COMO Castello del Nero - Tavarnelle Val di Pesa

Rarely do I prepare for holidays with such verve. But with a month in Italy, I was determined to get the max out of this trip. My husband is a history scholar and I knew exploring every stone in ancient ruins was on his agenda. So I needed a rescue plan. Where would we meet half way? Around Montalcino and Chianti. And what I really needed was a spa especially for my feet. How to sell this idea to Mr Smith?

The answer: Castello del Nero, a 12th-century castle. The one-time residence of the namesake noble Florentine family, it was rescued from rubble by their descendent, Carlo Torrigiani, and his American wife, Anna Frey. They worked tirelessly to restore the residence and land back to its former glory. And now it is a boutique hotel and spa with a 16th-century private chapel dedicated to San Michele. Its description, delivered with a few flamboyant hand gestures and romantic words, had it sold to the hubby in no time, too. Roll forward then to the actual trip and my feet are by now in need of a serious rest. Those ancient stones are most unforgiving – how did those sandalled Roman solders do it?

Nothing could be more perfect than the drive up to the Castello del Nero. This Australian has always been a sucker for crunching gravel as you arrive at a private house. Imposing without being too grand, a big smile and a cool, scented towel for our brows soon make the welcome all the warmer. After a quick view of the pool and amazing garden, past my favourite green hydrangeas, we’re shown to our suite. A large mezzanine-split room with shuttered windows opening to the view over valleys of olive groves and vineyards stretching towards the horizon.

Who doesn’t love luxury touches when travelling? The delivery on details abounds at Castello del Nero: downstairs, a fine cashmere rug to curl up with when you watch movies; upstairs, pristine, embroidered linen that is ever so slightly scented. And those pillows! It is so inviting that I have to stop Mr Smith from diving onto the bed.

To the pool! Passing a mown-to-perfection lawn, we find a rose-filled corner of the garden that feels almost English. Then we see the outdoor tennis courts. But it is a rest day for this pair. As we arrive at the pool house, a quiet but wonderful suggestion is made: would we like a hamburger put onto the barbecue and perhaps a Campari and blood-orange juice? Does the Pope wear Prada shoes? An afternoon sleep on some serious deckchairs, with English papers scattered around us, and it almost feels like home.

‘Look there is a spa,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to a spa,’ comes the response. ’Just have a look,’ I plead. Segue from gentle persuasion to finding us in the thermal suite. The range of heating and cooling experiences soon soothes aching muscles. Mr Smith’s wide smile indicates I’ve made a convert. Special showers infused with mint and lavender, circulation-boosting ice fountains, aromatic caldarium steam rooms – Mr Smith, the spa refusenik, is now hooked. We spend hours being pampered. Holistic foot treatment with hot stones and a relaxing acupressure-point massage and paraffin dip. When those waxy pale pink booties are removed I wonder if she’s given me someone else’s feet. I float, skip, jump about, and then join my husband in the tranquillity room, where he is sipping fragrant tea.

Joy of joys. It’s been all I planned and more, and there’s still dinner in La Torre, the elegant dining room. On arrival, our eyes are drawn to the exquisitely decorated fireplace that complements high ceilings and terracotta floors. Large French windows overlook the landscape of the Castello del Nero estate.

Our waitress tells us that the estate produces its own red wine and extra virgin olive oil. I find out too late that I could have booked a cooking class with the well-known chef. Next time! Since we are in truffle country I want to try the Tuscan cuisine teamed with the earthiness of truffles. Slow-poached hen’s egg with crispy rice, sheep’s cheese and black truffle gets the party started.

The bliss continues the next day at breakfast. Sunday’s first meal of the day should be a slow and indulgent delight in my books. A serious spread of freshly baked breads and pastries, home-made jams and cooked dishes promises all we could desire. It’s only having a day trip planned that we break our breakfasting at all. Tennis lessons, mountain-bike tours and horse riding have been offered, and all sound great – to Mr Smith. I watch my husband’s face light up at the suggestion of ballooning; he sees the muscles on mine spell out NO. So we opt for a trip to Siena – the mention of this historical town has his face lighting up again. All day on our feet again but by the end we’re back home, or at least it feels like home, curled up in that lightweight cashmere throw. We look at each other and agree instantly on the next activity: room service.