La Bandita Townhouse

Laundry. Lovely, clean, mountains of Alpine-fresh laundry, folded, and ready to wear, nestling in the housekeeper’s bosom. Sorry, but that was the first image that popped into my head when Mrs Smith asked what my highlight had been at this mediaeval mini-city of yore. We were playing ‘top three moments’ as we sped home, a useful game after a party or weekend, to milk the pleasure a teeny bit more. It probably also helps stave off Alzheimer’s.

‘What!’ screamed Mrs Smith. ‘You’re rating the laundry service at the former Renaissance palazzo above the ricotta-stuffed courgette flowers? Are you completely insane?’ It’s true that the fiori di zucca ripieni, a local speciality, were very good, light and crispy and subtle, as I knew they would be. Funnily enough, that’s why I ordered them, but it didn’t seem the moment to point this out to Mrs Smith, who had eaten most of them.

Anyway, there was something reassuring and heart-warming about opening our door less than 24 hours after checking in, to find the signora clutching a pile of my pressed pants. I should explain. We were nowhere near the Alps, and La Bandita is not a launderette. It is, or was, a 15th-century nunnery knocked into a contemporary 12-bedroom hotel in a hilltop town in Tuscany. We arrived on one of those dreamy hot days, when the red Sienese bricks baked like they were back in the oven. The night before, Mrs Smith had thrown a last-minute party in London, and flown out at dawn straight from the dancefloor. I had been charging round northern Italy in a rented Fiat, following the Mille Miglia, a demented three-day road-race for 1950s sports cars. Neither of us looked exactly spry, or had any clean clothes, as we vomited ourselves from the Fiat onto La Bandita’s cool granite doorstep at the end of the main street of this World Heritage old town.

Worst of all, we were early, the most annoying thing any guest can be. ‘Not a problem!’ beamed Virginia, the vision of beauty behind a Mac. ‘Glass of wine?’ Those are the six words I always want to hear when I walk into someone’s house. Followed by: ‘What time would you like lunch?’ When she lightly added that laundry is complimentary, and that breakfast is served practically until lunchtime, a tiny tear may have entered my eye.

Truth be told, I had wondered how we would amuse ourselves in a town that has barely changed since 1460. Pienza was built all in one go by Pope Pius II. It’s not exactly handy for anywhere, being at least a 45-minute wiggly drive from any city. But what you don’t realise until getting here is that it stands bang in the middle of the Val d’Orcia within grasp of Montalcino, San Quirico, Montepulciano, Montichiello, Montefollonico and Siena.

This is fantasy Tuscany. A valley with everything we love about Italy, but in an acid trip. Undulating cornfields, white chalky tracks, ramrod-straight cypress trees – you get the picture. It’s probably your desktop. Pienza crowns its own little hill, and has one main street, at the end of which stands La Bandita. So as Mrs Smith slept off last night’s party, I drifted around town, gazing into the distance. Honestly, this took up a whole afternoon, as I shifted down five gears from manic to monged. This place is built for dreamers: there’s a bench every 10 yards, so you simply stagger from one to the next, contemplating how you would paint each view, if you could be bothered.

Mrs Smith used to live in Florence, and had been insisting we go to a very good party that night. Happily, she couldn’t face the 90-minute drive, and Pienza isn’t short of restaurants. So we spent the weekend eating zucchini flowers and gasping at views. There’s a spa nearby, where Virginia suggested, with her uniquely suggestive giggle, that we try – shriek of laughter! – a mud-bath massage for couples. But frankly, we had already entered a trance-like state of calm and could barely leave our room.

The rooms are like New York lofts, all light and fresh and designer. The beds seem to float mid-air, for extra levity. Sure, this is a Renaissance townhouse, so the ceilings are beamed, but they’re white-painted, so none of that Tuscan darkness. Our room overlooked the street, so I spent a lot of time watching people ambling up and down, or practicing my Italian with the old woman in the house opposite, like two mediaeval gossips. For more sophisticated chat, there’s a sort of library and bar on the first floor, where you can meet fellow guests over prosecco and giant green olives. John Voigtmann, the owner, was a New York record producer before channelling his funk into this place. He ran bands like the Strokes, Foo Fighters, and Christina Aguilera, as the framed discs on the walls prove. The fact he’s ex-music industry is betrayed in the extensive vinyl LP collection, and a clue that his wife Ondine is a travel writer is that there is even an insider in-room mini guidebook for this corner of Tuscany.

Downstairs, the big attraction is the garden and the Townhouse Caffè’s terrace, where we spent the mornings eating breakfast, watching Glaswegian chef David Mangan and his team prepare those courgette flowers in the open kitchen. I would love to say we did something beyond watching other people do things. If buying ice-creams and having long showers in Ortigia products count as activities, then we were very busy. Otherwise, I’m afraid we did diddly-squat, or dolce far niente, as they say in Italian. You can see why the laundry felt like such an achievement.