A house under a
tree, and everything
that came after.

I’ve been running through this grass since I was a child. Barefoot, summers, the trees already taller than anyone. My father bought this land in 1976, and he wanted nothing more from it than days outside with his family. Guitar in the grass, barbecue under the trees. He built a small house, just enough to hide from the rain. For years it sat mostly untouched, and by the time we came back to it from abroad, it had gone fully wild, one corner of my father’s old roof visible through the overgrowth, and little else.

My husband and I started going out almost every day. First to cut a path, then, for years, just to keep going. There was never a plan. It was a place we couldn’t stay away from. Slowly, everything found its place. Furniture I’d spent years collecting across Italy, pieces other people had given up on, which is exactly what I liked about them, finally had somewhere to live. The garden grew, we built paths and stone platforms, the house stretched: a terrace became a room, the room became more.

Then in 2019 we hosted a family bachelorette here, decorated it ourselves, and the photos travelled further than we expected. The messages all asked the same thing: is this a venue? It wasn’t. We’d never set out to build one. Now it is.

What we want for everyone who comes hasn’t changed: that you feel you’re in a place made by people who care, not by a brand. That you slow down. That when you leave, you remember it.