Il Colombaio, The Dovecote

May 14, 2009 late afternoon...We fold ourselves into our car once more and follow Silvano back down to the main road. We cross and continue on the dirt track for about 1/8 mile, then take a right through an iron gate. And there, across a small packed gravel drive overlooking a steep drop to the lush green valley below, is Podere Il Colombaio, or Dovecote Farm in English, our home for the next week.

Walking ahead, Silvano pulls out a set of keys, works the lock, and swings open the door to the podere, a beautiful renovated stone farmhouse, roofed in the baked red clay tiles so widely and lovingly recognizeable in Italy and Spain.

My breath is gone even before I see inside, stolen by the view from the lawn. Steep but rolling hills tumble out below me in a 270 degree vista, dotted silver-green all over with olive groves, and punctuated at their tops by vigilant cypresses. Swallows swoop, dart and chirp around us, investigating the newcomers, doves coo from a tree somewhere ahead of me, and the air is warm and fresh. I take off my shoes, and the grass is a lush carpet under my feet. A rush of gratitude fills me, followed by giddy joy. “Oh, my,” I say softly. “God, You must have had a such a ball when you made Italy. You have really, REALLY pulled out the stops here.”

Picking up my shoes I join my friends Cynthia, Priscilla, and Trish, as Silvano shows us around like a proud papa'. We step inside and enter a small foyer/sitting room. The interior is rustic, and immediately comfortable, an homage to its early life as farmhouse and barn. The floor is tiled in wide polished brick-hued stone, and the room is appointed with a low wooden table, and two small sofas.

Through the foyer we step into the kitchen lit by a sunny window on the right. On the left, there’s a stone sink with wooden dish drain above, counter space with a small microwave oven, and a four-burner gas stove. Directly across the room from us is a raised kitchen fireplace. Its mantle is adorned with carpentry implements and a wooden pizza paddle. Under the fireplace are two stone cubbies for kindling. To the right stands a white fridge/freezer combo, flanked by a large wooden credenza and hutch that hold dishes, glassware and other cookware. The kitchen table centers the scene, and on it sits glass bottles of olive oil (La Palazzina’s own), vinegar, and a welcome basket of homemade goodies courtesy of Eliana: a jar of homemade pear jam, and bags of chocolate and chocolate chip cookies. Festooning these are mini servings of Nutella and breakfast toasts. Red and white country patterned linens adorn the table, windows, mantle and brighten the spaces below the sink and stove.


“It’s a working fireplace,” Silvano says gesturing toward the hearth laid with kindling and newspaper. “The apartment is heated, but you’re welcome to use the fireplace. It will add nice atmosphere, and take the chill out of the kitchen as the night cools down.” Each of us knows instinctively that we’ll take him up on his recommendation.

Stepping up from the fireplace, Silvano shows us the farm apartment’s three bedrooms and two bathrooms, flicking on the interior and exterior lights as he goes from room to room. Bright lights have never been part and parcel of Tuscan farm life, and the fixtures at Il Colombaio bear that out, but they’re sufficient for our needs. After all, we’re here to be part of the landscape.

Trish and I will share the smaller room with two twin beds. Priscilla and Cynthia should each have their own rooms, out of respect for Priscilla’s status as the group’s 74-year-old matriarch, and recognizing Cynthia’s unspoken need for respite from her stressed and sleep-deprived life back home. Raising her youngest son David has taken a toll. He’s a handsome 18-year-old suffering from severe physical and developmental disabilities caused by autism and epilepsy. One of the few things that has not burned down to the quick is Cynthia’s boundless love for David, nor his for her, and he’s never far from her mind. Well, here really, how can he be? You see, at home, ever present is David’s love for pesto, second only to his love for his mother, and here we are in the birthplace of that culinary delight. Basil plants across the whole of Italy must surely now be invoking David Keefe’s name in worship.

The tour complete, Silvano departs with a two-handed wave and a renewed invitation to dinner. We leave the studded wooden door ajar, welcoming in the air, the late afternoon light, and bird song as we unpack, poke about the house, and freshen up before dinner. At one point, gathered in the kitchen, we look at each other and squeal out as one, “Aaaghhhhh! We’re here!!!!!”