I'm starting to write this on the 12th day of Christmas, when according to legend the three Wise Kings arrived in Bethlehem bearing gifts for the baby Jesus. My gift to you are twelve artisans who have been an indispensable part of my tours and courses almost since they began. They and their families are  dear to me. I rejoice when a baby is born and when a child decides to follow in its parents’ footsteps. I cry when someone is injured and when elderly relations die.

I don’t purport to be a ‘wise king’, but much of the wisdom I attempt to pass on to you, my valued clients, I have thirstily lapped up from these artisans, who possess the wisdom of a life of doing, a variety of wisdom not taught in academic departments. Some of you have told me I’ve changed your life, of which I’m immensely proud. In fact, the credit is due to these artisans to whom I introduce you today, and to the multitude of others who I will try to bring to you in future blogs.

Massimo has been teaching our Advanced Salumi Course Tuscany since it started in 2010. He follows his grandfather and father as a butcher and norcino (butcher who cures pork). His 95-year-old father still works in the shop. Massimo brags that the only thing they've changed over the years is reducing the amount of salt in their sausages and salami. Even the spice mixture is the same. The secret recipe has been mixed and ground for them at the same drogheria (here spices are called drugs) in Carrara for 100 years. Attention to detail is important. He says that only crazy norcini would take the time to clean all the tendons from the shoulder muscles before chopping them to make sausages and salami.

Since he doesn't have any children of his own, I was overjoyed when his niece decided to join the family business five years ago. Since then they've opened a tiny wine bar where we have our tasting lunch after the workshop. Massimo is a great connoisseur of wine, as well as salumi. He also loves to talk about his philosophy and about tradition. I've learned from him about the strong connection between a product and its environment and that it should be mandatory to visit a place in order to taste its characteristic cuisine. He's the reason why you have to come to my artisans' workshops to learn how to make their products.

Vineyards clothe every hill in Tuscany. You can find hundreds of vineyard visits online and book your own. You don't need me to help you. Yet occasionally a vineyard is special because the owner is special, and I feel compelled to take my guests to experience it. Fattoria di Bacchereto is one of those. I felt Rossella's inner strength as soon as I met her. She has a clear vision of how to allow her vines to yield up their best grapes and how to make wine with respect for her grapes. When she started working with her father, he was farming like his neighbours: lots of inputs of fertilisers, herbicides and pesticides. Rossella had a different idea. She wanted to step back and allow the vines to find their own way to be strong and resilient. For example, she doesn't irrigate or add fertiliser which would encourage the roots to proliferate on the surface. If you don't give them anything, their roots will grow deep and find what they need in the soil. Maybe your yield will be lower, but the expression in your wine of your unique terroir will be stronger. When she took me to the vineyard, I observed her observing the vines as if she were continually trying to understand their personalities, as if they were people she could communicate with.  

In the cellar she has that same perception and understanding of the interactions between the grapes, the must, the natural yeasts, the temperature and the rhythm of winemaking. From Rossella I learn the art of close observation, of allowing the natural world to tell you what goals to set and how to achieve them. We go to Bacchereto on the Tastes & Textiles: Wine to Dye For and the Autumn in Tuscany tours. ​

Francesca has been a friend from even before I started Sapori & Saperi Adventures. She befriended me looking bewildered at an agricultural meeting near her farm just outside Barga. She had abandoned graphic design to buy a run-down farm to try her hand at beekeeping. She renovated the farm buildings to become her house and two apartments and a double bedroom for paying guests. Meanwhile her two donkeys were eating their way through a hillside of brambles to reveal an olive grove which she didn't know she had. Producing olive oil joined the honey and agriturismo (not to mention caring for a young daughter). She has a warm heart and open house. Her friends flock to her place, and I spent many a joyous Christmas and Easter there. And I was with her during her very difficult divorce. I've learned from her how you can be tough while also being warm and hospitable.

Wanting my clients to experience the warmth of Italian hospitality, I took them to learn about bees and mono-floral honey, but especially for pizza parties with her friends, a chance to mix with locals. Now she's a chef. She was at the forefront of a new initiative by Coldiretti, her agricultural association, to teach people with agriturismi how to use their produce more interestingly in their restaurants. The only stand-alone cooking lesson I offer, 'No shopping list, no recipes', is taught by Francesca. If you're looking for an idyllic place to chill out surrounded by exquisite mountain scenery, you can't do better than Francesca's Al Benefizio. (She speaks excellent English but the website is in Italian. Best to phone or send a message on WhatsApp.)

Nadia wasn't one of my original weavers, but a thread links her to those who I began with and have either died or become a nonna, too busy to weave anymore. She seems quiet; even timid; but not a bit of it. She takes new challenges in her stride. In 2000 she took advantage of a free one-year course offered by the comune on traditional Lucchese weaving. It unleashed her creativity, and she continued weaving, figuring out how to get a stand at craft fairs in Florence and Lucca, where I met her in 2019. Her next giant step was to take a permanent shop in Lucca and move her loom in. Despite having to figure out the logistics and bureaucracy and having to meet a monthly rent bill, she's thriving. She can't weave enough of her gorgeous scarves in muted colours to fulfil the passing trade. She taught me that if you have a solid plan and work diligently, you can succeed.

Now we collaborate on a 'Weave your own souvenir' workshop during my Tastes & Textiles: Hanging by a Thread tour. Each participant weaves a square of cloth in a typical Lucchese pattern which she (so far no men) can take home to make into a little bag or glasses or cell phone case.

If you drive along the narrow river valley of the Torrente Pedogna, carefully avoiding the main road to Pescaglia, and turn onto a dirt track just before your road crosses the river, you'll see in front of you an unremarkable stone building. Get out of your car and peer through the door where in the gloom you'll discern a small man crouched over a glowing piece of iron held beneath a hydraulic hammer. This is the blacksmith Carlo Galgani. He's 85 years old, or maybe 86, and has been working in this forge since he learned the craft from his father. The Galgani family have been blacksmiths in this valley for 500 years, as documented in the Lucca archives. The forge is powered entirely by water, channeled off the river up valley. I fit a visit to Carlo into every tour I possibly can: Artisan Bread Course Tuscany and Tastes & Textiles: Hanging by a Thread.

This story brings tears to my eyes. Carlo has three adult children. The sons moved to other parts of Italy, but his daughter stayed in his village and has two sons. As teenagers they helped Carlo during summer holidays, and Nicola decided to continue working with his grandfather. He had learned the necessary skills to make farm implements and household tools, but Carlo worried that he still needed to teach him to repair the antique machinery for which parts are no longer available, not to mention maintaining the water canal and tubing. At this point Nicola came to the sad conclusion that he couldn't earn enough money working with his grandfather. Carlo owns his house and forge outright; he has a Fiat Panda which never wears out; he doesn't want a cell phone and anyway there's no signal at the forge; he cooks his own lunch on the forge fire. Nicola, on the other hand, is a young man and needs money for a house, car, phone, evening out with his friends. Two men working with their hands simply can't produce enough at a price the locals are willing to pay to fund even a modest modern lifestyle.

I keep trying to learn from Carlo the patient fatalism of the many elderly people I know. Sometimes you have to accept that a way of life which has sustained craftspeople for 500 years will die.

In this stall and this rudimentary dairy at the end of a dirt road, Enea Giunti lives quietly off the grid, with his wife Valeria, as a goatherd, cheesemaker, cereal farmer and baker, never deviating from his principles of self-sufficiency. He has been one of the teachers on our Theory & Practice of Italian Cheese course since it began in 2015, but not always. His trust in nature to guide the timing of his activities means sometimes in April, when I run the course, he doesn't have any milk because his goats didn't kid in time. Or it's too cold in his unheated dairy for the lactic coagulation of his French-style goat cheeses. But when we do visit him, he impresses the course participants with the ease with which he makes what is regarded as a difficult category of cheese. Which starter cultures does he use, professional cheesemakers ask. The ones on his skin and in the air in the dairy. They've been his friends for many years, and he doesn't need to import strangers. His favourite times of day are early morning and evening when he goes out to pasture with his goats, never with his cell phone.

I've learned from Enea that if you work with nature instead of against it, you can produce a small quantity of a fine product with less effort. I've tasted a lot of chèvre made by other diaries small and large, and his stands out for its texture and complexity of flavour.

If you want a real-life example of carpe diem, Paolo is it. He makes the Slow Food Presidium Potato Bread of the Garfagnana; he's a farro and potato farmer; he hulls farro for himself and other farmers; and he's a cattle farmer. The first and third of those resulted from crises. His mother was the village baker. She got cancer at an early age, and on her death bed she confessed to Paolo how sad she felt that her bread would no longer be made in her village. How can an Italian boy resist a plea from a mother? Even though he was already a full-time farro and cattle farmer, he promised her he would carry on making her bread according to her recipe, with her sourdough starter and baked in a wood-fired oven. True to his promise, he's still at it. He was instrumental in registering it as a Slow Food Presidium. He now delivers to shops and restaurants down the Serchio River Valley to Lucca and beyond without ever making an effort to sell it to new customers.

Crisis number 2. Farro is a primitive wheat. Unlike modern varieties of wheat, it's not free threshing, which means the grain doesn't come out of its hull without a special process. It used to be done by millers who covered their millstones with cork and squeezed the seeds out of their hulls without damaging the grain, after which the chaff was winnowed from the grain which could then be ground into flour or cooked whole like rice and pearled barley. One night Paolo's miller died of a heart attack. In the next few days while standing in the car park of his village desperately cranking a small stone mill to hull his farro, he realised that rice farmers have the same problem. After a quick phone call to Zanotti, a manufacturer of rice polishing machines, a trip to their factory in Piedmont to test a sack of farro, a small grant and a large bank loan, Paolo was the proud owner of a farro hulling and polishing machine. He notified all the farmers around him that he could now process their farro. Like his bread, knowledge of the service spread by word of mouth. He paid off his loan and now his two sons, who tried university only to discover they were farmers at heart, are now running that part of the business.

I've been taking clients to Paolo since I started Sapori & Saperi Adventures in 2005 and he is, of course, one of the teachers on our Artisan Bread Course Tuscany. I've learned many things from Paolo. He's a model of how to maintain a good life-work balance, while probably never realising that he's doing it. But above all, when you lose a key element in your life, you can view it as an opportunity and go for it.

Daniela and her husband Valter are cattle farmers. They farm on the upper slopes of the Montagna Pistoiese, part of the Apennine mountains. I discovered Daniela several years ago from the wrapper on her butter which I bought down in the valley near Lucca. It was actually a ricotta wrapper, so I knew she made cheese, because you can only make ricotta after you've made cheese. I also figured she was a small cheesemaker; if she had been a big dairy, the butter would have been wrapped in the correct label. I went to meet her and was impressed by her calm demeanour despite the pressures of the animals, the dairy, an agriturismo and a young family.

She started herding sheep when she was 9 years old and was the head cheesemaker on her father's farm by the time she was 12. When she married Valter, she moved to his cattle farm across the Lima Valley and transferred her cheesemaking knowledge to cow's milk. She has a small modern dairy and produces enough cheese, ricotta, yoghurt and butter to send to shops and restaurants as far away as Pistoia and Lucca. She took advantage of courses given by a highly respected cheese consultant from the Alps and modified her cheesemaking processes accordingly. Her range of cheeses are excellent. But what I admire most about her is the ability to mix modernity and tradition. The family still practise transhumance, walking their cows from their winter stable up to summer alpine pastures.  Daniela cuts the curd and ladles it into moulds by hand. She decides by eye rather than a pH meter when it had drained enough and is ready for salting. She is one of the cheesemakers who teaches our Theory & Practice of Italian Cheese.

In 2012 when she was snowed in, a friend from the city made her way to the farm and helped her write her autobiography, entitled Come le Stagioni (Like the Seasons). Her life reminds me that living in the countryside and caring for your family and your animals, whatever the seasons may bring, can fill you with love, purpose and joy.

Marzia still makes cheese in one pot over a burner in the minuscule dairy where she learned from  her mother-in-law. She's the most traditional of my cheesemakers and has been teaching the Theory & Practice of Italian Cheese course since it began in 2014. I imagine that her family, her house, her farm are pretty much the same as small Tuscan farms have been for the last century. The stone house is in one of those picturesque mediaeval mountain-top villages. It has been added to and divided up according to the exigencies of the families living in it. Like the house, the family land has been added to and divided up and is dispersed inside and outside the village. The stalls are below the village, so milk has to be brought up in the jeep. Every member of the family has his or her role whether milking or making cheese, or ploughing and planting potatoes and beans, or tending the bees and extracting honey from the hives, or harvesting chestnuts and carefully drying them for grinding into flour. Roberto, Marzia's husband, travels to farmers' markets to sell their produce. They work hard and they're not rich in financial terms, but they're comfortably off with time to be together, and I sense the richness of the love and respect they feel for each other. The happiness that radiates from Marzia's face comes from being satisfied with what she has and not wishing she could live someone else's life.

The Rocchi’s are the first norcini I met when I started my company and were the inspiration for our Advanced Salumi Course Tuscany. When I first met them in 2005, Gino had just come back to the family business after university and a miserable stint working in a bank. He told me to come early on Tuesday morning, the day when he, his father Severino and his uncle Ubaldo did the week's salumi production. I was fascinated by how the sausages, salami, soppressata and biroldo were made, but what struck me even more was how well they worked as a team. Although they joked and laughed as they worked, each man knew his role and did it without even speaking to the others. Gino disappeared and came back with the natural casings from the cellar. Severino headed to the prep room to get the freshly ground spices. Ubaldo opened the cauldron to check whether the boiling heads were soft enough yet. I suppose after four generations, they had the procedure down pat.

But now everything has changed. In the last four years the natural cellar in which they matured their salumi has become hotter and hotter, first in August, then July and August and now often in June and September and even October. There are now not enough cool months in a year to produce enough salumi to last through the hot months, and nowhere to put the salumi when the cellar is too hot. They had to make a difficult decision. Either abandon the natural cellar which had worked for their ancestors, or close. Gino decided to invest in a temperature- and humidity-controlled cabinet. It took a while to get the hang of it. Before this everything was done by feel and experience; now instead of nature deciding, Gino had to set the temperature and humidity day by day. I worried, what if he guessed wrongly? It was a big investment and they needed to produce enough to pay for it. I also hated the idea of abandoning the traditional method for a new one that requires loads of energy. I'm glad the transition has worked for them. And I've learned from the pragmatism of these artisans that sometimes you have to evolve, and if you don't, you'll go extinct.

 Mirko is the only teacher on our Art & Science of Gelato course. Usually I have at least two and often five different teachers to show you different minds and different hands, but there is no one else who understands gelato and the business of running a gelateria as well as Mirko. Although he's a risk-taker, which takes guts, he's kind and soft-hearted, too, a combination rarely found in the same person. When he lost his logistics job in the 2008 economic crisis, he had to find something else to do. He asked himself what he liked best when he was a child: pizza and gelato! He chose gelato only because it has a longer shelf life. But his idea of gelato was one made with natural ingredients, made with knowledge and an artisan's experience. He took gelato courses and found out how to buy a sack of premix, put it in the batch freezer and push a button. He had to do something more daring to realise his dream of making natural gelato. He bought a camper van, packed up the family and toured Italy in search of the grandfathers of gelato, the ones who had never heard of premix or even scales, who did everything by eye and dipped a finger in the mix to test whether it was correct. To learn this method takes years of apprenticeship, and Mirko didn't have years. He came across a man who had figured out what it was that the grandfathers were testing with their fingers and how to codify it. With a few important tweaks and lots of practice on the job, Mirko has refined this scientific side of gelato and now concentrates on inventing new flavours, the art of gelato, and growing his business.

Many people go through life dissatisfied with their work but have no idea of what they would like to do. Maybe they should look to their childhoods and ask themselves what did they enjoy most before they were railroaded onto the conveyor belt of 'respectable' careers. I've learned that to make a living with a traditional product in the world of today, marketing is nearly as important as the product. One thing I'm not sure about, and I watch, sometimes with dismay and sometimes joy, as Mirko takes another risk. In the back of my mind I wonder whether it's possible to keep expanding and still stick to his principles. I hope I'll find out that it is.

Ismaele has been one of the norcini teaching our Advanced Salumi Course Tuscany since its birth in 2010. No, I lie. Two weeks before that one he informed me that he would be walking the Camino di Santiago de Compostela, but all would be OK with his substitutes. He has never been missing since. Like all skilled craftspeople his materials are one with his body and mind. Breaking down a pig has never looked so elegant and easy. He's not worried about climate change. He has an instinct for suitable natural places to mature his salumi. He's equally at home making bread; restoring the buildings on his agriturismo; cutting wood for hot water, heating and his several wood-fired ovens in his three restaurants; rearing pigs, cattle, sheep, donkeys and hens; cultivating farro and formenton otto file (8-row corn), driving his vintage Fiat 500, making wine and vinegar. He once tried cheesemaking, but decided he didn't have time. He avoids mechanisation. He uses a small electric meat grinder, but his sausage and salami stuffer is hand-cranked. He is kind and tolerant of staff who, of course, can't compare to him. I was distraught when his marriage fell apart and glad that he and his ex-wife have remained together on the farm and in the business. I was overjoyed when his five children came into the business and when he sent me a message about the birth of his first grandchild.

So many things I've learned from Ismaele. One is diversify, diversify if you want to survive in the agricultural sector. Another is to treat your colleagues and clients with kindness and fairness and they will reward you in return. There is no such thing as competition. We're all in this together, and if we all pull in the same direction, we have a chance of arriving at our goals.

What qualities have I discovered that are present in these several artisans?

• First and foremost, each one has a vision, not just of where he or she wants to go, but of correct behaviour toward other people and toward the natural world.
• They seek to get the best from the raw materials to hand.
• They are stubborn. They stick to the truth as they see it.
• They see opportunities even in the midst of despair and are brave enough to seize them.
• In their hearts they are kind and gentle. Other people feel good in their presence.
• They are happy. Not always. There are events in life that will make you grieve. But I discern a deep love of life that is too often missing in others.

I end with the words of Daniela Pagliai:

What is it about an abandoned house that makes it so fascinating? Does it offer an escape route for our imaginations, like a fairy-tale, conjuring up fantasies of life in other times? Or perhaps it helps us feel connected to the past and ultimately to all humanity? Or maybe it’s just simple voyeurism: peeking through the curtains at a lost way of life? Whatever the reason, I felt a surge of curiosity when I first discovered the roofless casa colonica, or farmhouse, at Surignano.

I approached the house on a well-defined dirt drive that cut through the chestnut woodland. It sat on the southwestern edge of  a gently sloping plateau near a stream crossed by a still intact wooden bridge. I thought it must have been the house of a well-to-do landowner. The imposing stone building stands three storeys tall. At ground level two impressive arched doorways lead into the former cantinas, which would have housed animals and farm equipment. There were three or maybe four spacious rooms on each of the floors above, though the floorboards and beams are too rotten to risk exploring. Questions filled my mind. Who had built this magnificent house? And when? Who lived in it? How did they make a living?

That was in 2009 before Saperi & Saperi had taken off and I still had free time to explore along woodland paths leading out from my village of Casabasciana. In 2020, the year of Covid-19, with no tours or courses taking place, I’m drawn again to explore in the direction of Surignano. It’s along what was the main road to Brandeglio, the village I can see from the windows of the upper floor of my house in the village, 2.5 km (1.5 mi) as the crow flies to the southwest across the Liegora River.

This ‘main road’ was in fact no more than a footpath, because until the 1960s walking was the only mode of travelling between villages. It is still well used by walkers and maintained by men of the village and a group that uses it for an annual mountain bike event.

As I walk I try to imagine the landscape 70 years ago. People have told me that all the land was terraced and cultivated with cereals, vines and olives. Everyone had a few sheep, a couple of pigs and maybe a cow or two. It’s almost impossible to visualise what it was like. I can see remnants of dry-stone walling, but not even a ghost of those numerous families working the land. My view in every direction is blocked by trees — mainly chestnut infested by acacia, brambles, wild clematis, broom and tree heather.

After 30 minutes I arrive at Castelluccio, the farmhouse where my neighbour Domenico was born and brought up. It is not abandoned. He goes there every afternoon to keep the roof intact and the brambles and wild clematis at bay. It and the surrounding land give a hint of what the countryside would have looked like in the past. He arrives in his 4x4 Fiat Panda on the strada sterrata (dirt road) that descends from Crasciana, the village above mine. I often find him there if I stop to drink the icy cold water his grandfather piped in from a spring higher up.

I cross that road and continue southwest towards the Liegora River, now on another strada sterrata suitable for a 4x4. I pass a couple of crumbling buildings that must have been either metati (drying houses for chestnuts) or sheds for storing equipment closer to fields. Another 10 minutes and I reach the road that I remember leads to Surignano, but I’m sure I need to take a fork off it to the left. Now I notice that a logging operation has cleared a huge swathe of land and, I presume, erased the former drive and destroyed the neat terracing.

Continuing straight I come to log piles surrounded by carpets of spring flowers. I find the old wooden bridge, now nearly invisible and decaying under velvety green moss.

Finally, dropping down through a thicket of birch saplings, I emerge behind the house. Struggling around to the front the façade shocks me, like seeing a friend after 11 years, so much older, greyer and wrinkled.

What a story this house must be able to tell! Layers of history of the land and the people who lived here. But it is mute, sulking after decades of neglect. By now my Italian is up to asking questions of my neighbours in the village. At first they aren’t very interested, but the few clues they throw me are more tantalising than having the whole story land in one indigestible bundle on my doorstep.

– Have you found Cerro? It was even more beautiful than Surignano. –You know, my mother Olga lived there. –The forestry commission planted that ugly fir tree plantation without even asking the owner’s permission. –Did you see the church San Martino on the way? On the left, diagonally across the corner. Only a part of the façade is left. It’s from the 8th century.

– My grandmother lived at Lupinaia. I often walk out to look at it. –It’s been restored, by a family perhaps from Ponte a Moriano. But it belongs to the frazione of Crasciana, not Casabasciana. –I heard that the wife doesn’t like it, so they hardly come anymore.

–There used to be a path opposite the Croce del Bacco that led to Collemaresi. –You can also get there from just before the path crosses the Rigrado stream, but it’s probably blocked by brambles. –Go straight down from the Metato di Bacco to the three pine trees, and then straight down another 100 metres. You can’t miss it. Here, I’ll show you the pine trees from my gate. –Memmo Nardi lived there. His grandson Guglielmo still comes to Crasciana every winter.

–Vallecchia is below Castelluccio. –The Logi family were contadini there but they moved into the village in the ‘50s. –Someone took me there once. If I can remember the way, I’ll take you.

One by one I found all six farmhouses and their attendant outbuildings. All but Castelluccio and Lupinaia are knee-deep in brambles and wreathed in ivy and wild clematis, all partially collapsed.  They were built in the 1780s. All seem to speak of a prosperous past, but now I know that the prosperity was mainly that of the landowners. Apart from Domenico and his family who owned Castelluccio, the inhabitants were tenant farmers paying rent, usually a percentage of the produce, to the owners. Their descendants tell me that Collemaresi, Cerro, Vallecchia and half of Surignano were owned by the Finucci family, who lived in the grand house opposite the one I rent in the village. They are gone too.

The houses were large because families were large. Typically couples had 5 to 8 children. When sons married, their wives came to live with them in the family home, and grandchildren swelled the head count. Jobs on the farm were numerous and required many hands to plough, plant, prune, harvest, care for animals, make cheese, slaughter the pig and cure the meat, cook, clean, weave, sew, cut firewood, maintain buildings and equipment. But it wasn’t all work. In the long winter evenings they would gather round the kitchen fireplace for the veglia, storytelling and playing games.

In addition to the houses themselves, there is the network of mulattiere (mule tracks) and paths that connected them to each other, to sources of water and to villages with shops, schools, markets and craftspeople. They reveal social and economic relationships.

Most of the villagers are more realistic than I am. They know maintaining the countryside as it was would be a series of fruitless battles lost to the inexorable forces of nature. But occasionally my curiosity has inspired someone to recover the past. We now have a WhatsApp group called Casabasciana in Storia (Casabasciana in History) where people occasionally post information and photos from the past. One day I asked Giovanni how the people at Surignano and Cerro got their water. He told me there’s a spring halfway between them with a lavatoio (laundry), but I couldn’t find it. Then suddenly a couple of days later, he posted a photo of it to the WhatsApp group. He had gone out and cleared the brambles, and described to me exactly how to get to it.

Many of the farming activities are ones you learn about first hand on my tours and courses, because I’ve found people who, with a bit of mechanisation and marketing, are still making mixed farming pay at the family level. But it’s more difficult now. That’s partly because almost no money was required right up until the 1960s. Farms were self-sufficient. There was very little that needed to be bought in. But after the war, in the ‘50s and ‘60s the introduction of the internal combustion engine catapulted subsistence farmers into the cash economy. They needed tractors, cars, chainsaws and the petrol to run them. They could no longer repair everything themselves, so they had to pay for expertise to keep their machines running.

Finally, agribusiness dealt a mortal blow. My next blog will mourn the death of all but the most resilient small family farms.

This is a true story about how cheese, history and a mountain village are inextricably entwined. It’s a long story because it goes back to Roman times. It has taken me 12 years even to begin to understand it.
You probably know that pecorino is an Italian cheese made from sheep’s milk, derived from the word for sheep: pecora. On the contrary, it’s the rare person outside Italy who knows that transhumance refers to the seasonal rotation of flocks and herds between different pastures. Even more obscure is the connection between transhumance and Saint Michael Archangel.
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On 18 June a group of about 15 hikers, including me, stand expectantly in front of the church in the mountain village of Raggiolo, one of ‘The most beautiful towns in Italy’ (http://borghipiubelliditalia.it/project/raggiolo/).

As we explain during our cheese course, in Italy where it was born, ricotta is NOT cheese. That’s official. It’s a dairy product. The casein proteins and much of the fat in the milk go into the cheese. The main protein left in the whey is albumin. The protein in egg white is also albumin. When you cook egg white, it solidifies, and that’s what happens to the albumin in whey when it gets to about 90˚C (194˚F).
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With two large pots of whey to heat, this is going to take a little while. We suddenly realise we’re starving, and wander off to find some lunch. The courses are ready in random order stretched out over three hours. Actually, most Tuscan Sunday lunches last this long. What I take to be antipasto consists of panini of prosciutto and salami with two wedges of pecorino on the side, all excellent. The pecorino has been supplied by Modesto Giovannuzzi. He tells me the sheep are at Castel Focognano (near Bibbiena), but doesn’t volunteer who made the cheese.

I buy a wheel for the pecorino tournament at the end of our cheese course.
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I check in with the ricotta. It hasn’t begun forming yet, but Angelo is adding some milk to the pot. I object that traditional ricotta shouldn’t have milk added. He agrees. He’s doing it to increase the yield for the big crowd today. He adds quietly,’The ricotta is much finer and smoother with nothing added to the whey.’ He moves over to salt the upper side of the pecorino.

As we descend Paolo has an answer to every question I can throw at him and more. He tells me about how they preserved the chestnut flour by packing it into chestnut-wood chests to exclude the air. It was so tightly packed that you could cut it into blocks with a knife to take out the amount you needed. By summer it was a bit tired. To refresh it, they put it in a wood-fired oven until it turned dark brown and had an entirely different flavour. The conversation wanders to art history, politics, the problem of depopulation of rural villages like theirs and mine. Most people in the group have something to contribute. They own their history in a way I’ve never encountered outside Italy. Thank you Raggiolo for a thoroughly enjoyable and illuminating day.
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You can learn about Tuscan cheese and experience for yourself our cheesemakers’ strong sense of their history on our Theory & Practice of Italian Cheese course: https://www.sapori-e-saperi.com/theory--practice-of-italian-cheese.html

The southwestern corner of Sardinia is called Sulcis. The word derives from the Carthaginian city of Solki. This is just one tiny example of the cultural palimpsest that makes up present-day Sardinia. Before the Carthaginians when the Phoenicians began visiting Sardinia in around 900 BCE, they encountered people of the Nuragic civilisation, which originated in about 1800 BCE. The ruins of their gigantic stone towers and settlements still dot the countryside; 7000 of them remain. Hard on the heels of the Carthaginians, the Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, Spaniards, Pisans, Genovese and Piemontese all demanded their turns on the island. It’s no wonder that coming from Italy you feel as if you’ve arrived in a foreign country

But it wasn’t the distant past that drew me to Sardinia. Some of the women coming on my September ‘Tastes & Textiles’ tour wanted to visit a woman who weaves with the fibres of the beard of a giant Mediterranean mollusc, and they asked me to take them. Barely credible, I thought, but her workshop had a website which placed it in the town of Sant’Antioco, on the Island of Sant’Antioco in the territory of Sulcis. Here was the ideal excuse to visit Sardinia, which I knew only from its pecorino sardo cheese and Vermentino wine…

Read about how my adventure in Sardinia led to a new exciting tour:
http://slowtraveltours.com/blog/celebrating-sardinia/

Find out more about the tour at: Celebrating Sardinia (click on the tabs below the introduction to see all the details)

Guest blog by Susan Stover, artist and educator
On the eve of the Tastes & Textiles tour, I’m posting Susan Stover’s insights about the power of travel to invigorate one’s creativity. (All photos by Susan Stover.)

Travel can greatly impact an artist’s work. It can influence, be a catalyst for change, or further catapult the journey already started. In the absence of familiar surroundings, it can magnify what captures the eye and the emotions. All is new, exciting, and exhilarating.

​Both making art and traveling have opened up new experiences and challenged me in unique ways. There is so much to be inspired by—the atmosphere in the landscape, hues and textures of a traditional market, shrines and temples, and environments of living and creating. I recently returned from my second trip to Indonesia in the last 15 months. As the experiences and inspirations linger in my subconscious, they continue to influence my artwork. My love of textiles was rekindled as a result of these travels. Fabrics abundantly adorn shrines and temples, are used as offerings, typify ceremonial dress, and are displayed as consumer goods. I am inspired not only by the beauty of the fabrics, but also how they function in a society where art, life, and spirituality are all connected. Nowhere is this more evident than in Bali. Concepts of duality, animism, and the desire for harmony between the natural and supernatural worlds are the foundation of Balinese beliefs. My fascination with the connection of art and spirit lies in the mystery, the unanswered questions, the quest for balance and purpose, the desire for connectedness with others and with the sacred, however they choose to define it. Textiles embody these concerns, which are more evident in cultures other than my own.

Feasting is a way of celebrating special events, and many festivals have acquired a constellation of typical dishes. Often these are elaborations of everyday food, tarted up for the occasion. In many parts of Italy (maybe all, but I haven’t been everywhere) no meal is complete without bread, so what better food to make a fuss of.
The Garfagnana has its own special Easter bread called pasimata.

You take flour, sugar, butter, eggs, milk and lievito madre (starter dough).
Day 1 morning: mix all ingredients.
12 hours later: add more of the same ingredients except the starter dough.
Day 2 morning: add more of the same ingredients except the starter dough.
12 hours later: add sultanas, aniseed, vin santo (sweet Tuscan dessert wine), chestnut-flavoured liqueur.
Day 3 morning: light wood-fired oven.
Bake a batch of bread.
Put pasimata dough in round tins.
After one hour, take bread out. Oven will be exactly the right temperature for pasimata.
Bake pasimata for 40 minutes.
Remove from oven and eat enthusiastically.

To find out more about the small group tour germinating at Sapori e Saperi Adventures, read the rest of my blog at http://slowtraveltours.com/blog/a-tour-sprouts/. Read to the bottom of the blog and you’ll find a special offer.
Save the dates: 2–9 July 2017.

It seems improbable that so many riches lie hidden in my Garfagnana. It’s the legendary pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I feel fortunate to have landed here by chance. The people are full of pride and determination to carry forward their traditions. They hope you’ll come share their Tuscany with them.
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(Note: Farro IGP della Garfagnana is Triticum dicoccum or emmer in English, not spelt which is Triticum spelta. Emmer is an ancestor of spelt. I was finding emmer on Neolithic sites in Italy when I was an archaeologist on the Early History of Agriculture Project at Cambridge University.)