The real taste of Tuscany

Travel by Victoria Thomas

"Alore," announces chef Paola, tossing back her tousled mane of red and gold hair. "Before we continue, I need to know, is there anyone here on their period?"

Steve shoots me a recriminating look. Never, in all the months of planning our dream holiday of cooking in Italy, did he ever imagine he’d be the only man in a nine-strong group . . . discussing This.

Turns out there are sound, culinary reasons for asking the question. In Italy young girls are brought up knowing they must never attempt whisking eggs and sugar at certain times of the month.

"Because we are crazy, it makes the custard crazy," laughs Paola, winking at Steve, before carrying on with the lesson.

A love of food and Italy plus the shame of being the worst dinner party hosts in our circle of friends was the inspiration behind this trip.

There are hundreds of Italian cooking courses to choose from. We picked Casa Ombuto in Tuscany because, erm, that was the first one Google offered, but also because the online brochure included an impressive back catalogue of testimonials.

"You have infused me with a zest for cooking and have given me the confidence to attempt any dish," wrote one ecstatic customer, though it was the simpler, "We laughed and laughed, and ate and ate" that had Steve and I eagerly counting down the days.

The course also appealed to our twin traits of laziness and greediness. Laziness, in that the daily cooking lessons didn’t start until 3pm, giving us plenty of time to chill out by the heavenly pool, and greediness because each day we would prepare our own four-course dinner.

Everything’s on site and everything, including all meals, drinks and a day-long tour of Tuscany, is in the price, so you can forget about exchanging euros. We didn’t spend a penny.

Like all the best holidays, getting there was half the fun, though we could have lived without the two hours driving around Pisa trying to find an autostrade that all our maps told us was somewhere else.

Once on the motorway it was a short stretch to our exit south of Florence and then we were on the mountain pass which would lead directly to the casa.

It's impossible to look at the Tuscan countryside without thinking of works of art. Aside from the golden light and the sunflowers, which come in two varieties: fresh and green like young triffids, or brown and droopy like sad, old ladies, there's such a stark contrast between the landscape which is all curvy and haphazard, and the rows of olive trees and spindly pines planted in strict, regimented lines.

You can completely understand why so many artists, including Michaelangelo and Botticelli, made it their home.

The only things breaking up the rolling countryside are medieval towns, untouched by war and weather, that appear atop the highest hills, like mini cities of gold.

One such walled town was pretty Poppi and from here we were 5km from our final destination.

"It’s like something out of The Godfather," whispered Steve excitedly, as we approached the long, tree-lined drive of Casa Ombuta.

Expecting Don Corleone to appear from behind the wrought iron gates and invite us to "swim with de fishes", it was a relief to be greeted instead by Dutch manageress Barbara, a previous guest who liked it so much she stayed.

First to arrive, we had a guided tour of the five-star villa taking in the gardens of fruit trees where wild boar roam, the pool overlooking a valley, and the hub of the place: the kitchen and dining room, a converted wine cellar.

There’s no cooking on the first night – although we were quickly reassured the four-course dinner was still on – so all that was left to do was enjoy a chilled glass of the house wine and await our cooking comrades.

One by one they came and with each new arrival, Steve’s heart sank a little. By the last person, there was no escaping the terrible, terrible truth. He was the only man.

"Don’t worry," I sniggered. "We won’t talk about our periods."

Despite the poor female to male ratio, it seemed a