Home is a small castle in the hills of Tuscany's Chianti region. It's something I've held onto dearly for most of my life. It has been destroyed and rebuilt at least six times over the years, and each time it has been improved. Frivolous things such as a swimming pool and tennis court have been added as well as some more important items like electricity and running water.
In the morning, the birds wake up with the sun. You can hear the bells ringing from the church in the small town nearby marking the time for morning Mass. The scents of lavender and rosemary fill the garden. The cypress trees surround the house, casting long, cool shadows in the heat of the afternoon. The evenings are filled with the sound of crickets as a cool mist fills the valley.
The farm has any number of crops. There's an olive grove on the north slope, figs, apples, a small vineyard. On the road down the hill, there's a small compound where the olives are pressed into oil and the grapes into wine, not using the same equipment, of course, but little about the process has changed since my childhood.
I remember accompanying my father to Rome after the harvest. As a boy, I was astounded at the size of the city, the sounds, the sights. There were Greeks, Egyptians, Africans whose skin was so black it shown blue, Gauls, Franks and Turks. The marketplace smelled of fish, baking bread, incense, animals, various perfumes, and people hot from standing in the sun. The fountains amazed me, and I asked my father if we could have a fountain. He simply smiled and told me, "only if the gods give us one."
That villa has been my haven, my sanctuary, for more years than I can count. It's where I go to rest, and to remember.Lance Arturo † Highlander OC † 312 Words † Pictures
Prompt: theatrical_muse #235 "Show us where you live."
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