Olive Grove

It struck him as a very special kind of luxury to have been able to wake up in a bustling city like Milan, with traffic clogging up the streets, and now to be able to roam the Tuscan countryside. The fields, left to their own devices, had not yet been able to rejuvenate due to March still being rather withholding in its embracing and energising warmth. No matter. The spectacle was still a joy to behold. Golden hour swept over the hillocks and the long grass stalks, lacking in seeds of seasons past, shone like beacons and shivered in the evening’s refreshing breeze. He walked along the path meanderingly crossing the meadow till he reached its western border and, first ascertainingly peering down it to find the best way down, proceeded to descend the slope keeping himself steady by holding on to little trees, chuffs of grass and bushlings while his boots sunk into the soft, leaf-covered hillside. Having arrived at the bottom he took in the sweet combination of hawthorn flowers and lavender smells, the latter originating from the minute plantation of lavender bushes that had been arranged in the little clearing in which he had arrived. He headed back into the forest along a path flanked by a little stream which he soon crossed to head back upwards along the terraces of an olive grove enriched by the odd fig and walnut tree. Having reached the top of the grove, there it was, the setting sun. Below him lay the northern tip of the Mugello valley already being searched by night’s darkening cloak, for time was moving fast. But from his commanding viewpoint this warry was not yet to infiltrate him. There in the distance was Vicchio, and behind her, or rather all around her, and to a further extent around him as well, was the blue peaks ring: the Apennines. He sat down and, whilst thoroughly enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of his surroundings, thought as to how he would word this chronicle.