It was February and cold with an icy wind that ripped your coat violently open and made the teeth at the back of your mouth ache. Helen and Nicola huddled by the track at Pisa Aeroporto as Nick rang backwards and forward trying to confirm that the train in front of us was going to Florence. I gave him an encouraging nod as he attempted to make sense of a time table that looked many years out of date. Finally convinced that this was the only train and that it was indeed going to our destination we clambered aboard.
I can’t remember what time of day it was but in my memory it was already dark, our images reflected back at us from the large scenic windows. It was certainly dark by the time we made it to a hotel to the south of the city on Via Senese. We had just enough time to check in and run round the block to a small pizzeria that stayed open late.
The next day, after a breakfast with coffee that was thick and strong we wrapped up warm and left the hotel. Within moments we were engulfed by the narrow streets, hemmed in by fast moving traffic and people who walked slow but talked fast, their hands weaving in the air and their heads nodding up and down or from side to side as they searched for just the right phrase or description.
That day I visited the Uffizi, traversed the Ponte Vecchio, walked around the Duomo and looked in the windows of the small shops that sold a bewildering array of pastas; meat that hung from the rafters and cheese that assaulted the nose.

Words can not always be relied upon to accurately express something as personal as a feeling but for as long as I can remember I have felt that a large chunk of me is missing. It is as if the middle portion of my torso didn’t exist. My legs met my waist while my neck was attached to my chest - but the bit in between was a void. I was incomplete. While I was happy with the individual components of my life the sum of the parts somehow did not make a whole.
My job was not interesting, our house not beautiful, the bars and meeting places were predictable and cheap. I was searching for something to make me complete but I had no idea what it was or where to find it.

We travelled back to Italy at the next available opportunity, renting a house for two weeks south of Florence. We visited Sienna with its wide radiating Palazzo famous for the notorious horse race, San Gimignano with its ancient towers built to impress. We went east to Le Marche visiting the hill top town Cingoli and north through industrial La Spezia. We visited the villages of the Cinque Terre that clambered out of the sea and clung to Italy with a passion, but always we returned to Lucca.

“We could just sell our house and move to Italy for good” – I’m not sure which one of us said it or even when we decided it was the only course of action open to us but it was decided a little over a year ago that ‘why not – what was keeping us here?” We are young and fearless and unable to contemplate a future in which we had not at least attempted something reckless.

We wanted to live around Lucca and spent the next year visiting different properties to the east close to the hilltop village of Montecarlo but could not find the property to suit us. We had a limited budget and could not afford the run down farm houses so beloved of the British press. We would pour over the lavishly illustrated articles that displayed the transformation of a once derelict barn into a five bedroom architect’s dream that in the UK (and Italy) could only be afforded by the truly privileged.

We were looking for a bolt-hole, two bedrooms and bathroom to call our own – a base from which we could visit more of this enticing country. We decided to push north and spent weeks in the Mediavalle del Serchio, the Garfagnana and the Lima valley looking for a house in the villages around Bagni di Lucca.

Negotiating the sharp bends, the engine in the hire car whimpered as I shifted it down a gear in an attempt to make it up the steep hill road that led to Barga. We had come to see a small house advertised on a web site that I had originally thought inactive.
The weather was warm and clear for early March; the country side was repairing the damage of winter and concerned itself with growing. A dead cat, hit by a car lay in the road – was it a warning? A message to turn around and go back to England? Or was it simply another casualty of the Italian love of speed when driving?
We pushed on – we knew little about Barga. Only that which we had read in guides (I had not yet found the excellent Barganews), which normally gave it a few lines at best, describing it as a picturesque town nestled in the hills, with an impressive Duomo dating from the 11th century.
We pulled up in the car park outside the small but imposing gateway that gave a tantalising view into the densely packed streets of the old town. The car park was busy, a busload of tourists had just arrived and the coach was left idling with its motor running chugging out oily fumes. At one end of the car park on a green hill stood a massive cedar tree under which children played on a small park while there parents sat on the grass soaking up a little of the heat while others walked across the road to a small café selling ice cream.
This place was ideal - small but perfectly formed, we tried to contain our enthusiasm. No doubt the house would be miles from the town and in such a state that we would never be able to live in it for years to come.

We meet Roseanna at her office. She complains about the cold and wraps her brightly knit cardigan around her. Helen and I give each other a blank look being convinced that the day is beautiful and warm. We don’t require a car as the house is just around the corner she states and directs us to a small side street.
Fifty metres later we stop and Roseanna points out the small house. It is painted mustard yellow and appears to glow in the sunlight, a creeper snakes lazily up the front wall while a small window box containing a jumble of pink flowers nestles under a large window.
We venture inside. The house is a little musty from not being lived in, but it is dry with no holes in the ceilings or missing floors. There are a couple of bedrooms the largest of which looks out at the view of old Barga perched on its hill and mountains in the distance. There is a working bathroom and a kitchen with a fridge and running water. It is perfect – perhaps too perfect. Surely we could never own it – could we?

Next month: A home with no living.

Adam J. Shardlow is a writer moving to Barga soon.