FARM IN THE HILLS NEAR SAN GIMIGNANO
by a commodious porch, part of which is crudely screened. These lifeless farmhouses would be lacking in atmosphere were it not for the indigo ribbon of the Adriatic, against which they are silhouetted, and the gaudy sails of fishing boats which creep behind them.
The high spot in farmhouse hunting, however, was reached one bright morning on the road from Siena to Orvieto. An imposing mass of golden masonry rose up in the distance, crowning a newly plowed hillside. The vastness of its feudal form indicated something more ambitious than a mere farm. It turned out to be an ancient castello, converted into a veritable village within walls. For some centuries it had been a fortified hospital; then it was converted into the estate of a merchant of Siena and now it serves honorably as the lordly farmhouse of a prosperous wine-grower. Visitors apparently are rare, for the entire course of activity was suspended when we ventured within the gates, and the assembled population turned to gape with open-mouthed curiosity. The proud and portly figure of the proprietor appeared in a doorway and we were received with as much pomp and cordiality as a visiting diplomat. A maid appeared with a bottle of old Marsala and we clinked glasses once. Our host led us to his office, a room of majestic proportions with fragments of frescos still on the walls. Another maid appeared with a fiasco of crystal clear white wine, deliciously cool. And we
clinked again. Then he led us, followed at a respectful distance by the entire population, up ramps and down dark stairways, into enormous kitchens and vast baronial halls. Here, where prosperity was the keynote, it was instructive to note the spotless cleanliness of the place. The halls which once served as refectories are now used to store grain, and they are immaculate. Some idea of the excellent state of preservation of the farm is given by the close-up of the main gateway, which is indeed an impressive setting for the loads of hay and carts of wine casks which pass through its portal.
Finally the host escorted us to the cellars, where slits of sunlight illuminated the long vaulted caves. Dusty barrels covered most of the floor space and gigantic vats reared up in the half-darkness. Something was muttered to a farmhand, who went over to an aged vat and tapped three glasses of red wine, whose clear crimson we admired in a ray of sunlight. And again we clinked.
I should stop here, but there is another side to the picture. The two sketches of the chateau farm, if the truth must be known, at the price of enduring the snifflings of countless gamins at my elbow as well as a distressing number of flea bites. Hence a practical hint for pencil pushers in the Italian countryside: beware of scented hair tonic and woolen socks. The horse flies love them. The wag who asked me if I was going “itching in Italy” was not far from the truth.
CASTELFIORENTINO
by a commodious porch, part of which is crudely screened. These lifeless farmhouses would be lacking in atmosphere were it not for the indigo ribbon of the Adriatic, against which they are silhouetted, and the gaudy sails of fishing boats which creep behind them.
The high spot in farmhouse hunting, however, was reached one bright morning on the road from Siena to Orvieto. An imposing mass of golden masonry rose up in the distance, crowning a newly plowed hillside. The vastness of its feudal form indicated something more ambitious than a mere farm. It turned out to be an ancient castello, converted into a veritable village within walls. For some centuries it had been a fortified hospital; then it was converted into the estate of a merchant of Siena and now it serves honorably as the lordly farmhouse of a prosperous wine-grower. Visitors apparently are rare, for the entire course of activity was suspended when we ventured within the gates, and the assembled population turned to gape with open-mouthed curiosity. The proud and portly figure of the proprietor appeared in a doorway and we were received with as much pomp and cordiality as a visiting diplomat. A maid appeared with a bottle of old Marsala and we clinked glasses once. Our host led us to his office, a room of majestic proportions with fragments of frescos still on the walls. Another maid appeared with a fiasco of crystal clear white wine, deliciously cool. And we
clinked again. Then he led us, followed at a respectful distance by the entire population, up ramps and down dark stairways, into enormous kitchens and vast baronial halls. Here, where prosperity was the keynote, it was instructive to note the spotless cleanliness of the place. The halls which once served as refectories are now used to store grain, and they are immaculate. Some idea of the excellent state of preservation of the farm is given by the close-up of the main gateway, which is indeed an impressive setting for the loads of hay and carts of wine casks which pass through its portal.
Finally the host escorted us to the cellars, where slits of sunlight illuminated the long vaulted caves. Dusty barrels covered most of the floor space and gigantic vats reared up in the half-darkness. Something was muttered to a farmhand, who went over to an aged vat and tapped three glasses of red wine, whose clear crimson we admired in a ray of sunlight. And again we clinked.
I should stop here, but there is another side to the picture. The two sketches of the chateau farm, if the truth must be known, at the price of enduring the snifflings of countless gamins at my elbow as well as a distressing number of flea bites. Hence a practical hint for pencil pushers in the Italian countryside: beware of scented hair tonic and woolen socks. The horse flies love them. The wag who asked me if I was going “itching in Italy” was not far from the truth.
CASTELFIORENTINO