More than sensual olives, more than the dry bite of Pecorino, more even than luscious Brunello, in Tuscany, sense of place rooted in us through the ubiquitous and imperial cypress. Every day, we feasted our eyes on the slender evergreen as we cooked and ate and drank with the zest of Bacchus. Mysteriously and richly verdant on a summer landscape of golden earth, cypress was a perfume and an evening shadow, long and straight as a compass needle, and we loved the way it made graphic order of the landscape, framing and sheltering farmhouses, tracing zig-zagged roads that we laboured up on bicycles, and drawing a straight line through the ages from Etruscan tribesmen to Noah’s Ark and Christ’s cross – both made of cypress – to us, devoted pilgrims of beauty, accomplished sybarites, apprentice celebrants and seekers. O cypress! We can’t wait to see you again.
story © Dianna Carr images © Francis Tremblay