I know a bank where the wild thyme blows....

From the car, I was studying the splayed-out foundations of this building , a give-away of its 15th Century origins. A woman with her dog and a basket appeared from alongside it. The odd thing about her is that she was not wearing a skirt. Almost all women here in the hills still do.

I knew exactly where she was going and why. It is green enough now to collect weeds to eat. I do it, too, but like to wait until the wild asparagus makes an appearance and that will be a few weeks yet.

I don't know the local name, but I call it green soup and it makes use of the first truly vitamin and mineral packed vegetable of the year. It's almost a tonic. It's very simple: garlic, onion, broth, chopped weeds. Slurp. Like Popeye, I can feel my muscles grow.

They are not just any weeds, of course. I've been shown which ones to gather and while I don't know the names of all of them, dandelion, borage, wild spinach, fennel and thyme are easy to spot.

The grey-green mass on the hillside ahead is olives. Above it is the Tuscan home of the late Marcello Mastroianni, (have you seen La Dolce Vita?) now owned by his daughters. It dominates the hillside with his seduction eerie at the top, all 1950s style with smoked mirrors, black bricks and a bed raised on a dais to take in the sweeping view without even sitting up.

And here is the woman on her way back, past the ubiquitous dust bins, with the church and tower above.