The Secrets of Villa Rosso: Escape to Italy for a summer romance to remember

She gives me a broad smile, accompanied by a hearty laugh. ‘When the year was up the family asked me to stay and so here I am. My mother wasn’t impressed as she had high hopes for me. She says I’m not ambitious enough, but in an ironic twist of fate I’ve fallen under the spell of the Italian way of life. Anyway, Max thought you’d want to have a quiet breakfast and says he’ll be at your disposal any time after ten this morning. Just let reception know when you are ready.’

‘Thank you, I will. I’m hoping I’ll pick up a few Italian words over the next couple of days.’

‘Dove c’è una volontà, c’è un modo.’

I look at Bella blankly and she immediately interprets it for me.

‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way – more, or less. But doesn’t it sound better in Italian?’

‘You’re right. It’s just hard not being able to pick up any clues. You could have been saying anything to me.’

We exchange friendly smiles.

‘Max will do everything to make your visit pleasant and enjoyable. He’s a lovely man and very personable. I don’t know what the locals would do without him. If there’s anything you need, you only have to ask.’

‘Thank you, but right now that coffee is calling to me.’

‘I’ll leave you to enjoy it, then. Have a good day.’ As the door is about to close Bella says, ‘That’s buona giornata.’

‘Grazie, Bella.’ I think I just said thank you, beautiful!

Right, coffee first and the next task is to ring Josh, tell him how much I’m missing him and say good morning to my girls before my big adventure begins.

Chapter 6 (#ulink_e936564b-4fc8-5287-9f8c-1988211f5e80)

I dress with care, knowing that first impressions are everything when it comes to appearing confident and professional. Slipping into my favourite little black dress, teamed with a lightweight white linen cropped-sleeve jacket, I’m not unhappy with the image staring back at me. A little makeup, a quick brush of my shoulder-length dark-blonde hair and I’m done. Oh, I nearly forgot about earrings. I dive into my bag to rescue my jewellery pouch and settle on the single pearls. They were an anniversary present from Josh and as I slip them on it adds a little sparkle to my eyes. He says I’m beautiful; it’s not true, of course, and what I see is a face that looks rather plain, with dark-blue eyes that aren’t of the piercing variety. Just, well, ordinary.

One last check that I have everything I need, before I slip on my flat leather pumps and my work persona is ready to go. It allows me to push those nagging little domestic worries to one side and remember that there’s a big wide world out there. I can rise to any challenge and I know that. But this is a first for me and everything has happened so quickly. I haven’t had time to transition between the two worlds; that leap from the domestic to the business world is a big one. And yet the moment I stepped out of the car last night it was almost like a home-coming. Perhaps one of my internal wires isn’t working and is giving me a false reading. That thought is a worrying one, as everyone I meet will be expecting an experienced business woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

I grab the large, gate-keeper-style key and lock the door, then walk across to the ornate metal balustrade and peer down over the reception area. The white-washed walls and dark wooden beams throughout add a sense of space and height to the vaulted ceiling. The central light is an art form, with a cascade of cleverly intertwined metal leaves highlighted with enamelling in shades of white, silver and grey. As I slowly descend the elegant staircase I reflect that it’s the sort of piece Livvie would love to get her hands on at almost any price.

There’s no one around and the clock on the wall confirms it’s only just after nine-thirty. It’s quite cool inside. I’m longing to feel the morning sunshine on my skin, so I head straight for the door.

Stepping over the threshold all of my senses start reacting at the same time. But it’s the commanding view that forces my feet forward, traversing the aged sandstone paving of the exterior terrace. The closer I get to the edge of the flat expanse, the more the vista in front of me seems to open up. As I glimpse beyond the small islands of tall trees that flank the edge of the paved area, there is nothing to restrict the eye. Only the mountains, way in the distance, stand as a backdrop, like a curtain. Camera in hand I snap away, knowing how hard it will be to get a perspective on this seemingly never-ending scene. Directly ahead the land slopes away to infinity, ending in a mere shimmer before it slips over the distant horizon. The fertile plain is studded with vast swathes of olive trees. Further away the dotted landscape is interspersed with neat rows of planting that are tiny by comparison, but could well be fruit trees rather than bushes.

It isn’t just the sunshine and the electric-blue sky, but the musical calls of the countryside that reach out to me. A chorus of low-level sounds play like a soft melody in the background. It’s breathtakingly beautiful and I feel like I’m watching a re-run of a favourite film. I could stand here for a long time simply taking in the detail and with each sweep of my eyes noticing something new.

Spinning around I look back at the villa, taking in the rustic beauty of the stonework and the pale orange-red hue of the sun-bleached roof tiles. This is, quite simply, unreal. It’s a little piece of heaven and so far removed from my daily life that it’s hard to believe this is on the same planet. The sheer scale of the landscape literally steals your breath away. I’m a mere speck, small and insignificant in the grand scheme nature is presenting to me. But rather bizarrely, it doesn’t feel alien in anyway at all. The vastness isn’t overwhelming, but strangely comforting.

I walk back to a cluster of wooden tables surrounding a small fountain and take a seat. As I dive into my bag to extract some sunglasses, I hear a polite cough and look up at the face staring down at me.

‘Mrs Maddison? I’m Max, Max Johnson. Welcome to Villa Rosso.’

I stand, automatically plastering a pleasant smile on my surprised face as recognition kicks in. I know this man. I mean, I’ve met him before. At least I think I have, but there’s nothing similar reflected back at me, only a warm smile. The sort of smile that radiates from mysteriously deep, hazel eyes. We shake hands. He’s younger than I expected, probably in his early forties and tall. Six-foot something, that’s for sure, because I feel he’s towering over me.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wanted you to know that I’m here at your disposal whenever you are ready to begin. Would you like me to fetch you a coffee so you can sit for a while and enjoy the view?’

Although I knew he was British, his tan and elegant demeanour lend an air of cosmopolitan sophistication. I would not have been at all surprised if he had been Italian. He’s hovering politely and I still haven’t answered him.

‘No, really, I was just killing time and trying to absorb the stunning scenery. It’s heady stuff.’

Those serious eyes search my face and he nods, approvingly. Is it approval of my appreciation or, as his eyes settle on me, is he—

‘What is that constant sound, like a chirping?’

‘Tree crickets, la cicada. You’ll gradually get used to it until it becomes almost unnoticeable. I trust that the last-minute change of plans hasn’t inconvenienced you too much? It was quite a surprise when Olivia Bradley called to say something had cropped up and you would be taking her place. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Maddison.’

‘It’s Ellie, you can call me Ellie.’ Why did I just repeat my own name? That wasn’t cool, and you shouldn’t have shortened it. You should have taken a lead from Olivia.

‘Which is short for—?’

‘Elouise. My mother was the only person who ever called me that, but she died a few years ago.’ Too much information, Ellie. Concentrate. I swallow hard, mentally berating myself, and take a deep breath to clear my head as I stand. ‘Let’s make a start, then.’

Max holds open the car door as I settle myself into the passenger seat of what looks like an almost brand-new Alfa Romeo in a tasteful charcoal metallic finish. He insists on taking my small satchel and places it in the back, then clicks the door shut. While he’s walking around to the driver’s side my brain is working overtime, trying to establish why I’m so convinced I’ve met him before. Is this business famous enough for him to have been featured on TV, or maybe I’ve seen his face in a cookery magazine talking about the benefits of olive oil. Or maybe he just has one of those handsome, beguiling faces that sort of looks like someone famous and inspires a sense of instant recognition.

As Max slips into the driver’s seat a waft of something with a hint of bergamot tickles my nose. It’s fresh and citrusy, immediately masking that slightly overpowering smell of new leather. Instinctively, I reach out to touch his arm and make a comment, when I abruptly pull myself back, rather sharply. How totally embarrassing! I hope I succeeded in making the gesture look as if I was simply putting my hand up to smoothe down my hair.

What is going on with me? Why does this man whom, it seems, really is just a stranger to me, feel so familiar?

‘Our first stop is a small family business whose land abuts our own. Olivia said she was very interested in ceramics and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the quality and designs on offer.’

His eyes check out my seat belt before he starts the engine and, with a warm smile, he turns his gaze back towards the road ahead.

We are both content to travel in silence. As my eyes scan the open countryside, the car purrs along, heading towards the sloping planes of that wonderful vista. Up close some of that unidentifiable greenery turns out to be swathes of grape vines and citrus trees, divided into neat little plots. Every now and again I catch a glimpse of farm workers, mostly elderly men and women, with skin the colour of tanned leather. We pass a group of younger workers with baskets full of lemons, the women wearing colourful scarves and shouting back and forth to each other. Most wave to Max as we pass by.

‘Villa Rosso’s land extends to the east. The processing plant is on the other side of trees that you can see at the foot of the mountains. Castrovillari is situated at the base of the Monte Pollino, the Parco Nazionale. From here almost as far as you can see it’s mostly small parcels of land owned by families who have worked the soil for generations.’

‘Do they manage to make a living? It must be hard to sustain a family if this is their only income.’

Max nods, his face quite sombre.

‘It’s never been easy for them. But everyone is still suffering from what we call the black year, the harvest of 2014. Unusual weather patterns, lack of water and a proliferation of insects and bacterial blight saw the average yield cut by half. We’ve also been battling with unusually large flocks of starlings destroying the fruits, although mercifully that hasn’t affected everyone.’

‘But doesn’t that simply mean that the cost of olive oil rises?’

‘I wish it worked like that, but not all countries were affected in the same way, so some gained while we suffered. And as for any price increases, very little filters down to the poor farmers. That’s why we’re trying so hard to grow this artisan crafts cooperative. The local market is small, as the vast majority of the workers here lead very simple lives. You can see for yourself how rustic their farm dwellings are. When they’re not working the old women are found gossiping in doorways, complaining about the menfolk. It falls on deaf ears and the old men relax nearby in the shade, playing cards.’ He turns to look at me, giving a wry smile. ‘But the daily fight against poverty and the need to feed their families is a worry that never goes away. The wealthier families, like the Ormannis, employ as many local people as they can but they, too, are affected by a bad harvest and the vagaries of nature. That’s why diversification is essential at every level, although olive production will always be at the heart and soul of the business. But the real problem is the exodus of the younger generation to the cities, where they can usually earn a lot more money and enjoy all the benefits of modern living. As any farmer will tell you, working the land is, at times, heart-breaking.’

Max looks resigned, but the deep lines between his eyebrows are furrowed. The tension he feels for a situation that must seem like an endless battle against a nameless enemy, is etched on his face. His profile shows a firm jaw line, rigidly set. I wonder what is going through his mind at this precise moment.

‘And here we are.’

The track we’re on is bumpy and for the last hundred yards, or so, the car has been literally crawling along.

Max parks up in front of a series of large sheds, similar to outbuildings seen on farms in the UK. But whereas we’d use them for cattle feed and machinery, I realise that for the owner this is a huge investment in a business venture that’s a considerable gamble. It isn’t just the locals who carry a heaven burden on their shoulders. Max, as their representative, knows exactly what these proud people stand to lose.

There’s no ceremony – in fact Max escorts me inside the first shed as if it were in the grounds of Villa Rosso. He waves to two men wheeling large wooden trolleys with a collection of clay pots ready for the kiln. This appears to be a holding area and along the far wall five women of varying ages are busy packing boxes. From a young girl of indeterminate age, to a grandmother who must be in her nineties, they chatter as they work. The elderly woman looks up and smiles at Max, her toothless grin a happy one and the other women giggle, shyly.

Max steers me through a doorway into another shed, where seven or eight people are hand-painting designs onto a wide range of different pots.