In the middle of the Tuscan hills, a bonfire night, barbecues and chestnuts roasting on an open fire. In the distance, I can see fireworks over the ancient town of Montalcino. It’s their festa, or festival, or at least one of many that happen throughout the year. Every town or hamlet in this area has a festa at regular intervals – for wine, for olives, for truffles.
It took me some time to really register that, for someone used to looking at mountains in the distance and seeing dwellings nestling in their crevices and nooks, it’s the opposite here. Towns and villages are built on high ground as a general rule. At night from my little house I can see the towns of Buonconvento, Montalcino, Pienza, San Quirico and Montepulciano in the far distance, each glistening atop its own hill.
The work? The work is slow, the writing is a struggle. The life is so easy here, so warm and slightly hazy and gentle, like the wine, that it’s hard to get work done. I’m still me, wrestling with my creative demons, no matter whether I’m in the paradise of Tuscany or the isolated gloom of Kings Cross in London. Damn. Thought I could escape them.
Post a Comment