If only those stones could speak, what stories they would tell … the ones I know about only date back to 1938 when my grandfather, a dashing man in his mid-forties, and my dad both fell in love with a ragged piece of property on the Etruscan Coast.

The nearby village in those days was nothing more than a few houses, a general store, a barber shop, a church and the “Central Bar” where the men gathered to drink coffee or a glass of wine and exchange stories about fishing and hunting and how their wives had cooked that special pheasant. The village also had a small sprinkling of local artists who flocked to its shores to capture on their canvas the beautiful sunsets, the ocean breezes and the seagulls.

Both my father and grandfather could think of nothing better to escape the worries and the demands of their business in Florence than to build their dream house on the coast, and so it began …

The property could be bought from the old character that owned it at a very good price but … there was a but! They had to agree not to sell the place to anyone else in the area for at least ten years, since the old man didn’t like the locals and did not want anyone there to have it. And so it was agreed. When my grandmother first saw the place … she became hysterical, how could my grandfather do such a foolish thing? Didn’t he see the roof leaking and the grass growing on some of the floors, the broken windows? Who could ever be able to live in such a place, let alone entertain in it? But my grandfather and my dad had a dream and with a lot of hard work, day by day, they started shaping the land to create in great harmony with nature, beautiful lace looking balustrades, tiered gardens, terraces and curved stairs to frame two beautiful semi-private beaches, planting lots of trees and hedges and flowers to make this house the envy of the coast, one could proudly be called “Villa Santa Lucia”. Here my grandparents first and my parents later, over the years, would be honored to entertain many guests, from family and friends, to writers, painters, poets, magistrates … even the U.S. Army!

Yes, as the U.S. Army was slowly liberating Italy from the Germans, fighting their way north from the beaches at Anzio where they had first landed, they also arrived in Castiglioncello, where a whole company camped on our beach and in our house, sharing food and cigarettes and being entertained by my grandmother playing the piano. My grandfather was then nicknamed “The Captain” as he could always be seen wearing a sea captain’s hat and a scarf around his neck and this is how he is still remembered today by the local folks.

A lot of time has gone by: the village now rivals the Hamptons, with many posh villas, hotels, boutiques, cultural events at “The Castle” and a great night life at the many clubs in the area, but the stones of Santa Lucia still sing of romantic moonlight evenings with the sound of the ocean lapping its shore, of light laughter of young boys and girls first kisses, of babies delighted chuckles at the feel of sand between their toes, of the twinkling of stars, the same ones that made my grandfather stop and wonder so many years ago.