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A 4×4 filled with menacing-looking young men roars past us, impatient at our slow progress up the mountain.

We continue, somewhat more sedately than them, on into the darkness.

This might be pistacchi, castagne, funghi – or even new wine.

True enough, as we reach the base of the mountain Marco’s phone rings. It turns out he’s caught up the deficit and is only about two minutes behind us.

Tiny flies and dust motes, glinting white and gold. Even though it was controlled, there was still – in my child’s mind at least – always the possibility that it could race away from us all, burning everything in its wake.

A black cat creeping through the wisteria, six foot from the ground and out of reach of the overly-friendly Am Staff galumphing below. When it was done, and our noses and our hair and our eyes were full of smoke and the fire hadn’t destroyed everything and my world was (disappointingly?

It’s heaving and, bizarrely, there is a steam engine parked in the centre.

God only knows how it ever got up here – this mountain is far too steep to have ever had a railway – but it all adds to the quaint atmosphere of the place. In true Italian fashion, there isn’t really a queue, and nobody knows quite what’s going on.

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