The Secrets of Villa Rosso: Escape to Italy for a summer romance to remember

The exposed chestnut beams overhead are commanding, so high above the bed. Two beautifully upholstered chairs, a small coffee table and a large wooden armoire seem almost lost in the vast space. Similarly styled bedside tables with oversized lamps complete the decor without making it feel fussy.

The bedding is crisp and white, only the drapes at the large window add a splash of colour, with rich purple, mauve and a thread of silver running through them. It was so dark when I arrived that I didn’t think to close them and now the early morning sun is beginning to filter in through the window.

The overtly contemporary styling is rather sophisticated and that’s a real surprise. I really was expecting to be transported back in time, but even the ensuite is of the same standard. There are no in-room facilities, so all I have is bottled water. But I’m content to wander over and sit in one of the armchairs while I read Livvie’s itinerary again and her hand-written notes, to bring me up to speed.

Max Jackson manages Villa Rosso and aside from being a hotel, the main business of the estate is the olive groves and oil refinery plant. In recent years it has also been involved in a new cooperative exporting textiles, metalwork, carved wooden items and ceramics, in celebration of the local artisan craftsmanship. And that’s why Livvie was coming here, to meet Max in person. Being escorted on a tour of some of the individual workshops, which are a part of the new business set-up would allow her to gauge if this operation was really viable as a new source. The worst-case scenario is that we’ll struggle to find enough items to fill a container to ship over to the UK. Or that they won’t be organised well enough to guarantee they could meet deadlines, which would be a total disaster. We want variety and for some items we will also need quantity. When we are refurbishing a hotel with a hundred rooms they all have to reflect the same style. My phone pings and then pings again and the first is a message from Josh.

Love you, honey. Miss you. No pressure, but if you get time to ring me for a quick chat this morning it would be lovely to hear your voice. Everything is fine here. Jx

The other ping is an email from Livvie.

Morning

Hope you slept well. Sorry it was such a late arrival time, it wouldn’t have bothered me but I realise it was really throwing you in at the deep end.

Mum is having an operation to pin the bone in her arm later today. Did I tell you I’m squeamish? Even the thought of it makes my stomach heave!

Right – work. Max is easy to deal with, he doesn’t play games and there’s no issue over getting a good price if we buy a container load at a time. I’m guessing he’s probably the only English-speaking person you will come into contact with on your trip. He will escort you everywhere, so don’t worry about that. Your job is to suss out whether what’s on offer will fit into our new hotel refurbishment schemes. If it’s a big hotel we are kitting out, but it’s clear they couldn’t scale up to meet our order, then we know we can only look at them as a supplier for our bespoke service. But if there aren’t enough items that jump out at you as being what we’re looking for, then it will make it too costly; even if, as Max has suggested, we could share part of a container with another client. Sorry I’m waffling but I’m so tired my brain feels like cotton wool.

If you send me photos of what you think is right for us and it starts to look promising, then this trip will have been worthwhile. What I also need is your view on whether the operation is robust enough. The last thing we want is to place large orders and then suffer constant delays because there are weak links in their chain. I really appreciate the sacrifice on your part, my lovely friend. I know you – bet you are already homesick!

Anyway, enjoy the sun. It’s pouring with rain here and I’m off to the hospital. Shudder. Even the smell as I enter the building makes me want to turn and run away. And have some fun!

Hugs,

Livvie

PS Don’t forget to send me pics of the villa. I’m really gutted not to be experiencing it first-hand.

Poor Livvie, or maybe I should be reserving my sympathy for her mother. As I begin typing a reply there’s a tap on the door. With no further hesitation a smiling young woman steps inside, a breakfast tray balanced on one upturned hand.

‘Good morning, Mrs Maddison, I hope you slept well.’

My jaw drops, as the last thing I expected was to be greeted by a young Englishwoman. She’s probably in her early twenties; her dark hair has vivid blue streaks running through it, clearly visible even though it’s neatly tied back in a ponytail.

‘You’re English, this is a surprise.’ The words are out of my mouth before I engage my brain. She turns to smile at me, one eyebrow raised. I feel the need to explain myself.

‘Sorry, my boss just emailed me to say the manager here is probably going to be the only English-speaking person I’m likely to meet.’

She laughs.

‘I’m Bella and your boss is almost correct. Some of our hotel staff can speak a few words of English, but I gather you’re here to tour some of the outworkers’ locations. Mr Johnson will be escorting you, so there’s no need to worry. Everyone calls him Max, by the way.’

‘Thank goodness. I had to switch places with my boss at the last minute and so I had no time to prepare. It feels wrong, and a bit rude, not being able to speak at least a little of the language. Ironically I can speak French quite well and a little German, but this is my first trip to Italy. Have you lived here a long time?’

As we talk, Bella’s hands busily uncover several plates with a range of fruits, cheeses and pastries. The aroma from the coffee pot makes my mouth salivate.

‘I came here for my gap year, mainly to please my mother. She’s Italian and my father is a Londoner. We’ve always spoken mainly English at home, so I thought what better way to brush up on my Italian than to come and live here for a year? It put me in her good books for a while; we don’t always see eye to eye.’

We exchange sympathetic glances.

‘For a while?’

She gives me a broad smile, accompanied by a hearty laugh. ‘When the year was up the family asked me to stay and so here I am. My mother wasn’t impressed as she had high hopes for me. She says I’m not ambitious enough, but in an ironic twist of fate I’ve fallen under the spell of the Italian way of life. Anyway, Max thought you’d want to have a quiet breakfast and says he’ll be at your disposal any time after ten this morning. Just let reception know when you are ready.’

‘Thank you, I will. I’m hoping I’ll pick up a few Italian words over the next couple of days.’

‘Dove c’è una volontà, c’è un modo.’

I look at Bella blankly and she immediately interprets it for me.

‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way – more, or less. But doesn’t it sound better in Italian?’

‘You’re right. It’s just hard not being able to pick up any clues. You could have been saying anything to me.’

We exchange friendly smiles.

‘Max will do everything to make your visit pleasant and enjoyable. He’s a lovely man and very personable. I don’t know what the locals would do without him. If there’s anything you need, you only have to ask.’

‘Thank you, but right now that coffee is calling to me.’

‘I’ll leave you to enjoy it, then. Have a good day.’ As the door is about to close Bella says, ‘That’s buona giornata.’

‘Grazie, Bella.’ I think I just said thank you, beautiful!

Right, coffee first and the next task is to ring Josh, tell him how much I’m missing him and say good morning to my girls before my big adventure begins.

Chapter 6

I dress with care, knowing that first impressions are everything when it comes to appearing confident and professional. Slipping into my favourite little black dress, teamed with a lightweight white linen cropped-sleeve jacket, I’m not unhappy with the image staring back at me. A little makeup, a quick brush of my shoulder-length dark-blonde hair and I’m done. Oh, I nearly forgot about earrings. I dive into my bag to rescue my jewellery pouch and settle on the single pearls. They were an anniversary present from Josh and as I slip them on it adds a little sparkle to my eyes. He says I’m beautiful; it’s not true, of course, and what I see is a face that looks rather plain, with dark-blue eyes that aren’t of the piercing variety. Just, well, ordinary.

One last check that I have everything I need, before I slip on my flat leather pumps and my work persona is ready to go. It allows me to push those nagging little domestic worries to one side and remember that there’s a big wide world out there. I can rise to any challenge and I know that. But this is a first for me and everything has happened so quickly. I haven’t had time to transition between the two worlds; that leap from the domestic to the business world is a big one. And yet the moment I stepped out of the car last night it was almost like a home-coming. Perhaps one of my internal wires isn’t working and is giving me a false reading. That thought is a worrying one, as everyone I meet will be expecting an experienced business woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

I grab the large, gate-keeper-style key and lock the door, then walk across to the ornate metal balustrade and peer down over the reception area. The white-washed walls and dark wooden beams throughout add a sense of space and height to the vaulted ceiling. The central light is an art form, with a cascade of cleverly intertwined metal leaves highlighted with enamelling in shades of white, silver and grey. As I slowly descend the elegant staircase I reflect that it’s the sort of piece Livvie would love to get her hands on at almost any price.

There’s no one around and the clock on the wall confirms it’s only just after nine-thirty. It’s quite cool inside. I’m longing to feel the morning sunshine on my skin, so I head straight for the door.

Stepping over the threshold all of my senses start reacting at the same time. But it’s the commanding view that forces my feet forward, traversing the aged sandstone paving of the exterior terrace. The closer I get to the edge of the flat expanse, the more the vista in front of me seems to open up. As I glimpse beyond the small islands of tall trees that flank the edge of the paved area, there is nothing to restrict the eye. Only the mountains, way in the distance, stand as a backdrop, like a curtain. Camera in hand I snap away, knowing how hard it will be to get a perspective on this seemingly never-ending scene. Directly ahead the land slopes away to infinity, ending in a mere shimmer before it slips over the distant horizon. The fertile plain is studded with vast swathes of olive trees. Further away the dotted landscape is interspersed with neat rows of planting that are tiny by comparison, but could well be fruit trees rather than bushes.

It isn’t just the sunshine and the electric-blue sky, but the musical calls of the countryside that reach out to me. A chorus of low-level sounds play like a soft melody in the background. It’s breathtakingly beautiful and I feel like I’m watching a re-run of a favourite film. I could stand here for a long time simply taking in the detail and with each sweep of my eyes noticing something new.

Spinning around I look back at the villa, taking in the rustic beauty of the stonework and the pale orange-red hue of the sun-bleached roof tiles. This is, quite simply, unreal. It’s a little piece of heaven and so far removed from my daily life that it’s hard to believe this is on the same planet. The sheer scale of the landscape literally steals your breath away. I’m a mere speck, small and insignificant in the grand scheme nature is presenting to me. But rather bizarrely, it doesn’t feel alien in anyway at all. The vastness isn’t overwhelming, but strangely comforting.

I walk back to a cluster of wooden tables surrounding a small fountain and take a seat. As I dive into my bag to extract some sunglasses, I hear a polite cough and look up at the face staring down at me.

‘Mrs Maddison? I’m Max, Max Johnson. Welcome to Villa Rosso.’

I stand, automatically plastering a pleasant smile on my surprised face as recognition kicks in. I know this man. I mean, I’ve met him before. At least I think I have, but there’s nothing similar reflected back at me, only a warm smile. The sort of smile that radiates from mysteriously deep, hazel eyes. We shake hands. He’s younger than I expected, probably in his early forties and tall. Six-foot something, that’s for sure, because I feel he’s towering over me.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wanted you to know that I’m here at your disposal whenever you are ready to begin. Would you like me to fetch you a coffee so you can sit for a while and enjoy the view?’

Although I knew he was British, his tan and elegant demeanour lend an air of cosmopolitan sophistication. I would not have been at all surprised if he had been Italian. He’s hovering politely and I still haven’t answered him.

‘No, really, I was just killing time and trying to absorb the stunning scenery. It’s heady stuff.’

Those serious eyes search my face and he nods, approvingly. Is it approval of my appreciation or, as his eyes settle on me, is he—

‘What is that constant sound, like a chirping?’

‘Tree crickets, la cicada. You’ll gradually get used to it until it becomes almost unnoticeable. I trust that the last-minute change of plans hasn’t inconvenienced you too much? It was quite a surprise when Olivia Bradley called to say something had cropped up and you would be taking her place. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Maddison.’

‘It’s Ellie, you can call me Ellie.’ Why did I just repeat my own name? That wasn’t cool, and you shouldn’t have shortened it. You should have taken a lead from Olivia.

‘Which is short for—?’

‘Elouise. My mother was the only person who ever called me that, but she died a few years ago.’ Too much information, Ellie. Concentrate. I swallow hard, mentally berating myself, and take a deep breath to clear my head as I stand. ‘Let’s make a start, then.’

Max holds open the car door as I settle myself into the passenger seat of what looks like an almost brand-new Alfa Romeo in a tasteful charcoal metallic finish. He insists on taking my small satchel and places it in the back, then clicks the door shut. While he’s walking around to the driver’s side my brain is working overtime, trying to establish why I’m so convinced I’ve met him before. Is this business famous enough for him to have been featured on TV, or maybe I’ve seen his face in a cookery magazine talking about the benefits of olive oil. Or maybe he just has one of those handsome, beguiling faces that sort of looks like someone famous and inspires a sense of instant recognition.

As Max slips into the driver’s seat a waft of something with a hint of bergamot tickles my nose. It’s fresh and citrusy, immediately masking that slightly overpowering smell of new leather. Instinctively, I reach out to touch his arm and make a comment, when I abruptly pull myself back, rather sharply. How totally embarrassing! I hope I succeeded in making the gesture look as if I was simply putting my hand up to smoothe down my hair.

What is going on with me? Why does this man whom, it seems, really is just a stranger to me, feel so familiar?

‘Our first stop is a small family business whose land abuts our own. Olivia said she was very interested in ceramics and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the quality and designs on offer.’

His eyes check out my seat belt before he starts the engine and, with a warm smile, he turns his gaze back towards the road ahead.

We are both content to travel in silence. As my eyes scan the open countryside, the car purrs along, heading towards the sloping planes of that wonderful vista. Up close some of that unidentifiable greenery turns out to be swathes of grape vines and citrus trees, divided into neat little plots. Every now and again I catch a glimpse of farm workers, mostly elderly men and women, with skin the colour of tanned leather. We pass a group of younger workers with baskets full of lemons, the women wearing colourful scarves and shouting back and forth to each other. Most wave to Max as we pass by.

‘Villa Rosso’s land extends to the east. The processing plant is on the other side of trees that you can see at the foot of the mountains. Castrovillari is situated at the base of the Monte Pollino, the Parco Nazionale. From here almost as far as you can see it’s mostly small parcels of land owned by families who have worked the soil for generations.’

‘Do they manage to make a living? It must be hard to sustain a family if this is their only income.’

Max nods, his face quite sombre.

‘It’s never been easy for them. But everyone is still suffering from what we call the black year, the harvest of 2014. Unusual weather patterns, lack of water and a proliferation of insects and bacterial blight saw the average yield cut by half. We’ve also been battling with unusually large flocks of starlings destroying the fruits, although mercifully that hasn’t affected everyone.’

‘But doesn’t that simply mean that the cost of olive oil rises?’

‘I wish it worked like that, but not all countries were affected in the same way, so some gained while we suffered. And as for any price increases, very little filters down to the poor farmers. That’s why we’re trying so hard to grow this artisan crafts cooperative. The local market is small, as the vast majority of the workers here lead very simple lives. You can see for yourself how rustic their farm dwellings are. When they’re not working the old women are found gossiping in doorways, complaining about the menfolk. It falls on deaf ears and the old men relax nearby in the shade, playing cards.’ He turns to look at me, giving a wry smile. ‘But the daily fight against poverty and the need to feed their families is a worry that never goes away. The wealthier families, like the Ormannis, employ as many local people as they can but they, too, are affected by a bad harvest and the vagaries of nature. That’s why diversification is essential at every level, although olive production will always be at the heart and soul of the business. But the real problem is the exodus of the younger generation to the cities, where they can usually earn a lot more money and enjoy all the benefits of modern living. As any farmer will tell you, working the land is, at times, heart-breaking.’

Max looks resigned, but the deep lines between his eyebrows are furrowed. The tension he feels for a situation that must seem like an endless battle against a nameless enemy, is etched on his face. His profile shows a firm jaw line, rigidly set. I wonder what is going through his mind at this precise moment.

‘And here we are.’

The track we’re on is bumpy and for the last hundred yards, or so, the car has been literally crawling along.

Max parks up in front of a series of large sheds, similar to outbuildings seen on farms in the UK. But whereas we’d use them for cattle feed and machinery, I realise that for the owner this is a huge investment in a business venture that’s a considerable gamble. It isn’t just the locals who carry a heaven burden on their shoulders. Max, as their representative, knows exactly what these proud people stand to lose.

There’s no ceremony – in fact Max escorts me inside the first shed as if it were in the grounds of Villa Rosso. He waves to two men wheeling large wooden trolleys with a collection of clay pots ready for the kiln. This appears to be a holding area and along the far wall five women of varying ages are busy packing boxes. From a young girl of indeterminate age, to a grandmother who must be in her nineties, they chatter as they work. The elderly woman looks up and smiles at Max, her toothless grin a happy one and the other women giggle, shyly.

Max steers me through a doorway into another shed, where seven or eight people are hand-painting designs onto a wide range of different pots.

We’re attracting some curious glances, but no one approaches and I simply follow in Max’s footsteps until he opens another door and ushers me inside. I suppose this is more like an office, although it’s still only a wooden structure with a tin roof. But the floor-to-ceiling shelves hold an array of colourful and well-crafted ceramics that would grace any European showroom.

‘I wasn’t expecting such a departure from the old traditional styles,’ I admit. ‘Max, these wall tiles are amazing and the table lamps are exactly what we’re looking for!’

For the first time since we set off, Max’s forehead relaxes a little and he nods in appreciation.

‘It’s a big step for us to depart from the traditional designs people have come to associate with Italian majolica. We are focusing on a different clientele and market, hoping to give interior designers the quality and statement pieces they are looking for, at a very competitive price.’

‘Can I take some photos to send to Olivia?’

‘Of course. Take your time. I’ll go and do the rounds as they’re all holding their breath, wondering what the English lady will think.’

The pressure isn’t just one-sided, but I suspect they have nothing to worry about. This is exactly what Livvie was hoping to find. I snap away quite happily until Max returns, stealing a glance at his watch.

‘We should go shortly, as I want to show you around our next stop before we head back for lunch.’

‘Can I purchase a few things to take back as presents?’

‘Of course.’ I follow Max through to the packing area and select a couple of items for the girls and something for Dawn. At first the elderly Italian woman refuses to take the notes I offer, but I insist and she nods her head in gratitude.

I make an effort to smile at everyone I pass who looks our way, as we retrace our steps.

‘The tension is palpable. Can one order make that much of a difference?’

‘More than you probably realise. This is a fairly new venture still and we have a long way to go to get a full order book. A deal with your company could kick-start this initiative and give us the cash injection we need to expand. A lot is riding on your visit and there’s no point in pretending otherwise.’

‘Can’t you use a middleman? Someone with contacts already in place?’

Max shakes his head.

‘Not all of the operations are as large, or advanced, as this one. In order to offer people like Olivia the deal they are looking for we need to keep non-production costs to the minimum. It’s one less link in the chain taking a cut out of the profits and this is diversity for survival of the whole. Besides, I seriously doubt we’d consistently be able to meet the sort of production levels required to fill global orders, because of the investment levels required. So we are going for the niche, interior design market. If you want two hundred table lamps, that’s not a problem. But if you wanted five thousand—’

‘Ah, now I understand. Where are we going next?’

I try to sound upbeat, despite feeling the pressure beginning to mount.

‘Our biggest producer of textiles. I think you’ll be impressed by the set-up. It’s actually attached to one of the local churches.’

Max opens the car door as I slide into the seat. A young woman calls out to him, holding something up and Max strides across, placing his hand on her shoulder and taking the item with his other hand.

When he returns he hands me a chilled bottle. ‘Here, this is for you.’

‘What is Gassossa Neri, exactly?’ I ask, wondering if it’s some sort of locally distilled alcohol that will take off the top of my head.

‘It’s good to drink, just carbonated sugar water, really. It’s old school, hard to find these days, so treasured amongst the older people as it was the soft drink of their childhood. Notice that I wasn’t offered one.’ He drops the corners of his mouth in an exaggerated fashion.