The old yellow house was sad, rundown and entombed in the nettles and ivy which had enjoyed the years of neglect. Inhabitated by birds that had built their nests among the roof beams, the house was the mistress of the level, opulent, verdent and magically still land. It seemed it had roots rather than foundations, and that like the surrounding wild flowers and ivy, it had been here since the beginning of time.

The house was not even beautiful at first sight, it was simple and squat, but also solid and reassuring, well-planted on the edge of the Padule from where the flight of the herons and migrating birds could be observed. Like an elderly, over made- up lady the house showed the toll of her centuries, and her deeply wrinkled face suggested that she had laughed and cried for all she was worth during these years. Various attempts to cover these traces seemed only to erase the true history of the house.

Then one day this old yellow house, tired of her protracted decline chose new owners. Strange people, not originally from the area, who had travelled over the ocean, and had met people, customs and different races...smiling people full of fantasy. The yellow house had chosen them, poets, dreamers, a bit clumsy with the garden tools, but full of love for the land.

Immediately the house filled with cats, dogs and horses...loads of animals that created more confusion than the children with whom they grew up inside the protective walls, that were, bit by bit, replastered, re-painted and restored giving the original countryside nobility back to the house, and restoring her history.

The old house, now the colour of burnished gold, was appreciated and appreciative. The old lady had regained here antique dignity, scented with bees wax and apple cake, and bedecked with sprays of flowers. The house is loved and full of the energy of those special people and she continues, with them to tell a story. In the mornings she awakes serene, the colour of acacia honey. She stretches out on her well-groomed lawn and bids good morning to the swallows and rabbits who've made their burrows under the bushes, to the clucking chickens, and the neighing horses. At the end of the day the sundown casts a deep golden glow creating an atmosphere that is quintessentially Tuscan and that conquers up other times and a deep serenity.