I’m sipping ginger tea as the transfer winds down the scenic roads of the Amalfi Coast, having just spent a weekend at the private home of the late Italian director Franco Zeffirelli.
The radio is playing opera music, and the view seesaws between olives and oranges, two fruits I’ve eaten in abundance over the past 48 hours. The car slows as we approach busloads of tourists, clogging up the trail to take selfies and drink limoncello. I am taken aback by the amount of people; throughout my entire stay, I hadn’t even heard the hum of a crowd, and just a few minutes’ walk from the property, is a hive of activity.
