Tuscan summers are fiery.
They slowly take over the countryside: Fields and meadows turn yellow within the first days of scorching sun, and the air is filled with the smell of toasted wheat and dried mint. The hypnotic buzz of cicadas is the soundtrack for lazy afternoons, when you seek refuge inside the house, behind closed shutters and curtains, in the dark of the freshest room—bare feet, light linen, a hand fan as your best ally.
