The Secrets of Villa Rosso: Escape to Italy for a summer romance to remember. Linn Halton B.
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on my skin, so I head straight for the door.
Stepping over the threshold all of my senses start reacting at the same time. But it’s the commanding view that forces my feet forward, traversing the aged sandstone paving of the exterior terrace. The closer I get to the edge of the flat expanse, the more the vista in front of me seems to open up. As I glimpse beyond the small islands of tall trees that flank the edge of the paved area, there is nothing to restrict the eye. Only the mountains, way in the distance, stand as a backdrop, like a curtain. Camera in hand I snap away, knowing how hard it will be to get a perspective on this seemingly never-ending scene. Directly ahead the land slopes away to infinity, ending in a mere shimmer before it slips over the distant horizon. The fertile plain is studded with vast swathes of olive trees. Further away the dotted landscape is interspersed with neat rows of planting that are tiny by comparison, but could well be fruit trees rather than bushes.
It isn’t just the sunshine and the electric-blue sky, but the musical calls of the countryside that reach out to me. A chorus of low-level sounds play like a soft melody in the background. It’s breathtakingly beautiful and I feel like I’m watching a re-run of a favourite film. I could stand here for a long time simply taking in the detail and with each sweep of my eyes noticing something new.
Spinning around I look back at the villa, taking in the rustic beauty of the stonework and the pale orange-red hue of the sun-bleached roof tiles. This is, quite simply, unreal. It’s a little piece of heaven and so far removed from my daily life that it’s hard to believe this is on the same planet. The sheer scale of the landscape literally steals your breath away. I’m a mere speck, small and insignificant in the grand scheme nature is presenting to me. But rather bizarrely, it doesn’t feel alien in anyway at all. The vastness isn’t overwhelming, but strangely comforting.
I walk back to a cluster of wooden tables surrounding a small fountain and take a seat. As I dive into my bag to extract some sunglasses, I hear a polite cough and look up at the face staring down at me.
‘Mrs Maddison? I’m Max, Max Johnson. Welcome to Villa Rosso.’
I stand, automatically plastering a pleasant smile on my surprised face as recognition kicks in. I know this man. I mean, I’ve met him before. At least I think I have, but there’s nothing similar reflected back at me, only a warm smile. The sort of smile that radiates from mysteriously deep, hazel eyes. We shake hands. He’s younger than I expected, probably in his early forties and tall. Six-foot something, that’s for sure, because I feel he’s towering over me.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wanted you to know that I’m here at your disposal whenever you are ready to begin. Would you like me to fetch you a coffee so you can sit for a while and enjoy the view?’
Although I knew he was British, his tan and elegant demeanour lend an air of cosmopolitan sophistication. I would not have been at all surprised if he had been Italian. He’s hovering politely and I still haven’t answered him.
‘No, really, I was just killing time and trying to absorb the stunning scenery. It’s heady stuff.’
Those serious eyes search my face and he nods, approvingly. Is it approval of my appreciation or, as his eyes settle on me, is he—
‘What is that constant sound, like a chirping?’
‘Tree crickets, la cicada. You’ll gradually get used to it until it becomes almost unnoticeable. I trust that the last-minute change of plans hasn’t inconvenienced you too much? It was quite a surprise when Olivia Bradley called to say something had cropped up and you would be taking her place. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Maddison.’
‘It’s Ellie, you can call me Ellie.’ Why did I just repeat my own name? That wasn’t cool, and you shouldn’t have shortened it. You should have taken a lead from Olivia.
‘Which is short for—?’
‘Elouise. My mother was the only person who ever called me that, but she died a few years ago.’ Too much information, Ellie. Concentrate. I swallow hard, mentally berating myself, and take a deep breath to clear my head as I stand. ‘Let’s make a start, then.’
Max holds open the car door as I settle myself into the passenger seat of what looks like an almost brand-new Alfa Romeo in a tasteful charcoal metallic finish. He insists on taking my small satchel and places it in the back, then clicks the door shut. While he’s walking around to the driver’s side my brain is working overtime, trying to establish why I’m so convinced I’ve met him before. Is this business famous enough for him to have been featured on TV, or maybe I’ve seen his face in a cookery magazine talking about the benefits of olive oil. Or maybe he just has one of those handsome, beguiling faces that sort of looks like someone famous and inspires a sense of instant recognition.
As Max slips into the driver’s seat a waft of something with a hint of bergamot tickles my nose. It’s fresh and citrusy, immediately masking that slightly overpowering smell of new leather. Instinctively, I reach out to touch his arm and make a comment, when I abruptly pull myself back, rather sharply. How totally embarrassing! I hope I succeeded in making the gesture look as if I was simply putting my hand up to smoothe down my hair.
What is going on with me? Why does this man whom, it seems, really is just a stranger to me, feel so familiar?
‘Our first stop is a small family business whose land abuts our own. Olivia said she was very interested in ceramics and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the quality and designs on offer.’
His eyes check out my seat belt before he starts the engine and, with a warm smile, he turns his gaze back towards the road ahead.
We are both content to travel in silence. As my eyes scan the open countryside, the car purrs along, heading towards the sloping planes of that wonderful vista. Up close some of that unidentifiable greenery turns out to be swathes of grape vines and citrus trees, divided into neat little plots. Every now and again I catch a glimpse of farm workers, mostly elderly men and women, with skin the colour of tanned leather. We pass a group of younger workers with baskets full of lemons, the women wearing colourful scarves and shouting back and forth to each other. Most wave to Max as we pass by.
‘Villa Rosso’s land extends to the east. The processing plant is on the other side of trees that you can see at the foot of the mountains. Castrovillari is situated at the base of the Monte Pollino, the Parco Nazionale. From here almost as far as you can see it’s mostly small parcels of land owned by families who have worked the soil for generations.’
‘Do they manage to make a living? It must be hard to sustain a family if this is their only income.’
Max nods, his face quite sombre.
‘It’s never been easy for them. But everyone is still suffering from what we call the black year, the harvest of 2014. Unusual weather patterns, lack of water and a proliferation of insects and bacterial blight saw the average yield cut by half. We’ve also been battling with unusually large flocks of starlings destroying the fruits, although mercifully that hasn’t affected everyone.’
‘But doesn’t that simply mean that the cost of olive oil rises?’
‘I wish it worked like that, but not all countries were affected in the same way, so some gained while we suffered. And as for any price increases, very little filters down to the poor farmers. That’s why we’re trying so hard to grow this artisan crafts cooperative. The local market is small, as the vast majority of the workers here lead very simple lives. You can see for yourself how rustic their farm dwellings are. When they’re not working the old women are found gossiping in doorways, complaining about the menfolk. It falls on deaf ears and the old men relax nearby in the shade, playing cards.’ He turns to look at me, giving a wry smile. ‘But the daily fight against poverty and the need to feed their families is a worry that never goes away. The wealthier families, like the Ormannis, employ as many local people as they can but they, too, are affected by a bad harvest and the vagaries of nature. That’s why diversification is essential at every level, although olive production will always be at the heart and soul of the business. But the real problem is the exodus