Mr & Mrs Smith

Some places in the world have such good advance publicity that before you even get there, you’re already in love with them. Paris is one such place. New York is another. And Tuscany? Cue some serious sighs. Let’s just say that if you ever had to imagine what heaven looks, smells and feels like, Tuscan countryside would be quick to spring to mind. There’s something so incredibly evocative – and a little unreal – about that landscape of long twisting roads and mediaeval towns, ancient olive groves, vineyards bathed in extravagant sunshine, and flat plains studded with handsome piles of farm-houses. And afterwards – long after you’ve come home, unpacked your bags and loaded up the images onto your computer – there’s still a sense that the whole thing was a dream.

Conti di San Bonifacio Wine Resort inspires that same reverie. The two-hour drive south from Pisa is pleasant enough. It’s pretty much a straight road through an alternating mix of pretty countryside and hair-raising autostrada until you turn off into a long narrow dirt track, clatter over a little bridge and then, just when you’re convinced you’re lost, the resort looms into sight. Sitting high on a knoll with commanding views of distant hills and that glorious vista of cypress, stumpy olive trees, private vineyard and blue horizon, the wine resort was, certainly for these Smiths, everything an Italian holiday should be. And then some.

Credit for much of this intimacy goes to the Conti’s wonderful manager, Amanda. Brooklyn-born and trained at the Culinary Institute of America, she delivers old-fashioned hospitality, charming company and terrific home-cooked meals with good humour and an infectious laugh. Our first dinner of asparagus risotto, and thick loops of bucatini flavoured with pancetta and softly caramelised onions set the tone for an Easter weekend of laid-back calm, unobtrusive service and lots of lush Syrah and Cabernet Franc produced in the San Bonifacio’s small private vineyard.

And because there are only five rooms, it’s so easy to slip into a state of mind where you actually believe that you own the place. The best rooms are in the east and west corners of the house. Here, it’s all very shabby chic, as if Martha Stewart had dropped by recently and edited out anything that might either seem contrived or detract from the illusion. Maybe that’s why there are no clocks in sight anywhere. Or room numbers.

Instead, soft colours seduce the senses. Taupe and linen frame blonde wood beams and tiny beaded chandeliers. Great pelts of cow hide soften the stone floors while the artfully aged desks, armoires and bookcases are stacked high with design magazines, travel books and photography opuses. And like a Merchant Ivory moment, shuttered windows open out over the terracotta-tiled roof where in the morning mist – serenaded by a soundtrack of gentle cooing of doves – the distant cypresses march across the landscape like arboreal supermodels. 

Downstairs, the French doors of the vast living room – tastefully decorated by the Countess in a low-key mix of pale colours, deep sofas and vintage furniture rescued from fleamarkets in London – open out into the swimming pool, pretty patios and lawns bordered by lavender and blue-flowered rosemary bushes. All this I in fact note only in passing. While two guests signed up for an in-residence wine-tasting class and one learned how to make pasta with Amanda in the vast kitchen, I spent an unapologetically significant amount of that weekend curled up on the sofa alternating between languid naps and watching a Nigella Lawson cooking show that I’d picked from the huge collection of DVDs and CDs. ‘Are we seriously watching Nigella cook? Mr Smith murmured. ‘We’re in Italy!’  ‘But she’s cooking risotto,’ I countered. ‘It couldn’t be more appropriate. And I’m so incredibly relaxed right now. That’s what a holiday is all about. Go see what’s for lunch…’

Happily, the weather behaved during the weekend but such was the spell of indolence, we rarely ventured beyond the pool deck much less moved a muscle unless a meal or a drink was involved. One afternoon, Amanda served a lunch of rigatoni flavoured with nothing more than slivers of zucchini, olive oil and lemon. So simple and, like so much of Italy, so good. We ate in silence, trapped between the hypnotic view and the occasional cascade of notes from the wind-chimes. In the distance, a late afternoon breeze ruffled the olive leaves with a silvery shimmer. That night, we shut the shutters, drew the drapes and climbed into the soft white-linened bed and slept without any dreams. But that was probably because we were already in one.