
Breakfast under the pergola
Home-baked crostata, ricotta from a neighbouring farm, seasonal fruit, fresh eggs, and coffee poured until you say enough. Breakfast is served until late — this is a holiday, not an appointment.
In the House
We are a house, not a hotel. There is no reception desk, no minibar, no evening turndown — but there is always a pot of coffee, a chilled bottle in the fridge, and one of us close by.

Home-baked crostata, ricotta from a neighbouring farm, seasonal fruit, fresh eggs, and coffee poured until you say enough. Breakfast is served until late — this is a holiday, not an appointment.

A stone-edged pool set into the terraces, framed by lavender and oleanders. Loungers, cotton towels, jugs of iced tea and a shaded corner for the hottest hours.

Two hundred olive trees, a small kitchen garden, roses, lavender and a fig tree older than any of us. Wander at will — the house cat will probably lead the way.

Two evenings a week in season we fire the outdoor oven and set the long table. Local charcuterie to start, pizza until you can't, and a bowl of fresh figs to close.

A shaded reading loggia, hammocks between the olives, a small library of Italian art books, and massages arranged in the room on request.

Country bikes and e-bikes waiting by the gate. We hand-draw the route ourselves — quiet white roads down toward the sea or up into the hill villages.

Spring lunches when the wisteria opens, midsummer aperitivi under the fig tree, autumn olive harvest days, and a fireplace when the tramontana blows through in October.

A dining loggia, a candle-lit garden table, sun terraces on three sides of the house and quiet corners for a book — most days you'll never come indoors.

A shelf of Italian novels, English classics and cookbooks by the kitchen. Take one to the pool — bring it back whenever.