EASTER in Florence. I have found another ancient, cobbled road, hidden by equally ancient stone walls, overgrown, covered in moss and barely negotiable on foot, that snakes from behind Santa Margherita a Montìci out into open countryside—a countryside that, over the past few days, has finally, for we have endured a long, wet, grey winter, burst into colour. A profusion of greens—emerald, olive, juniper, pear and pine—provides a lush background to wildflowers. Here a patch of early red poppies, there a carpet of yellow daisies, everywhere pink cherry blossom. The air is sweet and invigorating, the earth warm and comforting.
We have been breakfasting, lunching and even dining on our terrace. What could be more perfect? Well, I’ll tell you: a complete and utter absence of mosquitoes. I have spent,…
