Our landlord, Sergio, was very pleasant as he showed us around. He spoke little English, but we were able to understand most of what he said. He lived and worked in town, which we could see not far below us, but he came to check on the farm every day. He showed us the olive orchard, a small vineyard, and a garden, telling us to help ourselves to anything we found there. Our part of the farmhouse was spacious and comfortable-looking, if a bit rustic. There was a local family living in another wing of the rambling house, but he assured us that we would have privacy. He was renovating another part of the building for his own use. It would become his “country retreat”. There was a caretaker, Maria, an elderly woman who wore the typical black dress of an Italian widow. She also lived in town, but spent her days at the farm.

We were soon left to acclimate ourselves to the living quarters, consisting of two bedrooms and a bathroom, and a large central living/dining area, dominated by a wood-burning hearth. There was a stove, but Sergio had told us we could cook over the hearth if we wished. Fred is an excellent cook, and I knew from the look on his face that he would try it before the week was out. Within a short time we were totally at home, and I began to think of it as charming rather than rustic.

In the early evening we set out for town, hoping to find a market for supplies, as well as a restaurant, since we didn’t plan to cook many of our meals. This was a vacation, after all. We parked and once again set off the alarm as soon as we got out. While it had sounded loud the first time, it now echoed through every corner of this small town of connected stone buildings and cobbled streets. We had announced our arrival to the residents of Asciano! The good news was that we found a couple of markets where we bought provisions, and a nice restaurant where we would enjoy some wonderful meals in the coming week.

After trying out the restaurant for dinner, we stopped for an espresso at a sidewalk cafe. It seemed that all of the town’s residents were out for a late evening stroll. Sipping our coffees, we observed the social scenes surrounding us: old men playing cards at a sidewalk bar, small children in strollers being fussed over by adults, young boys kicking around a soccer ball, and nearly everyone enjoying gelato, the excellent Italian ice cream.

The following day was Sunday, and we spent the morning driving around the local roads which offered beautiful views in every direction. Not far from town we spotted the Abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore, an abbey of Benedictine monks which our guidebook told us was open to the public. We drove onto the grounds, seeing several signs proclaiming “Silenzio!” attesting to the solemnity of the place. As we parked and prepared to leave the car, we looked at each other and knew without speaking that we didn’t dare risk setting off the alarm in this quiet place. So we drove on, hoping that before the end of the week we would be able to return without this fear.

Back at our house, we prepared a late lunch and brought it outside to a table and chairs on the lawn. While we enjoyed our simple meal, from another home not far away we could hear the sounds of a large family dinner: much talking and laughing, plates and cutlery clattering, a baby’s cry. It brought back memories of the early years of our marriage, when Fred’s family had such a meal every Sunday afternoon. We couldn’t remember when or why the tradition had stopped, but it’s been many years since our extended family has gotten together for a Sunday meal.

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