I was brought up in a household that was very much “look, but don’t touch”. My dad was forever telling me (and my brothers and sister) not to touch this, and to get my feet off that. My parents even had a “grown-ups” living room, which children were not allowed into. So, when I first visited my mother’s friend Hazel at her place in the hills above Florence, I revelled in the freedom of staying in a house that was, shall we say, slightly more relaxed.
Villa Ranchetti is one of the biggest privately owned villas in Italy. Built more than 400 years ago, it was once incredibly grand and important. In its heyday, it would have housed Italian aristocrats, but by the time I started going there, when I was six, it had become a shadow of its former self. The huge ballroom, with painted frescos, had become an oversized study filled with books. The roof had crumbled to such a degree that Hazel used a tarpaulin to keep the rain out. Rancid dogs and half-dead cats had free rein, covering every surface with urine, faeces and hair. But, incredibly, I loved it. As I got older, I really began to appreciate the juxtaposition of its former grandeur with the dilapidated, run-down place it had become.
Hazel’s husband came from a line of wealthy industrialists, who had made their money in the north of Italy and spent it on property in the south. His grandfather bought Villa Ranchetti in 1840 and it was eventually passed down to Hazel’s husband, an academic, who didn’t have two lire to rub together. So began its demise. Yet Hazel still lives there, with her children and their families living in various outbuildings.
It has always been an open house, and a full one, with strangers popping in or staying for a few days. I love introducing my Italian friends to Hazel and the house, as it’s not somewhere they would otherwise ever have the opportunity to see. My friends have become her friends, and are doing a few jobs to help out and make it more comfortable. But I wouldn’t want them to do too much, as it would lose what made me fall in love with it in the first place.
Now, when I go there, I’ll sit on the back terrace, take in the amazing views of Florence and not want to be anywhere else — it’s my second home.
Advertisement
I didn’t take my children to the villa for the first couple of years as I didn’t think they could handle the filth, but I wish I’d just got on with it. It was a big moment when I took them, as I so wanted them to love it like I did, but the first thing they said was: “Eeuugghh.” I bought them a blow-up paddling pool, which took their mind off things. Hopefully, when they are older, they will look back fondly on their visits.
I have such lovely memories of the family holidays we had there, when Mum and Dad were together, driving through Europe in a VW van in the 1960s. My God, it was a long journey, but there was such excitement to see Hazel and her family. All of us kids and all the animals would roam the nine rooms in the main house and the acres of olive groves, playing hide and seek. In the winter, we’d all huddle round the huge fireplace in the hall to keep warm, as there was no other heating. They’d not long had running water and electricity.
It upsets me to think that, one day in the not too distant future, the house will have to be sold. There won’t be too many individuals who will be able to afford to buy it, but in my eyes, non ha valore — it’s priceless.
The Real Me Is Thin by Arabella Weir is published by Fourth Estate at £7.99