Casetta Santa Maria rests among the soft hills of southern Tuscany, four hectares of olive trees and land once left untended for over fifteen years. The simple farmhouse and its adjoining barn are part of a landscape that feels both wild and cultivated, rooted in history yet quietly transforming.
Over time, the place has been brought back to life with care. Dry stone walls frame the slopes, compost enriches the soil, and paths covered with wood chips trace lines through the garden. Every intervention is small but deliberate, a gesture of respect toward the land, a way of listening as much as shaping.
The olive trees, long neglected, are now pruned each winter. In November, the harvest begins. The olives are pressed at the local mill, and the oil, bright green in color, smooth and fresh with a subtle, late tang, is filled into 5-liter tins before finding its way to Berlin, for those who helped with the harvest.
Around the house, the garden unfolds in quiet rhythms: a shaded terrace to the south, a plateau with open views to the west, a calm enclosure framed by herbs and stone. Each side of the house holds its own light, its own tempo, a slow choreography between sun and shade, openness and shelter.
During my stay, I worked in the vegetable garden: weeding, harvesting, cooking with whatever was ready that day. Tomatoes, zucchini, basil, sage, oregano, lemon zest, flavors intense yet effortless. What was abundant was preserved: dried in a dehydrator, marinated, bottled. The kitchen became an extension of the garden, a space where freshness, labor, and simplicity met in a quiet daily rhythm.
Casetta Santa Maria continues to evolve. The architects who live here are restoring the buildings piece by piece, with traditional materials and a sensitivity to the landscape. Their vision is to open the place for future retreats, spaces where permaculture, art, architecture, and music might coexist.
For me, what remains is the stillness of the hills, the scent of herbs, the texture of the soil after rain. A landscape not yet finished, always in motion, a reminder that beauty often lives in process, between nature and the human hand.