It is a Saturday morning, when you wake to find that despite the famed Tuscan sun hanging high in the air, the temperature has dropped suddenly. But rather than mourn the end of the lovely warm weather, you see this as a fantastic opportunity to go shopping for a new coat… and perhaps some boots.  

The day wakes you gently, and you awake smiling because today you are off to Volterra! In the heart of Tuscany, Italy, Volterra is a small town most famous for its production of Alabastro (alabaster) stone.

You drive, through the famed rolling hills, on the autostrada with the equally famed crazy Italian drivers. You pass the turn off for San Gimigniano, driving through the surrounding town below. Your car winds you around bends as you roller-coaster along the scenic country roads. Your windows down, the wind in your hair is perfumed with the scents of spring flowers blooming, wildly, in the fields you pass.

Driving through Italy, seeing the beautiful countryside, the greenery, the little hill-top towns perched atop mountains, castles honoring the history of this land, you are free of all problems. This is freedom. This is happiness.

Soon, you are in Volterra, in the province of Pisa. With just over 11,000 inhabitants, this town is small yet amazingly historical. Having been an important Etruscan centre in ancient times, centuries later Florence repeatedly challenged Volterra to gain control of the town. Eventually, the Medici family took over.

Today, the town has a relaxed atmosphere. The sunshine casts shadows into the piazza, falling between the trees and the ancient buildings that create the winding narrow streets.  

You wander into the Piazza dei Priori, where you see a restaurant with tables spilling out into the square. Perusing the menu, you are approached by a friendly waiter who charms you into dining here. Spying the ornate interior, you decide to eat inside. You are lead to a table, and take a seat. The menu tempts you with a range of seafood and game. Being close enough to the coast here, and still surrounded by the forests famous for their game, you have the best of both worlds.

This is the Etruria Restaurant, coined the ‘temple of Volterra Gastronomy’. Surrounded on the outside by medieval towers and palaces, the interior awes you with the geometric design of the painted arched ceiling and smiling faces peer at you from the photo frames on the wall.

Your companion chooses meat dishes, so you opt for the seafood, allowing you to taste both options. Your gnocchi with a creamy salmon sauce is so delicious, as is your friend’s pasta with a ragù meat sauce. For main, you sample your friend’s stinco (pork shin), the meat just falls off the bone and is so flavoursome, like no pork dish you have ever tasted. You are presented with a huge serving of calamari and prawns, so generous in its proportion you barely even make a dint before you can eat no more. Or maybe just one or two more tastes…

After lunch, you head out into the piazza, cooled by the shadows cast by the amazing buildings in its surrounds. You wander the narrow streets, overhearing the jovial conversations of the townspeople laughing together, out for a relaxing afternoon walk. You head up a narrow street to the Parco Acheologico. Wandering through the park, whose grass fields roll up and down like waves of the ocean, the grounds are dotted with couples and families lazing on the green, sprawled out to take in the sun.

You do a loop of the park, listening to the cheery chirp of singing birds in the trees. Their song makes tangible your own contentment as you wander along.

Exiting the park, you head down a winding laneway, surrounded on both sides by an ancient brick wall that guides you out of the park. You wander along the town’s narrow cobblestone streets and eventually find yourselves in the Piazza XX Settembre. A statue of an archangel stands guard over the locals who gather on the piazza’s edge to look out over the spectacular view.

In this piazza, you spy the Museo della Tortura - a torture museum! You enter, seeing first of all a chair covered in nasty-looking nails. Traps and cages and instruments of torture line the walls with little plaques intricately detailing the use. Some are accompanied by paintings graphically clarifying the purpose of these ancient devices. You wince in sympathy for the people who experienced first hand the use of these items. You and your friend grip each others hands as you look at a guillotine.

Fortunately the museum is small and it is not long before you are out in the warm and cleansing sun. Exiting the torture museum, you laugh to yourself about the pertinence of Volterra being mentioned in the book Hannibal by Thomas Harris, and as a setting for Stephenie Meyer’s vampire thriller, New Moon.

Alas, there are no vampires out today and you are free to explore more of this quaint city.

You continue on your strolling, aimlessly wandering the streets before walking out into a piazza where you hear a chorus of masculine cheers and boos. Approaching a bar, you hear the commentary of a football match being broadcast from within a bar. Men crowd around, straining to hear. Standing back from the crowd, it is great to watch as hands go up in spirited joy at a positive result. The men clap each other on the back and teenagers cheer loudly as they wave large flags in the air in celebration.

As the crowd disperses, you wander into a giant alabaster store. The alabaster production here dates back to Etruscan times. The relatively soft stone (1.5 to 3 on the Mohs hardness scale) lends itself to design of curved lamp shades, small jewellery boxes inlaid with semi-precious gemstones, ornaments, and a range of other items that serve only to beautify.

Exiting the store, you walk towards the a wall that offers stunning views over the countryside. The landscape is breathtaking, with ancient brick buildings leading down the side of a hill like stairs into the valley below.

As with most things in life, you cannot quite capture on film the feelings, the beauty, the experience of being here, but you try.

You wander back into the maze of streets, walking up and down the streets, stopping for a coffee, and convinced by the display of gelato into having an ice-cream that is very near to the most delicious gelato of your life.  

Licking away contentedly, you wander on and on, up a steep street that leads you through to a small market - only 6 or 7 stands, and then out of the city walls and to your car.

Whilst you could definitely stay here longer, the promise of the drive ahead eases any sadness you may have for leaving. The bluesy Italian music of Fred Buscaglione serenades you on your journey home, the sunset salutes you and you head back through the hills.

The Palio della Stella, which takes place each year in Tuscany’s small town of Bagno a Ripoli, forms part of a day filled with community events on the second Sunday of September.  

Bagno a Ripoli divides itself into quarters to form teams that compete against each other in various sports, games and activities - each of which is inspired by history, with origins that date back to Medieval and Renaissance times. Townspeople gather to watch a series of traditional gala events such as the egg and spoon race, tug of war, sack races, and the like, to ascertain which of the town’s quarters - Contrada Alfiere, Contrada Cavallo, Contrada Mulino and Contrada Torre - will ultimately win.

The crowd moves from one arena to the next to watch the action - from the town’s central park to the streets and back as runners speed by with carts in La Corsa con i Barrocci, where one of the locals is placed into a cart that is then furiously pushed along the streets by a runner hurling towards the finish line. Each cart and its contents weighs over 110 kilos, and therefore requires the runners to be fast and strong.

There is La Corsa con i Cherchi, where runners course the streets with a wheel kept in motion with a wooden stick, as locals scream out in support for their team. Enthusiasm does not wane for the running of the relay.

As the street races conclude, the townsfolk slowly wander to the edges of the town’s grassed arena, seating themselves on the sloped grassed sides to watch as the biggest and strongest of the town’s men heave and grunt as they partake in the tug of war. The losing team crumble to the ground as the winners trip backwards with the force of their win.

At the end of each event, the spectators and fellow participants belonging to the winning quarter cheer and punch fists of victory into the air, the others, smiling also, pat their backs in a show of friendly support. Everyone is happy and relaxed, laughing and cheering.

Whilst the Sunday sun slowly softens in the sky, representatives from each Contrada form the Renaissance costume parade. Again, comprising of four groups, who are each led in to the arena by a marching band in Renaissance costume, each group attempts to out-do the others in terms of costuming, music, and choreography. The four groups, in a mass of velvet and lace costuming, thick tights, braided hair and swords, gather in the centre of the arena.

The crowd watches, all the whilst chatting amongst themselves, as they sit around the arena divided into large groups reflecting their relevant alliance with each Contrada.

All of a sudden, the crowd quietens as a group of young locals, in Renaissance costumes of tights and puffed-sleeve silk shirts in geographic patterns, gather in the centre of the arena. It is clear that the tall fair-haired boy is the star of the show. Flags are twirled, each of the flag throwers jumping and spinning and rolling, all the while throwing flags high up into the air and being caught in increasingly spectacular ways. The crowd oohs and ahhs at each turn.

For the grand finale, one of the group lays on the ground as each bounds over the top. Then a second person lays next to him and is leaped over by the others. Then the third, fourth and so on until there is an impossibly long line of trusting bodies laying in a row for the blond boy to jump over. Everyone watches with baited breath - will he make it or will he land thuddingly on the ribs of one of his friends?

Drums roll, the crowd is silent, and he runs, flag in hand billowing in the rush of his running speed. He leaps, he soars. He lands… centimetres past the last of his team. The crowd cheers wildly, whistling and applauding. The boy nonchalantly bows, as the others raise from their posts. Forming a long line, they all bow and then leave the field.

Now the anticipation of the crowd is at its peak. Just moments away from the reason people are gathered here. The Palio della Stella!

4 men appear on horseback, each regal in his Renaissance costume. Cantering around the edges of the track that circumferences the arena, they practice their run.

A gold star is placed on a hook overhanging the finishing line. The crowd cheers and claps as each horseman is introduced. Four gorgeous local girls in long gowns of rich velvet, their hair plaited and twirled in royal form, stand on podiums near the finish line.

As the tension and anticipation of the crowd is just about at breaking point. And now… GO! One horseman and his beast races around the track, building up frenetic speed. Sword in hand, he approaches the finish line overhung by the gold star. His sword is outstretched at the last moment and he spears the star through the centre, the force tearing it from its perch.

The crowd roars at his triumph, as he casually canters over to one of the damsels. Presenting the star to her on his sword, she regally reaches to remove it, kissing him elegantly on the cheek.

Next up is the second horseman. Will he get the star to present to his lady? The horse beats the track in heavy gallops that are heard over the silenced crowd. And yes, he gets the star - and his kiss.

The next two repeat the process, each spearing the star, each presenting it to their waiting lady.

For the next round, the star is slightly smaller. Each rider rings the track, attempts to spear the star. Only 3 succeed. Only 3 ladies are presented with a star.

The final round, the star is minuscule. How is it possible? But each horseman has his turn, 2 succeed, 2 do not. There is the elimination round. The crowd is tense. Which local boy will do good?

Drums roll, the crowd cheers, the horse sets off, its rider cool in his saddle as he leans in, stretching forth the sword and easily piercing the golden sword. Oh the tension!

The next horseman repeats the exercise, just as easily spearing the star. A second elimination round is called for.

Parts of the crowd are on their feet, heads in hand as the riders ring the track, reach for the star with the seemingly improbably small centre. It is pierced by only one rider and the crowd goes wild. His lady kisses him on the lips as she is presented with the winning star, and the crowd cheers on.

After some time, the crowd disperses to get pizza and pasta and famously good antipasti from the outdoor restaurant set up for the festival.

Next is the final spectacular of the evening - fireworks! In a second field, empty but for people of all ages seated on the cool grass, their heads turned to the heavens as pyrotechnic stars burst their vibrant colours into the black sky.

What a marvelous thing, that in this world of technology and deadlines, of computers and fast food, it is here in a small town in Italy where a Renaissance festival entertains a tiny town. Where this group of human beings gathers, as they have for centuries, to enjoy such a simple and traditional festival, and finally, relaxes to the spectacular sight of bright lights flowering in the night sky.

Morning:

Your first thought of the morning is of the weather, as you peep open your eyes to the bright morning sun. You are grateful for the the beautiful day that is. Rising from bed, you hum as you prepare yourself for your day, continuing as you exit the house, towards the Santa Maria Novella train station in Florence, Italy. It is here that you board your train to Pisa.

The Train:

The carriage fills with people heading to Pisa with you, some to the nearby Pisa airport, and others, sans baggage to explore the town. Then there are the locals, on their way to somewhere in between.

You try not to watch as couples passionately say their goodbyes then separate from each other as the train parts from the station.

As the train picks up speed, you watch the Arno river race alongside the train, its current not quite keeping pace. Joggers bound by in rhythmic motion along the river edge, sometimes in lycra-clad packs, sometimes in solitude.

From the other window you see small farms, horses in little fields, a pink house, a man-made lagoon, all flicking past.

Soon the view is the stunning Tuscan countryside, displaying itself in the window panes, before changing again as you arrive in the small historical town of Pisa.

Pisa:

Alighting from the train, you exit into the Piazza della Stazione where a group of Scotsmen in matching blue and white shirts stand guard over a large flag sprawled tauntingly over the ground, as they anxiously await the start of an upcoming football match that evening.

Crossing Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II, you follow the road, around 2 large roundabouts, and head down Corso Italia. The street is closed to traffic and is alive with groups of locals, many young due to the nearby university.

Trendy clothing stores line the street, broken by cafés and gelaterias, where outdoor tables are spill onto the traffic-free roadway. Locals seat themselves at the tables, drinking short coffees over long conversations.

You manage to dodge temptation at the first three gelaterias you pass, heading on, straight ahead.

Some 15 minutes from the train station, you arrive at the Arno river which has continued on with you from Florence.

Just across the river, you arrive in Piazza Garibaldi, where you spy the most tempting gelateria yet. You give yourself in to a cone of frutti di bosco and fragola – fruity flavours that play with your thrilled taste buds.

Walking on and on, you search the skyline for your first glimpse, but to no avail.

And then, you round a corner and ahead of you, just at the end of the street you are right now walking on, you see, ahead, a bottle green and white intricately tiled facade of the Duomo (cathedral). Built in 1064, in any other setting it would be the highlight of your day.

But as if this stunning cathedral is not alone worth the effort of visiting this little city, just next to it is the reason you are here – along with literally thousands of others today…. The Leaning Tower of Pisa.

The Piazza dei Miracoli:

The entire piazza buzzes with a swarm of people gathered here from all corners of the globe. And though there are so many people, their prescence actually adds to the experience of being here. In the mid-day sun, the grass fields of the area have become sun beds for all.

Signs pleading to stay off the grass are ignored in a mass lie-in protest as people relax on the grass, some reading, some taking the must-have pushing-over the leaning tower photo, couples who whisper intimately to each other, families with small rascally dogs that cause nearby families to speak with the dog owner and little kids to stop their parents to watch.

One small white fluffy dog, only a few months old, spies a sausage dog on a nearby family blanket. The white dog barks a friendly salute, and then starts bouncing frantically around the other dog, playfully lowering himself so low into the grass then springing up and away. The older, calmer dog is a little confused at first but soon starts to play the same game. Tens of people gather to laugh and watch as the dogs play, squinting in the beautiful sunshine and smiling at the simple pleasures.

The Leaning Tower:

You have made a booking online for your tower climb, and 15 minutes prior to your allocated time, you stand and enter into the nearby ticket office. You are given your tickets and move along into the locker room where you place your belongings.

Back out into the sun, you walk towards the tower.

There she stands, her famous tilt, her spiraling outer design, her crowned top. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. You admire the Italian attitude of lauding a terrible mistake into one of the world’s most famous and recognisable sights!

Built as the Duomo’s bell tower, the lean began just several levels into the building process. Over time, the lean continued to increase until in 1998 when a solution was found to stop the process from continuing.

Precisely at the time of your booking, a guard allows your small group to enter into the tower. You try to remember to pace yourself, but your excitement bounds you up the first few flights until you meet with the behinds of those ahead of you. Stopping to take photos from the slitted windows, you see the people below shrink within each passing window.

The stairs are tight and spiralled. Centuries of footsteps have worn away at the marble stairs, leaving smooth indents. You notice how on one side of the tower, the indents are to the left of the stair, yet as you round and round, the indents move across to the lean. How wonderful to think that every person who has been here has been forced by the same gravitational and natural instinct to righten the inclination.

Winding and winding you come to a small balcony, where a guard leads you out into the sunshine. There are steps here where a group of Italian teens has stopped and one asks you take a photo of them, smiling and cheeky, with the bell of the tower features in the background of their photo.

You continue around the balcony before arriving at a tiny doorway offering you more stairs. You enter in, spiraling then rising out into the sun. You are now at the top of the tower.

The sun overhead provides you with a clear day that allows a perfect view that spreads out over the edges of the town of Pisa, to ragged mountains and smooth fields in the beyond.

Looking across from one side of the tower’s top platform to the other, you can really see the lean. Tilting yourself over the edge, you spy the people, now mere sprawling ants, in the fields below. But looking out, you are just free, here, as if up in the sky looking down and out at the splendors before you.

Leaving from Florence, Tuscany, you all pack into your vehicle to drive through the wondrous rolling hills, their beauty famously epitomised in paintings and poems throughout history. Every glance is a photo. You stop a moment along the way to take some photos, pick flowers from the road side and absorb the scenery. You hear only the birds singing, their cheerful chirping epitomising your happiness in being here. 

After what seems like mere minutes, but is in fact just over 100 kilometres from the centre of Florence, you arrive in Montalcino. In the province of Siena, in Tuscany, Montalcino is a stunning hill town, with origins dating back to Etruscan times. 

The famed Tuscan sun sits high in the vibrant blue sky as you enter into the city through a large arched doorway in the pale grey stone walls that surround the town. Some of these medieval walls date back to the 13th century. You run curious fingers across the ridges of the rough stones, feeling their cool hardness, and the lick of the light moss that sits in the crevices. 

From the outer edges of the city, you can see over into the valleys below, where vineyards drag across the countryside. The ancestor of these grapes is the famed Brunello di Montalcino. The only place in the world where Brunello is made, its rich taste values the 20 euro or more per bottle. 

Entering into the city, narrow streets dissect the city’s hills, paved with large flat paving stones which drum the click-clack of your heels, the rhythm echoing that of the horse hooves that would have pulled carriages through these lanes in times long past. 

Along these streets, small doorways porthole you into stores, bars and restaurants. The clutter and buzz of diners seeps out into the streets, the chitter-chatter cutting into the click clack of your passing, bringing to you the sounds of happy diners, nestled where leisurely sips are taken and forks hover in mid-air as lunch-time conversations take priority over anything else in the world. 

The light, cool greyness of the town engulfs you and the smooth expanse of the blue-sky lid contrasts with the cobbled stones that construct the entire city. You wind upwards to a piazza which houses a pillared-front church. The silence and tranquillity of this area is religious in itself. 

Passing on, the roads wind you around to other churches, and towers that point upwards like accusatory fingers. You enter into one church. It is small and cool inside, and you escape from the expansive heat of the outdoors. Your pupils take a moment to dilate in adjustment to the darkness here, and the coolness breathes refreshingly over your warmed skin. Marble pillars stand guard over the parallel pews that dissect this cavernous space, which balloons above the extravagant altar into a domed ceiling dissected by concentric lines centred by a circular window from which enters sunshine illuminating the altar below. 

Back outside in the heat of the day, you wind through more narrow stone streets, pausing to photograph picturesque doorways, curtains billow from windows, dancing in the breeze, whilst flowers in planter-boxes below wave like an appreciative audience. Arches embrace and support narrow lanes. Even the laundry pegged outside of open-shuttered windows is romantic here. 

Towers loom above, dissecting the blue of the sky. Green trees and shrubs stand amongst the cobbled streets. Stairs wind up and down the town, making it a labyrinth of tight streets to explore. Hours pass as you wind up and down the city, rounding bends and traversing straight streets. 

After some hours of winding and wandering, you head to the city’s peak. Here, you arrive in Piazza Fortezza, housing a castle perched in the centre of a large field of green green grass. You lay yourselves down on the grass, feeling the coolness of the blades on your skin, being cooled on the underneath whilst your faces are warmed by the Tuscan sun. White clouds have formed in the sky and dance above you. There is absolute silence here, shattered only by your voices sharing the found images made out in the cloud forms above. A sentry, a tower, a rooster, all float by overhead. 

Cooled and re-energised, you enter into the castle. Pentagonal in design, this castle was constructed in the 12th century. Entering into the castle fortress, you find yourselves in an expansive open-aired courtyard where large pebbles crunch underfoot. Here you see the church of Sant’Agostino, and the Musei Riuniti (museum). At the end of the courtyard there is an enotecca, selling some of the world’s best wines, all perched on precarious shelving dwarfing you all, as it reaches up into the high ceilings. 

After perusing the wines on offer, you wander back out into the courtyard where wooden tables offer you a place to sit outside, shaded by umbrellas, whilst you sample some of the local wine. Served with plump olives and salty nuts, your mouths are awash with pleasures. An afternoon is whiled away, as the wine bottle slowly empties, the sun lowering in the sky. Wandering back to the car, the sunlight falling on the streets has been turned down a little and the colours are shadowed somewhat in the afternoon. 

Driving back to Florence, the sunset is framed by your window pane. Again, stopping to take photographs the scenery is changing before your eyes in the dimming light. Always beautiful, as you imagine it must have always been and always will, kept as it is with utter respect by its inhabitants and visitors.