'Olive trees?' The man sounds shocked. 'You mean to say those are all olive trees? Hell, what a mess.' Having led countless tourists and students around Tuscan gardens, I have learned to rephrase some of their stranger statements into something approaching logic, but in this case I'm stumped. I have no idea what the man means. We are on the terrace of Villa Gamberaia in Settignano, the sun is out and is shining over the Arno Valley. In the distance lie the red roofs of Florence, peppered with the obligatory towers and domes. Olive trees shimmer all around us. Idyllic - even postcard-perfect, it would seem - especially in September, when the trees are laden with green fruit, still hard to distinguish from the foliage.
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