We started out from Fiesole, heading up the hill.  Soon we were out of the town on a quiet country road.  The sun was shining, and the air had been cleaned by last night’s storm, the skies were blue.  As we cruised along on an easy uphill grade, we found all of our senses being tantalized.  Broadleaf oaks, and wild figs, and cherry trees lined the roadway, providing dappled sun and shade for our ride.  The undergrowth of bright green grasses and ferns, wild blackberries with pink blossoms, a frill of white Queen Anne’s Lace, a spark of red poppy, an occasional stab of electric blue-purple lupine, all merged to provide a lovely backdrop for our ride.  As we rolled along, past fields of bright yellow sage, the scent of the blossoms was so gentle and sweet it seemed like an angel was floating alongside us.  The twitter of wrens, the warble of mockingbirds, the cuckoos, the meadowlarks, all sounded in my ears—no cars, no motor scooters, no trucks or buses.  Soon we had gained enough altitude that new panoramas were to be seen at every corner.  Each view was worth an Oh! or an Ah! or a Wow!  Look at that!  We entered into a fir forest that was so thick and dense and dark it seemed like a redwood glen, and then came out again to a sunny green hillside and a quaint town.  We stopped for lunch in a farmer’s field with a priceless view. Patches of pale chartreuse, new growth on the grape vines, contrasted with dusty green olive groves. Cream stucco villas with red tile roofs peeked out from the deep green of conifer forests. The ride back to Fiesole was a gentle drift down the hill, with all of the beautiful views to be seen again, the perfumes to be enjoyed again, the serenity to be soaked up and stored.  We arrived back at our apartment, contented and fulfilled.