Three Dogs, A Taxi & An Olive Tree in Tuscany

We did it again. We got lost. This time in Tuscany.

As a special treat for my birthday, Jenna found a great little Airbnb, 20km outside of Florence near the small village of Mercatale. A working Vineyard / Olive Tree Farm, this villa paradise was going to offer some peace and quiet. A chance to just sit and read, without the temptation of being on the move, trying to see everything on Tripadvisor’s top ten.

The journey started in Florence. We planned to catch a bus to Mercatale and then walk the remaining 1.9km to the farm. We could have taken a taxi but at €70 we both agreed it was too steep. We did some local investigation, found the bus station and bought our tickets. We double checked which bus to take, where to catch it and felt confident in another smooth transition to a new city. Unfortunately, once we were on the bus, we realized we forgot to check if we needed to make any transfers. Thirty minutes into our trip, we watched our little blue dot on google maps move further and further away from our destination. Panic started to set in.

I assured Jenna that we must be making a slight detour, maybe the bus route was horseshoe shaped. I was sure that any minute we would be looping back to our destination and back on track. As the seconds ticked away though, I was growing less and less convinced of my own bullshit. Finally I decided it was time to give up on male pride and ask the driver.

“Scuzzy (that’s how good my Italian is), this bus, it goes to Mercatale?”

I’m not sure why, but both Jenna and I seem to think that if we speak in broken English it will be easier to understand. The bus driver looked at me with zero recognition. I tried again, this time with fewer words “Mercatale?? Ci?? Non??” Still nothing. Finally I pulled out my map. “Here? We go here??”

In a flash the driver started yelling something in Italian. Apparently I had just ruined his day. He stopped the bus, opened the doors and said something to the effect of “You change bus, go back, San Casciano”. From the opposite direction, another bus was coming our way and the driver frantically honked his horn to get it to stop. He yelled some more, and I can only assume said to get on this bus. Jenna and I darted off the bus, gathering our bags and crossing the street while both buses looked on. We were those travellers. Once we were past the front of our old bus he sped away. We made our way to the doors of the new bus and were greeted by “Not right bus, you take next bus, Ciao”. And like that, we were alone, in the middle of Tuscany, with no idea how to get to where we were going.

At this point we gave up on the idea of busses and opted to find a taxi. It was starting to get late and before long it was going to be dark. Unfortunately we were in a village of maybe 40 people, all of them now staring at our backpacks wondering what the hell we were doing here. I had the sinking feeling that there wasn’t going to be any taxis nearby.

We found a nearby pub, figuring drunks must need a ride from time to time, and asked if the lady behind the counter could call one for us. Jenna tried her best simple English, “Taxi? You call for us? Gracié” (the accent comes with the over pronunciation of the eh at the end, the Canadian version I guess). “Ci, ci, but very expensive” she said. Perfect, the cheap skate in me screamed, I love buying bus tickets only to then pay cab fare as well.

Another twenty minutes went by with the two of us sitting on the side of the street. At this point we weren’t sure we were ever going to make it to our peaceful paradise. Then, like a knight in shining armor, a silver VW Van arrived to pick us up. The man driving was friendly enough, spoke a little English, and seemed to feel the need to describe every tree, farm or ridge we drove by. I tried to be friendly as well but for whatever reason, my defences are always up with cab drivers. My internal dialogue goes something like this: “How much are you actually going to charge us, are you taking the quickest way or a long detour, do you have a knife or gun hidden somewhere waiting to rob us.” I may have trust issues.

When we arrived at what should have been our location, we were in for yet another surprise. Instead of a beautiful vineyard we found a cemetery. Not the kind of cemetery they use in RomComs, covered in flowers and bright sunshine. This was the kind of cemetery they use in horror movies about travellers being possessed by old world ghosts. We double checked the address, we double checked the Airbnb booking… Everything seemed to be pointing us to this place.

Pulling back from the grave stones, we continued up and down the street to see if the entrance was elsewhere. No luck. Instead, we pulled into what looked like the only house on the street, a promisingly quaint little villa. Sitting outside was a nice old woman ready to greet us. Again we pulled out our universal English, “Ciao, this Airbnb?” She launched into a tirade of Italian, none of which we understood, until thankfully the driver stepped in to translate. He worked out that we’d gone too far and the place we were looking for was another kilometre back the other way. We pilled back into the cab and it was back to the wild goose chase.

When we finally arrived at our destination we were greeted by what I would describe as the perfect Tuscan villa. Two small brick buildings, flanked by olive trees and grape vines as far as the eye could see. The only thing standing in our way was a fence with two giant iron gates and three dogs, a German Shepard, a black lab, and something that looked like a bull mastiff. Not exactly the friendliest welcoming party but we knew this was the right place from the pictures. We unloaded our bags, paid the driver, and once again we were all alone.

Just before dusk, we rang the buzzer on the gate under the suspicious eyes of the German Shepard. Without a word from anyone on the other end, the gates swung open. This seemed to displease the dogs who must have thought we were intruders, or worse, a late night snack. The minute the gates started moving they sulked away, realizing that they weren’t going to get to attack anyone.

For the next 30 minutes we waited. We rang doorbells, we called out hellos, we even texted the owners. Nothing. It was just us, the three dogs and wide open space. Even better was the fact that by now it was dark, and there’s no better way to play mind games with yourself than in the black of night, all alone, on a creepy farm.

As the minutes ticked by, our anxiety grew. Do we stay, do we go? Did you hear something? Why is that dog looking at me funny? Seriously, did you hear something? Maybe we should go? Wait a minute… how do we open the gate?

Without realizing it, we’d walked onto the property, completely surrounded by fences, and had no way of opening the gate. We tried for a motion sensor, we flapped our arms like idiots and the gate wouldn’t budge. We were officially trapped. It was right around this time that panic really started to set in. Luckily, a few minutes later a young girl came walking around the corner from one of the buildings. She looked just as surprised to see us as we were to see her.

“Hi… is this Francesco’s Airbnb?” we said.

I swear she looked at us sideways for a good thirty seconds. Finally, she gave something between a response and a grunt before retreating into a small shed. A few minutes later she came back with keys in hand and escorted us to our apartment for the next four days. We were home… I guess. We still felt nervous about the whole thing and without much explanation from our new host, she once again disappeared.

A full hour later we saw someone buzzing around outside and decided we should introduce ourselves to this potential axe murderer. Thankfully it was Enzo, one of the owners of the farm. He was overjoyed to see us. We shook our hands, he smiled a toothy grin, and like that he was gone. Not so much of an introduction as a shooting star in the night sky.

We continued to settle into our new home and it was right around this time that we realized we didn’t have anything to eat. In all the commotion of the day we forgot to grab groceries. Given the fact that it was now past 8pm and we were sure the market in the nearby town would be closed, so we had to make do. We ended up having a dinner consisting of two chocolate croissants, a biscuit each and some candies that Jenna had bought in Florence.

Overall, the farm was beautiful but it was like we didn’t exist. The next morning workers toiled around us, gathering up olives from the trees, without even so much as a hello. Ultimately, we got exactly what we were looking for, peace and quiet, but it was one of the weirdest places we’ve stayed to date.

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