Springtime. The air is fresh, clear and warm. The clouds sail on the breeze and paint the land with fleeting shadows. Few things make me feel as exuberantly alive as putting down the top of our old sports car and heading out on the winding, silent, wildflower-lined backroads through the hills of Tuscany. The roads are empty. You can stop, sit on a pasture’s edge, and with some bread, cheese and a bottle of rich red wine, gaze at the wavy fields, the tiny cops of woods, rows of olives and, her...