Over the next few days, Domenica, Antonia and Angus settled into a routine at the villa. The Italian summer heat was less fierce than usual, and it was possible to walk about in comfort throughout the day, with the possible exception of a couple of hours around noon, when the sun was directly overhead and such shade as the trees afforded was sparse and pinched. That did not matter a great deal to the party; outings into Montalcino took place after breakfast, which was a leisurely meal taken under the vine-covered pergola at the side of the house. From the breakfast table, they watched Signora Ochilupo, the farmer’s wife, as she hung out laundry in the farmyard below or carried hay from the barn to the stalls of the three white oxen that pulled the farm’s antiquated cart. There was little sign of the farmer himself, although occasionally they spotted him pruning vines or scratching at the surface of the soil with a large and unwieldy hoe.

‘Timeless agriculture,’ said Domenica. ‘Not producing very much, I fear. But doing what their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents did. In the same place, too.’

‘Which we have lost,’ said Angus. ‘We have lost that sense of connection with the past, haven’t we?’ He looked into his coffee cup as he spoke. He had not started to paint yet, but the germ of a painting had planted itself in his mind. He would paint a rural scene in which the sense of continuity and linkage would be explored.

Signora Ochilupo insisted on accompanying them on their first expedition into the village. Not all the shopkeepers were to be trusted, she explained, and prices could be inflated for foreigners. If she went with them, they would be charged the same prices as the locals. She could advise them, too, she said, on the best cheese and salamis.

Domenica assumed responsibility for the cooking. Nothing was said about this, and neither Angus nor Antonia argued with it. Angus was in charge of wine, and bought several bottles of the Ochilupo wine as well as some rather more reliable-looking Rosso di Montalcino and, at considerable expense, a couple of bottles of Brunello. A supply of bones was obtained for Cyril, who had settled more or less immediately into his new existence and had found a good spot under an old olive tree where he could lie and watch the oxen and the few straggly sheep which grazed in the olive grove. He accompanied Angus into the village, too, and had made the acquaintance of several Italian dogs, who had accepted him after only the briefest period of suspicion and distrust.

Angus began to paint; Antonia busied herself with her historical novel set among the early Scottish saints of Galloway, and Domenica read. Each had his or her spot in which to pursue these interests, and if there had been tension at the beginning of the trip, there was none now.