When we arrived in Tuscany some 20 years ago, we could not afford to buy what we wanted: a large, private house, with a bit of land. So we set out to rent one. We tried first with a medieval castle: the romance of sleeping on the top floor of a five-storey tower, with 360-degree views, was offset by the lack of toilets anywhere above the first floor.

Next came the little house in the woods, where deer and porcupines grazed in the garden – and wild boar and I sized each other up on the driveway.

Then one spring we found Casolari: a sleeping beauty covered in creeper and in desperate need of love and attention. It had been empty a few years, and starting to show signs of neglect – a damaged tile here, a broken shutter there. The landlord was looking for tenants who would look after the property and carry out repairs in exchange of well-below-market rent.

Casolari was large and, as Tuscan country houses go, quite regular though not symmetrical. It had a loggia with two arches on the right hand side, and an annex – once a bread oven – on the left. It was covered in creeper and there were lilies and roses in a bed skirting the front of the house. When we cut down the creeper we uncovered a terracotta Virgin and Child in bas-relief; mowing the grass revealed a paved courtyard in front of the house. A huge oak tree with a hay loft next to it made the garden magical; on the other side of the hay loft were two linden trees, the perfume of their bloom intoxicating in June.

Summer was ripe, then the days started getting shorter. There was so much still to be done. With the roof repaired, we moved on to sourcing natural dyes which we mixed with water and white paint: orange for the sitting room, yellow for the corridor, sky blue for the loggia, brick red for some of the bedrooms.

We bought stoves, we scoured flea markets for quirky finds, we built beds and shelves and doors out of reclaimed wood. Most things in the house were reclaimed. I found a magazine article about a house in the US whose owners had pledged: 'Always repair, never restore'. With little money to spare, it seemed a good maxim to follow, even though ultimately it meant a leaky roof and a beautifully decorated house.

Casolari was once again loved, and it gave back generously: it hosted innumerable guests, a couple of weddings, lots of house parties, family reunions. The colours, the textures, the constantly shifting spaces, the people who came and went and those who stayed, the long evenings by the fire, the cold winters, sighs of relief when spring came, the long hot summers, bountiful autumns – it was magical.

Finally, after nine years, it was time to let go. When the landlord came to collect the keys, both he and I found it hard to hold back the tears. Casolari didn’t need to be mine to be a home and, 10 years on, it still regularly visits my dreams.

JC, London

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