Although I love Washington State with its rugged coastline, pristine forests and soaring mountains, this fall has been a doozy with incessant rain, fog, and mist. I suppose all this clean air and lush green is worth a few dark months but, oh, how I miss the sun-drenched mornings of Italy.
This past spring four dear friends – Trish, Nat, Becks and Viss – joined me for an amazing week at a wonderful old villa in Southern Italy–Villa Trotta.
I knew it was beautiful from the photos online, and at 240 Euro per person for an entire week it was an absolute steal! But nothing prepared us for the beauty that awaited us. The villa clung to the side of a mountain, grape vines clambered over the arbor, geraniums flowered cheerily in pots down stone steps to the orchard, and three tiled terraces overlooked a valley dotted with olive groves and vineyards.
The villa echoed with our squeals and gasps of delight as we dashed from room to room not quite believing that this was actually real. That this wondrous place was truly ours for a whole week.
I loved every single moment of our time there, but somehow breakfast holds a special place in my heart.
Nat and I usually woke first, soft breezes wafting in through the lace curtains, dogs barking, Italians talking in the groves below. Viss would brew strong coffee and one by one we’d make our way out to the terrace, soaking in the sunshine and gazing out over the hills to the sea beyond. Bliss.
Strawberries were a favorite, followed by Nutella on chewy bread and thick Greek yogurt. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the sun beating down on bare shoulders. Almost.