The car juddered along a gravel drive that led up a steep slope. I congratulated myself on my achievements so far. I had successful negotiated the airport, the car hire desk, the SatNav in the hire car and the unfamiliar Italian roads-all despite my lack of progress on the BBC’s Introduction to Italian. Now, I had actually managed to find my destination (I decided to overlook the fact that I had been driving backwards and forwards along the main road for the past thirty minutes trying to find the actual location of the vineyard).
Aliberti Vigneto
I had finally spotted the name crudely painted on a white-washed, wooden sign. It was barely visible from the road and was hanging with a slight tilt on one side. The nearby bushes were encroaching upon it, almost entirely obliterating the ‘A’.
As I wobbled along the stones at a snail’s pace, I tried to take in my immediate surroundings. All I could see was green. Thick, tall, lush green. I decided to take this as a good sign. The gravel drive continued upwards and turned gradually to the left. The green started to peter out and other colours began to make their appearance. Brown fencing cut through the landscape, bright yellow flowers peeked out from the hedges, a grey stone urn rose up from the ground. Eventually a house appeared in front of me. My house, which was a strange thought.
I parked the car under the shade of a large tree and left its confines very happily. After more than two hours of driving I was in need of a stretch and some refreshments. I pulled the bags out of the boot and carried them over to the front door. As I approached the house I noted its condition. It could generously be called ‘distressed’. The wooden steps leading up to the door creaked and groaned painfully as I walked up them. The front door was once red but now only thin traces of paint clung onto the wood. I started looking through the keys I had been given by the solicitor in order to find the one for the front door, but I noted with some unease that the door could probably be opened with a sharp jolt.
Upon opening the door I found myself in a spacious hallway with several doors leading off in different directions, all of which were closed. The air was almost yellow due to the amount of dust hanging about the place. I deposited my bags on the floor and opened the nearest door. It led into a small sitting room that was crammed with furniture. A wood-burning fireplace took up most of the space on one wall. The rest of the walls were covered with framed pictures, mostly oil paintings of landscapes.
I left the sitting room and went back into the hall. I was eager to find the kitchen so I could have some water. It was very hot and stuffy in the house. Thankfully the door at the end of the hallway opened up into an expansive, farmhouse style kitchen. It was fortunately much brighter, and much cleaner, in here compared to what I had seen of the rest of the house. The kitchen stretched for the whole width of the house and the far wall had windows along its entire length that looked out onto the fields beyond. I guessed the fields must be south-facing as the sun was streaming in through the glass despite the late hour of the afternoon.
The room was functional but it still retained an old-fashioned Italian charm. There were open shelves and an obviously very old, carved wooden dresser on one wall whilst in front of the windows was a range cooker that looked as if it could make enough food to feed a village. A deep butler-style sink was in the far corner and cabinets with twisted vines painted onto the doors ran along the floor. The worktop was a thick, dark wood and an oak dining table with several chairs placed around it dominated the centre of the room. Several pots of herbs, in varying stages of life, were dotted along the windowsills.
I made a beeline for the sink and hoped there would be some type of container I could use in order to have a drink of water. The tap was a bit stiff but thankfully turned and water that appeared clean came out. That was something at least. I discovered a collection of cups in a nearby cupboard and found that two long drinks of water were enough to refresh me.
I looked out of the windows, now able to appreciate the warmth and light of the Italian sun. As I took in the view in front of me, I decided that exploring the rest of the house could wait in favour of exploring the outside. A door near the sink led me out of the kitchen and into what I took to be the back garden. It was cobbled and neat with large, stone urns that were spilling flowers over their edges all the way to the ground. Beyond the cobbles lay the fields where, I presumed, grape vines growing. They seemed to stretch forever over the flat land. A low, stone wall separated the garden from the fields. I walked over and rested my elbows on the top of the wall, drinking in the view and the quiet and the gentle breeze. There was a sweet smell in the air that I couldn’t identify. I took a few moments to contemplate that this was all mine. It did not seem possible. Things like this didn’t happen to normal people like me.
My right hand went instinctively to my left, ring finger. I felt the emptiness there. I still wasn’t used to it-the emptiness. The ring I had worn for over a year still felt conspicuously absent. My thoughts fluttered briefly back to Tom and how different everything could have been. I saw them both, Tom and Marianne, my supposedly best friend and maid of honour. I saw their serious yet not unhappy faces as they informed me of their new found affection for each other. I saw the dress I would never wear hanging in the cupboard. I heard the concerned voices as various suppliers were cancelled. I pushed the thoughts away. None of that mattered now. I had a new life now, a fresh start.
I straightened up and decided to explore the rest of the outside. I had spotted a few outbuildings as I had left the kitchen and was curious about what they contained. I walked over to the nearest one which was clearly a storage shed as it was filled with various farming equipment, some of it rather ancient looking. I had no idea what anything was or whether it was still usable. The building next to that one housed large, wooden vats that were clearly part of the wine making process. Again, I had no idea how to actually use anything. My lack of wine making knowledge was starting to dawn on me. The next building had barrels stacked from the floor to the ceiling and empty glass bottles lying on the floor. Hopefully the barrels were full so I had at least some wine to start off with. I clearly had a steep learning curve ahead of me but I was never afraid of hard work and I was a fast learner. As I left the the door slammed shut loudly behind me. This place definitely needed some TLC but at least it was all standing and there was everything I needed to make a go of this venture.
I walked further along the cobbles and was about to open the door to the final outbuilding when it was suddenly flung open and I found myself face-to-face with a man I had never seen before. He was the archetypal Italian, all thick black hair, dark eyes and olive skin. He stood at least six feet tall but as he was leaning against the doorframe I suspected he would be even taller if he stood up straighter. He started speaking rapidly in Italian and I desperately tried to pick up anything I could remember from my BBC course but came up blank.
Stupid piece of crap.
“Um, I’m sorry but I don’t speak much Italian,” a slight understatement on my part. “Do you speak English?” I mentally crossed my fingers as I didn’t see us making much progress otherwise.
He stared at me for a few seconds before replying.
“Si, I speak English.”
“Ok, I don’t suppose you would mind repeating everything you just said in English would you?” I gave what I hoped was a friendly laugh but he didn’t seem amused.
“I asked who are you and what you are doing here. This is private land. You should not be here.” His voice was steady and did not betray any particular emotion.
“Well, actually I can be here. This is my vineyard now. I’m the new owner.” I used my most ‘yes, I do have authority here’ tone and hoped he picked up on it-surely tone must be international?
I saw his face cloud over and his dark eyes bore down on mine. That had clearly been the wrong thing to say.
“What do you mean?” was his reply, his voice edged with an emotion I didn’t particularly like.
"It was my grandfather’s vineyard. He left it to me in his will." My authoritative tone was wavering. I was also beginning to question why I was continuing to explain myself to someone who was effectively a complete stranger.
"Senior Aliberti left the vineyard to you?" His expression was now one of disbelief. He began to shake his head vigorously. "No, Senior Aliberti did not have any grandchildren. He never spoke of you."
"Well," I coughed nervously, glancing around the outbuilding, "we never actually met. He was my mother’s father and apparently they had a big falling out before I was born."
"So why would Senior Aliberti leave the vineyard to you?" He asked in an accusatory tone.
"I guess he wanted to keep the vineyard in the family. My...my mother died five years ago." I expected the usual words of sympathy or condolence but none came so I continued. "I guess I'm the only one left."
His mouth set into a tight line and his hands rested firmly on his waist. I started to get the feeling he didn't like me.
"Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr?” I paused, waiting for him to fill in the blank. After several seconds passed he finally obliged.
“Bianchi. Gino Bianchi.”
“Well, Mr Bianchi,” I decided keeping things formal was probably for the best, “It was lovely meeting you, but I should probably go and take a look at the vineyards now. Could you see yourself out?” I hadn’t exactly established what he was doing here but figured that could wait for another day. I was about to walk away when his voice stopped me.
"No."
"Excuse me?" His reply caught me off guard and I looked at him once again. A strange look of calm had come over his face.
"I said no. You do not need to see the vineyards. Senior Aliberti left the vineyard to me. Not to you!"
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