One Sunday afternoon in Spring, you are lucky enough to be in Florence, Tuscany. The Tuscan sun does not disappoint as it bathes you in its tepid afternoon light.

After only mere minutes lining up in the relatively sterile front courtyard of the Pitti Palace, you purchase your tickets to enter the Boboli Gardens - Il Giardino di Boboli.

The 45 hectare garden is the playground for the Pitti Palace. Construction of the palace, Florence’s largest, was begun some 100 years or so before it was taken over as a residence for the Medici family in 1550. The Boboli Garden itself is contributed to Niccolò Pericoli (or, Tribolo as he affectionately known) who added the magic to this wondrous space.

Entering via the palace into the garden, you step out into a large labyrinth of green. There is an immediate sense of play to this place. Despite the fact there are many people here, the garden is so dispersed that you find yourselves alone at several points throughout your exploration of the Medici’s backyard.

First of all though, you are in a large oval space edged by life-size statues of men in Renaissance garb, and you feel as if you are on stage here. Your audience is formed by some of the greatest minds and powers in history. You take a bow and walk ahead, onwards and upwards.

Spying small tracks off to the sides of the main path, you duck through scrub, your face stroked by affectionate plants, and find yourselves in a small opening. Eerie and beautiful for its solitude and sense of abandonment, this space is filled with nothing much. Just walls of plants that open up to offer stunning Florentine views of the city.

Unusual and intriguing for many reasons, the Boboli Gardens are interesting for the use of the panorama of Florence as a point of interest. The garden stands above the city, and the lovely Tuscan views present themselves in front of you as if spilled from the edges of the garden. Most royal gardens are instead well protected to ensure that you cannot look into the gardens, but thereby preventing the possibility of being able to look out.

Back on the main path that veins through the centre of the garden, you continue on to find yourselves in various spaces, each unique and spacious, some more populated than others by relaxed tourists and locals that come here to laze on the grass or let energetic children chase birds.

First you wander up to the back edge of the garden, where you find a rose garden and ceramic museum. Ringed by a low brick wall, you seat yourselves along the rose garden’s edge, absorbing the view, tiling your still-winter-pale faces into the sun.

Today as you stand along the edge of the garden, dizzy on the heady perfume of roses in full bloom, you spy in the grassland below a girl with luscious long hair, wandering along a track created by the passing of people though out the centuries. She stops to pick flowers that peep out from the grass, smelling them, putting some in her hair, and some being thrown to the wind. She is singing, this beautiful Ophelia of Boboli.

Turning back to the garden before you, you somehow find it in yourselves to move from this spectacular spot. You wander into the ceramic museum. Plates and plates and some more precious and beautiful plates adorn cabinets. Here in Tuscany it is very likely that the same dishes served on these plates are still eaten to this day.

Back outdoors to meander aimlessly through the garden, you work your way downwards and sideways following a path that leads you to a massive park centre-pieced by Neptune floating above a pond. A stranger passing by agrees to take your photograph as you all set yourselves into your best Roman god poses, none of you outdoing that of the Roman god of the sea who stands proud behind you.

Continuing on, along snaking paths, you wind up in an enclosed garden. You separate, exploring the plants and sitting away from each other to create the illusion of solitude in this place perfect for meditation or reminiscing. In this maze of hedges and plants, you hear the giggles before you see the faces emerge from a small break in the wall of trees. A couple, faces flush like those newly in love - even though they must be at least 60 years old - hold hands as they walk out of this area to the main path.

Your group regathers to explore the next of the mysteries of the Boboli Gardens. A large pond stands in a relatively closed area where birds swim on the water, lemon trees fill the air with a citrus perfume. Children run circles around the pond whilst parents navigate its edge more slowly, engrossed in conversation.

The next area you discover of the Boboli Gardens is yet another large grass-lined field with a large face statue watching over the many people who laze on the grass. You wonder if this feeling is owing to the fact that it is actually Sunday afternoon, or if this place is just as calm and relaxing on any day.

Meandering some more, you find another nearby small garden, shaded by the overhead trees that stoop down to watch over the children that play with silly daddies, laughed at by mummies whose eyes gleam with smiles that are too big to be just shown on their lips.

Another few turns and you find yourselves wandering down a sloping path. Your nose knows before your eyes do that you are approaching the Boboli’s perfume market. A small collection of stalls are outnumbered by hundreds of potted plants. Soaps and dried flowers, and perfume after wondrous perfume are on sale here.

It is time to leave the gardens, so some of you buy small tokens of your time here, hoping that the Sunday afternoon feeling will magically be infused into the perfume bottle.

And you know what, when you put that perfume onto your pulse points the next morning, Monday morning, you know it works at least a little.

Italians have a wonderful tradition of market shopping. Possibly Florence’s most important, and certainly the largest markets, the San Lorenzo market hugs the San Lorenzo Basillica.

Located just a short walk from the central Duomo that the entire historical city centre seems to radiate out from, the markets are so named after the basilica of San Lorenzo that sits at the centre of the market.

The San Lorenzo Piazza fronts the city’s oldest documented basilica, first constructed in the year 393. However, complete reconstruction was undertaken in the 15th century, with the likes of Brunelleschi, Michelangelo, and even Pope Leone X.

The market itself dates back to the 1860s, and wandering through the markets bring a touch of Sunday afternoon feeling, no matter what day it actually is.

Clothing, hats, scarves, leather jackets, bags, shirts, souvenirs, food items, ceramics, shoes, belts, jewellery… if you can’t find it here, it probably is not worth having.

Wandering through the markets on any day of the week, you are surrounded by a wonderfully international mix of tourists and locals alike. You can spot who is who -the tourists in their t-shirts and sandals, the locals ever well-dressed, the gorgeous Italian girls tottering on impossibly thin high heels despite the uneven stone pavement of the ancient streets as they wander from stall to stall, their large sunglasses covering long-lashed brown eyes set on spying a bargain.

It’s a hot summer’s day, and there is nothing nicer than a granita from the drinks stall just on the corner of the church entrance, in front of the imposing statue of Giovanni delle Bande Nere (or, Giovanni de’ Medici), which dates back to 1540 when the statue was erected by his son, Cosimo I de’ Medici.

Starting from the bancarelle (market carts) just near the entrance to the church, there are belt and bag stands, tables with clothing and shoes, some souvenirs, scarves and endless other items that catch your eye in passing, some - even too many - you just have to have.  

The people who work at the San Lorenzo market chat amongst themselves in the few quiet moments that there are during the day. They are happy and carefree, not interested in pressuring anyone into buying, some in fact more interested in just a chat.

Some items you can haggle on, getting a small discount to spend surely at the next stall. Other places are not open to bargaining, owing to the cheap market rates already offered.

Continuing on, you pass more stalls - leather jackets, hats, drinks, ceramics… 

Jewels from the jewellery stalls sparkle in the sun, the sound of people chatting, laughing, fills the air, and you can easily find yourself wandering from stall to stall at a delightedly relaxed pace.

At a hat stand, you can try on several different styles and designs. The woman working there is helpful, enthusiastically saying which hat looks great, and looking away in silence when you look ridiculous.

Wandering on, soon you come to the entrance of the famed San Lorenzo food market. Entering inside, it is cool and your eyes need a moment to adjust from the perfect brightness of the day.

As your eyes adjust, like a polaroid photograph developing before you, you spy stalls of meats, cheeses, alcohol, fruit and vegetables, packets of pasta in more colours and shapes than you knew possible… the senses are overrun, the taste buds tingling in anticipation.

You see a young girl buying fruit from a stall run by an elderly couple. The man winks at her as he adds 2 small bright red plums into her bag. He waves goodbye to her with a wide arching of his arm that pendulums high above his head and around his body.

Having explored every stall on the ground level, you can start on the upstairs floor. The warehouse stairs lead you up to an expansive open space crammed with tables that are totally covered with an amazing array of fruits and vegetables, spices and nuts.

Squeezing through the walkway, your senses are stroked by the fragrances of wild strawberries at one pass, then the tang of fresh lemons at the next. In one corner, the smell of coffee wafts past you as it emanates from a coffee bar.

After tasting and buying everything you can possibly justify doing, you can wander back outside, your pupils this time blinded by the shock of the sunlight that dazzles you and warms your shoulders instantly.

Nearby is a coffee bar whose windows are tantalisingly filled with trays of cookies and pastries, cakes and chocolates. Entering, there are tables and chairs which offer a reprieve from the paved streets and their wonderful chaos.

Seated, it is difficult to decide which of the many sweets you want to sample, but by no means impossible. Ordering three small items allows a variety of tasting. The coffee is almost always good in Italy, here it is exceptional, and it rings true to you here that the simple things in life really are the best.

At nearby tables, Italians have passionate conversations, communicated in a frantic combination of rapid speaking and expressive hand gestures. Every so often, heads are thrown back in laughter.

Having been refreshed by the coffee and the sweets, you will find new pep in your step as you continue exploring the last part of the expansive San Lorenzo markets.

Wandering behind the stalls, there is some shade and the openings to a plethora of stores offering wares often a little more upmarket than the street stalls. Then there are the general stores, there is a bakery and news agency, and turning a corner, an entire shop selling chocolates and teas and all kinds of extravagant delicacies.

By now, your shopping must come to an end for two reasons - the stalls are beginning to close, and your arms cannot carry any more weight. It must, therefore, be time for the other wonderful Italian tradition… the pre-dinner drink, the aperativo.  

The day wakes you gently, and you awake smiling. Today you are off to Volterra! In the heart of Tuscany, Italy, Volterra is a small town most famous for its production of Alabastro (alabaster) stone.

You drive, through the famed rolling hills, on the autostrada with the equally famed crazy Italian drivers. You pass the turn off for San Gimignano, driving through the surrounding town below. Your car winds you around bends as you roller-coaster along the scenic country roads. Your windows down, the wind in your hair is perfumed with the scents of spring flowers blooming, wildly, in the fields you pass.

Driving through Italy, seeing the beautiful countryside, the greenery, the little hill-top towns perched atop mountains, castles honoring the history of this land, you are free of all problems. This is freedom. This is happiness.

Soon, you are in Volterra, in the province of Pisa. With just over 11,000 inhabitants, this town is small yet amazingly historical. Having been an important Etruscan centre in ancient times, centuries later Florence repeatedly challenged Volterra to gain control of the town. Later, the Medici family took over.

Today, the town has a relaxed atmosphere. The sunshine casts shadows into the piazza, falling between the trees and the ancient buildings that create the winding narrow streets.  

You wander into the Piazza dei Priori, where you see a restaurant with tables oozing out into the square. Perusing the menu, you are approached by a friendly waiter who charms you into dining here. Spying the ornate interior, you decide to eat inside. You are lead to a table, and take a seat. The menu tempts you with a range of seafood and game. Being close enough to the coast here, and still surrounded by the forests famous for their game, you have the best of both worlds.

This is the Etruria Restaurant, coined the ‘temple of Volterra Gastronomy’. Surrounded on the outside by medieval towers and palaces, the interior awes you with the geometric design of the painted arched ceiling and smiling faces peer at you from the photo frames on the wall.

Your companion chooses meat dishes, so you opt for the seafood, allowing you to taste both options. Your gnocchi with a creamy salmon sauce is so delicious, as is your friend’s pasta with a ragù meat sauce. For main, you sample your friend’s stinco (pork shin), the meat just falls off the bone and is so flavoursome, like no pork dish you have ever tasted. You are presented with a huge serving of calamari and prawns, so generous in its proportion you barely even make a dint before you can eat no more. Or maybe just one or two more tastes…

After lunch, you head out into the piazza, cooled by the shadows cast by the amazing buildings in its surrounds. You wander the narrow streets, overhearing the jovial conversations of the townspeople laughing together, out for a relaxing afternoon walk. You head up a narrow street to the Parco Acheologico. Wandering through the park, whose grass fields roll up and down like waves of the ocean, the grounds are dotted with couples and families lazing on the green, sprawled out to take in the sun.

You do a loop of the park, listening to the cheery chirp of singing birds in the trees. Their song makes tangible your own contentment as you wander along.

Exiting the park, you head down a winding laneway, surrounded on both sides by an ancient brick wall that guides you out of the park. You wander along the town’s narrow cobblestone streets and eventually find yourselves in the Piazza XX Settembre. A statue of an archangel stands guard over the locals who gather on the piazza’s edge to look out over the spectacular view.

In this piazza, you spy the Museo della Tortura - a torture museum! You enter, seeing first of all a chair covered in nasty-looking nails. Traps and cages and instruments of torture line the walls with little plaques intricately detailing the use. Some are accompanied by paintings graphically clarifying the purpose of these ancient devices. You wince in sympathy for the people who experienced first hand the use of these items. You and your friend grip each others hands as you look at a guillotine.

Fortunately the museum is small and it is not long before you are out in the warm and cleansing sun. Exiting the torture museum, you laugh to yourself about the pertinence of Volterra being mentioned in the book Hannibal by Thomas Harris, and as a setting for Stephenie Meyer’s vampire thriller, New Moon.

Alas, there are no vampires out today and you are free to explore more of this quaint city.

You continue on your strolling, aimlessly wandering the streets before walking out into a piazza where you hear a chorus of masculine cheers and boos. Approaching a bar, you hear the commentary of a football match being broadcast from within a bar. Men crowd around, straining to hear. Standing back from the crowd, it is great to watch as hands go up in spirited joy at a positive result. The men clap each other on the back and teenagers cheer loudly as they wave large flags in the air in celebration.

As the crowd disperses, you wander into a giant alabaster store. The alabaster production here dates back to Etruscan times. The soft stone (1.5 to 3 on the Mohs hardness scale) lends itself to design of curved lamp shades, small jewellery boxes inlaid with semi-precious gemstones, ornaments, and a range of other items that serve only to beautify.

Exiting the store, you walk towards the a wall that offers stunning views over the countryside. The landscape is breathtaking, with ancient brick buildings leading down the side of a hill like stairs into the valley below.

As with most things in life, you cannot quite capture on film the feelings, the beauty, the experience of being here, but you try.

You wander back into the maze of streets, walking up and down the streets, stopping for a coffee, and convinced by the display of gelato into having an ice-cream that is very near to the most delicious gelato of your life.  

Licking away contentedly, you wander on and on, up a steep street that leads you through to a small market - only 6 or 7 stands, and then out of the city walls and to your car.

Whilst you could definitely stay here longer, the promise of the drive ahead eases any sadness you may have for leaving. The bluesy Italian music of Fred Buscaglione serenades you on your journey home, the sunset salutes you and you head back through the hills.

Florence, Italy, is known as being one of the most beautiful cities in the world. A hub of artisan crafts and art, it has also inspired many a poet to pen a poem praising its beauty. Walking along the river banks of the Arno, or looking out over the panorama perched high above the city skyline in Piazzale Michelangelo, the city’s beauty is indeed inspiring.

For those who have been to Florence, reading the poetry of various poets describing the wondrous city, brings back memories of one’s stay in Florence in memories that flash before you, with images beautiful and studied like landscape paintings. For those yet to see the Renaissance city, these poems just add further motivation to follow in the footsteps of such famed writers.

Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barret Browning, having married against her family’s wishes, fled to Florence in 1845, and their son was even born here.

Barret Browning’s epic poem, Aurora Leigh, details the life of its Florentine protagonist in a poem in 9 parts which forms a novel detailing the life of Aurora, born to a Florentine mother and English father:

I found a house, at Florence, on the hill
Of Bellosguardo. ‘Tis a tower that keeps
A post of double-observation o’er
The valley of Arno (holding as a hand
The outspread city) straight toward Fiesole
And Mount Morello and the setting sun,–
The Vallombrosan mountains to the right,
Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups
Wine-filled, and red to the brim because it’s red.
No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen
By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve
Were magnified before us in the pure
Illimitable space and pause of sky,
Intense as angels’ garments blanched with God,
Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall
Of the garden, dropped the mystic floating grey
Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green
From maize and vine) until ’twas caught and torn
On that abrupt black line of cypresses
Which signed the way to Florence. Beautiful
The city lay along the ample vale,
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street;
The river trailing like a silver cord
Through all, and curling loosely, both before
And after, over the whole stretch of land
Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes,
With farms and villas.

Robert Browning, in love with his new wife, their newborn child, and also their city, wrote his Old Pictures in Florence:

The morn when first it thunders in March,
  The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say:
As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch
  Of the villa-gate this warm March day,
No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled
  In the valley beneath where, white and wide
And washed by the morning water-gold,
  Florence lay out on the mountain-side.

When Barrett Browning died here in 1861, her husband arranged her burial to be in the cemetery known as Il Cimitero degli Inglesi (The English Cemetery) - although it is in fact an international cemetery located just outside the city’s medieval walls, for non-Catholics. Barrett Browning’s Florentine tomb is inscribed with a passage from a poem by her fellow cemetery companion, Walter Savage Landor.  

Having fled London in exile and starting out in Como, Italy, in 1815, before being expelled. Landor arrived in Florence in 1821 and was threatened with expulsion from this city also for having insulted the local police. After leaving his family to return to England, he later returned to Florence to live with the Brownings in 1858, where he stayed until his death in 1864. His acclaimed work, Imaginary Conversations was written whilst the poet lived with his family in Villa Castiglione. Writing to his daughter, Julia, Landor intertwines his love for his daughter with his passion for Florence:

Driving through the incredibly luscious green hills of the Marche area, you can be forgiven for feeling like you are perhaps in Ireland. The green of hills etches itself in your mind, returning with every memory of your time in the region.

Continuing north-west from Ancona, the main city of the Marche region, winding dirt roads hug hills that lazily rise out of the landscape, before dropping off into the sea-side cliffs. One turn of the road has you staring into a scene that looks like Tuscany with the colours turned up, the next, you are looking out over the blue green of the ocean.

As the sun shines in through the car windows, you wind the window down to feel the cool sea breeze lick your fingers as you wave to the hills you pass through. The roads are all lined with intensely yellow flowers that bloom throughout the region. As the car stops at an intersection, you can reach out and pick some flowers leaning out from the embankment. These flowers however, are all beauty and no scent, so you release them into the breeze as you continue your journey through the countryside.

Houses rest in fields in various states from romantic decay lively habitation, surrounded by untouched fields and carefully kept farmlands, some perused by slow-moving animals. You glimpse a playful puppy jumping hopefully at a ball launched to the sun by a farmer taking a break from his work, whilst on the other side of the yard, his wife, in a floral printed dress, unfurls wet linen with a matadorian flick, before pegging it, tamed, onto a clothes line.

Your destination is Urbino. Located just on the ‘calf’ of Italy, still in the Marche area, it is a small hill-town that has successfully been preserved throughout the centuries, so much so that the entire city has been World Heritage listed.

Entering into the city, you park at the base of an incline. Stopping for a coffee in a bar, you are tempted by the look of the Italian ‘biscotti’ on display. Asking for just one cookie per person, the cheerful cafe owner presents you instead with a plate abounding, each looking more delicious than the next. And of course, the only way to determine which is indeed the more delicious, is by sampling each and every one!

Having been re-energised by the cafe pit-stop, you continue on, walking up and up the winding road, until you are stopped by the stunning sight of the palace which is guarded over by a stone hawk, the symbol of the Noble family who once resided here. Architecturally designed so that seemingly innocent stairways and pathways functioned as a form of moat, allowing defence by means of pouring boiling oil to be launched down steps into oncoming enemies, paths were narrowed to prevent armies from approaching en mass.

Dwarfed by the imposing angled face of this building and miniatured by the expanse of its history, you continue on in your exploration of the town.

You pass a game parlor packed with dozens of teenagers, laughing and whispering about each other other behind hands that leave revealed the playful look in their eyes. The contrast of the serious history and the playful modernity just intensifies your like of Urbino.

Further along, the street shatters into several directions. One leads up to a gently sloped street lined with food stores, coffee bars, restaurants and various other shops. From here, you glimpse a rectangular piazza set sunken into the ground and shadowed by a large building that makes this area seem like a wondrous geometry project.

The town is spacious, its streets wide and buildings large and masculine, but still beautiful and somehow gentle. The pace here is relaxed, and smiles adorn each face that you pass on the stroll up and down the streets.

Turning to the right, you see stairs that lead up to a large open space of the Piazza Duca Federico, embraced on one side by the arm of the Palazzo Ducale, and on the other, the 19th century neo-classical and understated Duomo (Cathedral).   

Entering into the Palazzo, this is now the home of the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, Museo della Ceramica and the Museo Archeologico. With the sun slowly starting its decent in the sky, you eeny-meeny-miney-moe and head into the Galleria Nazionale. Firstly, you enter into the museum to marvel at the artworks you have previously only seen in school textbooks. This building, completed in 1482, is constructed around a rectangular courtyard. Leading from here is a staircase winding up to the Ducal Apartments where you find the Duca Federico Studiolo. Housing paintings by Piero della Francesca, you are awed by the history, by the art, by the whispers of the past that whip at your heels as you pass through room after spectacular room.

Some rooms could host football matches, whilst others are small and cramped, such as the wood-panelled study etched with images of great scholars. Then there is the eerily lit prayer room, its low ceiling painted with hundreds of tiny cherub faces that watch the over the repentant and the grateful who enter.

As you file through room after room, you wonder how many times ones’ breath can be taken away and still be given back again.

Exiting via the monumental staircase, again into the central courtyard, you glimpse other entryways beckoning your entrance. Behind large royal blue velvet drapes, you are in search of the famed library. Instead you find a strange set up where the books once were. Here, now, you find projectors that are set up as computer-simulated books, of which one can turn the pages with a flamboyant flick of a hand in front of a sensor. This is surreal. Watching adults and children alike gesturing in a mode more outrageous than the next in attempts to stimulate the sensor, you cannot help but laugh at the ridiculous and fabulous here.

Exiting the room and entering into the next door along, you find the real deal, rending the previous simulated library even more bizarre. Here you can see illuminated manuscripts carefully preserved in humidified cases. The brilliance of the colours, the finest details of each hand-painted image on each page, and the years that must have been spent by hunched monks and priests to create these amazing books is almost beyond understanding in the age of laser printing.

From back in the Piazza Duca Federico, you enter into a subterranean area of the palazzo that is almost deserted. You here music working its way slowly to a crescendo, and following the sound, you enter into a large room where images of the Renaissance era are projected onto the wall. They flash and gyrate to the music. There are people sitting around the edges of the room enjoying the ambiance, but you grab your friend and slow-dance to the music, tripping over your feet and your own laughter.

Next you wander through a maze of doorways that lead into stone walled, empty rooms that connect and wind and disorientate.

Exiting from the underground, you traverse the Piazza Duca Federico, and enter into the Duomo. By now, the night has blanketed the city and as you enter into the Duomo, there are not too many people here. You absorb the high ceilings, the incredible paintings, the glow of the prayer candles, the aromatic scent of churches that seems to be the same around the world. You wander slowly around the edges of the church, admiring the incredible artwork, of which this country seems to have an infinite amount.

Calm and happy, you wander out of the church, into the dark of night. The streets are not quite deserted, but almost. Your footsteps drum a rhythmic echo into the night as you re-trace the winding street back to the car.

You find that the cafe is still open, its doorways now surrounded by several people merrily chatting, and you enter, seeing if there was, perhaps, just one or two more kinds of biscotti you have not tried here…