slipped through into the courtyard area to discover a hidden garden of sorts.
The dark pea gravel of outside gave way to a lighter-coloured, more decorative kind, and she noticed heavy stone planters dotted throughout the small courtyard area, housing rows of mature lemon and olive trees.
Coupled with vibrant magenta bougainvillea tumbling down the edge of an old stone building – evidently the villa itself – the garden was a riot of colour, and against the azure sky and glittering water on the bay, made for a picture-perfect entrance.
Citrus scent from the lemon trees followed as Kim walked to the front of the property, her senses now well and truly awakened.
The villa was of the same blotchy peach plaster as the outside wall, a pretty two-storey house with a terracotta roof and rustic windows trimmed with dull cast iron railings that had long since seen better days.
Turning to check out the view from the front of the house, Kim noticed a terraced area beneath the gardens, accessible by four or five stone steps leading down to small pool bordering the edge of the entire site overlooking the panoramic bay.
Without the ornate bougainvillea-laden perimeter railings holding everything together, it was as if the entire site could easily slip right off the edge and plummet down to the rocky shore below.
OK, so this place was old, but surprisingly charming, and while Kim didn’t have high hopes for the quality of accommodation, given the crumbling exteriors, she already felt a weird sense of calm at just being here.
It was as if Villa Dolce Vita had already cast a spell on her.
A chipped wooden front door with a ringed black-painted knocker at its centre stood wide open, and Kim hesitated momentarily as she listened for noise from inside.
She wasn’t sure if there were other guests staying there already or if anyone was even expecting her, but there was no going back now.
She took a deep breath. She was really here. Doing her own thing, finding her own path.
Time to take the plunge.
Here goes nothing …
Now
The word ‘transformation’ was an understatement.
The once-crumbling Villa Dolce Vita was now one of the loveliest restorations on the Amalfi Coast area, in Kim’s opinion at least. It was the perfect location for a wellness centre and retreat, and was going to be the ultimate real-life showcase for her business, The Sweet Life.
In the two years since they’d bought it, Kim and her business partners had wholly achieved their intention to create a very subtle, yet contemporary architectural update that reinterpreted the character of the building, while staying faithful to its origins.
Outside, the cast iron perimeter and window railings had all been lovingly restored, external plasterwork and sash windows replaced with wholly sympathetic but weatherproof alternatives, and every last one of the terrace’s limestone tiles and steps had been completely relaid to ensure a sleeker, less rickety poolside surface.
The gardens had been well-maintained throughout the years, and while they’d had no choice but to cut back some of the more aggressive bougainvillea so as to retouch the exterior plasterwork, and earmarked a patch previously overrun with dying trees for a lawned area, little other work had been required.
The remaining good olive and lemon trees still bore heavy fruit, and the familiar citrus scent now filled the warm summer air as Kim wound her way through the courtyard.
At last, the Villa Dolce Vita Wellness and Cultural Retreat was due to open next month and Kim couldn’t wait.
‘Just here,’ she said, as she supervised the delivery guys. The patio furniture some of the locals were carrying had been hand-picked by Kim, each piece reflecting her own classic style as well as the influence of their Amalfi Coast surroundings.
‘Giving orders already, I see,’ an amused male voice called out from behind her.
Kim smiled. ‘Someone once told me that if you want something done right you have to do it yourself.’
‘Yes, I think I have heard that one.’ Antonio Berger had been one of Kim’s business partners for the past five years. More than two decades her senior, the Italian was more of a father figure and mentor, and encouraged her in every venture she pursued.
When she’d first met him and his wife, Emilia, on her first visit to Italy almost six years before, they’d been a welcome presence in her life and much-needed guides as she tried to navigate away from her upbringing and figure out what to do with her life.
Antonio, as ever, was dressed in a light-coloured linen suit and square-front brown leather shoes. His salt-and-pepper hair was brushed back regally, accentuating his long face and square jaw, and his lively brown eyes lit up as he smiled at her.
‘As always, you already seem to have everything covered,’ he commented, stepping back and casually slipping a hand into his trouser pocket as he regarded the villa’s freshly renovated grandeur. ‘You certainly don’t need me.’
‘I always need you,’ she answered with a grin. ‘So do you want the grand tour?’
The pair walked back towards the main house together. ‘You haven’t been here since we bought it, have you?’ she realised as she led him through the narrow hallway to the kitchen at the rear.
She smiled fondly as the memories of her arrival here all those years ago came rushing back.
How the kitchen had once been a cornucopia of blue, green and yellow with its grubby tiling, mismatched cheap units, and equally mismatched plates and cups on the open shelves. All the kitchen units were now bespoke in dark wood, complementing the ochres and light blue accents, and contrasting the wider openings and light tinted walls.
A brand-new staircase replaced the old heavy wooden steps and rails, completely redefining the formerly dark and dreary entryway. Constructed in white-coated metal, the stairs appeared as if suspended from a softly curved aperture above the main space, adding instant character and interest to the reception area.
The interiors felt lighter, brighter, and much more spacious, with blues and greys of the ocean incorporated primarily in the soft furnishings, bringing a restful classic feel that could be easily updated.
The colour ochre recurred throughout, contrasting with new glass openings overhead and lighter shades on the walls. Bright terrazzo flooring had been installed throughout in place of the dark terracotta mishmash that had welcomed Kim six years before.
‘Actually, no,’ he replied. ‘I meant to, but you know … with Emilia,’ he added gently, referring to his wife who had recently been diagnosed with dementia.
‘How is she?’
Kim noted the way Antonio’s chest rose and fell before he spoke. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to come to terms with the fact that the person you love will eventually lose all memory of you and the life you shared.
It
