 

The cobbler was happy for me to wander around but too busy for a portrait. Often so transfixed, I’d get a nod from the cordwainer’s assistant, who would start a conversation; it turned out she was from Durban! Once we’d established common ground, she told me her story: how she’d left home after school to visit her family in Chianti, fallen in love with the local butcher and stayed, raising three children in beautiful Greve.

We splurged on a beautiful lamb shoulder from the butcher, only to realise after the purchase that we didn’t have an oven for a slow roast. I had to improvise and pot-roast the joint in a ridiculously unsuitable saucepan! It was Tuscan and delicious. We laid our table on our patio and enjoyed the evening outdoors, listening to the night sounds from the Piazza. We wandered down later for our customary ice cream cone.

Next door to us was a tiny shop displaying a child’s smocked frock, which reminded me of the dresses my daughter wore growing up. She had a favourite one, which she’d doll up with a pair of black patent-leather shoes with a slight stack heel. We had to spirit the shoes out of the house in the dead of night; she’d outgrown them, but hadn’t accepted it yet!

Our feisty yet friendly landlady owned the shop, where she’d worked as a seamstress for sixty years, producing beautiful silk lingerie, linens, napery and children’s clothes. Delicate laces were carefully stitched onto necklines or inserted into bodices and hemlines, turning the dreamlike garments into heirlooms. I could only admire the pieces, softly running my fingers over the delicate silk, cotton or linen to feel their weight.

If you know me ever so slightly, or you’ve dined at my table or tray, you’ll know I have a penchant for linen napkins. I have drawers filled with them and can barely resist a new one. In this shop, I had to slap my wrist hard to resist the temptation. Egyptian linen. Embroidered. Monogrammed. White linen. Antique linens, softly discoloured with age. I could smell the starch! Oh, to see them and touch them. To own one? Too rich for my blood. But they’re forever engraved on my heart! There is nothing as good as the crisp whiplash of freshly washed and starched napkins, ceremoniously flicked onto one’s lap. I must be quite Edwardian.

Chianti is the home of Pinocchio, that wonderful children’s book character. I wonder where Geppetto crafted his string puppet.  It was heartwarming to see the original C. Collodi character, not the Walt Disney re-enactment in stores, market stalls, and bookshops.

It took me three hours and a hundred passes to pluck up the courage to enter the Antique/Art shop, owned by a delightful character who collects bric-à-brac, especially frames. Dr. Khosrow Salehi is an academic, a highly acclaimed artist, watercolourist, raconteur, and adventurer. He fell in love with Greve during one of his Italian escapades and stayed.

He is considering selling up to reunite with his estranged wife (who moans like a drain) and to live out his retirement in his homeland. I succumbed to his charms and bought a miniature watercolour dated 1848. In return, I was gifted a charming pen-and-watercolour illustration of an Istrice, a porcupine. I’ve framed it, and I admire it almost every day as I type my blogs. I think I got the bargain, spending a most enjoyable hour in the overcrowded, utterly charming shop. I do love my portraits of the artist; the light was just right.

Please indulge in and enjoy my photographs; I hope they speak louder than words. If a trip to Tuscany is on your bucket list, or you’d like to return, you’ll never regret it. We loved our adventure in Greve; our day trips and walks were invigorating. Not only were our taste buds tantalised, but our minds and spirits were restored as we delved into the culture, history and a way of life we’d all like to emulate. 

One evening, as guests of the chairperson of the musical society, we were treated to an evening of classical guitar and flute. We made our way up to Castello di Verrazzano, perched on a hill overlooking a classic Tuscan valley. My day was made. Not only did we enjoy magical music, but we also witnessed a spectacular sunset from our seats. I hope we can return someday, but until then I’ll enjoy fond memories as I page through my photographs, which tell our story. Next time, I'm also going to sit on a bench and watch the world go by.

We wined and dined at so many restaurants and as the devil would have it I’ve mislaid the business cards I so conscientiously saved to mention in this blog. It’s never a bad idea to go on your own voyage of discovery though, there is so much to do and it’s not difficult to find recommendations on various websites like TripAdvisor or better yet, from locals, they know after all.