The bell rings on the hour from the church a few cobblestone streets away, peaking in between some cypress trees.The rooster crows too. Five minutes later another bell rings, a reminder that the day is beginning.

Overlooking a sprinkling of olive trees, I’m about to sip my morning tea and tear away a piece of croissant already warm from the Tuscan sun, when I notice a small striped snake only inches away moving towards me.In my broken Italian I cheerily point out the suspicious serpent nearby to Paula, the lovely woman who serves me breakfast and tidies my room. An unexpected shriek including “mamma mia” escapes from her pursed lips, summoning the elderly neighbours from up the hill.

Straight out of a “Beverly Hill Billies ” episode, the 60’s television comedy, they appear armed each with a shovel. A lanky grey haired gentleman smacks the snake on the head, his wife in gloves and khakis scoops up the slithery beast and off they go, up the steep driveway, the snake, now dead in their possession, leaving me to my tea and a couple from New York seated sweetly across from me. The forty-something guy’s carefully chosen words and the freckled young woman’s freshly French manicured nails confirm they are honeymooners, a reminder of new love.

I glance over at the pretty stone house with a clay roof only a few metres away and notice a young man carefully hanging baby clothes on the clothesline two stories up. I remember a baby’s cry that night, muffled by the sound of a barking dog.

Time seems to stand still in this little Tuscan village, Montalcino, dating back to medieval times, the centre of the famous and coveted Brunello wines.

Each night- enroute to my next culinary adventure of pecorino cheese, Pici pasta(like thick spaghetti) in wild boar sauce and insalata mista(mixed salad),I pass a group of women in their 60’s and 70’s sitting side by side on a bench, chatting and looking out into the sunset over the hills.

I bravely summmon a “Buona Sera” – “good evening ” -hoping to break the silence of stares. They return the reply softly and continue on with their conversation which I imagine is about grandchildren, gardening,and the fresh pasta and sauce they had made that day.

Around the corner, some men are gathered in a local bar, arms around each other. Simple hearty sounds of soccer, grappa and women.

I pop into a gift store admiring the local crafts. The young owner tells me he thinks I’m a romantic by the look in my eyes.
I smile, hoping that maybe it’s not just a line from a young Italian guy wanting to make a buck.

I hop down four flights of stairs that carry me to my room.
The wind cools the night, the leaves of the poplar trees sound like people chatting in unison. The church bell rings again. It’s midnight. The dog barks. Then all is quiet.

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