In 2017, Ilse and I found ourselves wandering through Tuscany, that timeless corner of Italy where the earth seems to breathe in soft ochres and greens. We had travelled through many beautiful places before, but nothing quite prepared us for the quiet majesty of those rolling hills. 

They unfolded endlessly beneath the wide blue sky, stitched together by winding gravel roads and crowned with ancient hilltop towns that seemed to rise straight out of another century. Tuscany did not feel hurried. It did not feel modern. It felt eternal. Each small village, perched confidently on its rise of land, carried centuries in its stone walls. Cypress trees stood like sentinels along the ridgelines. Vineyards curved in gentle patterns across the slopes, their geometry softened by sunlight.

It was as though the landscape had been composed by a master painter long before I ever arrived with brush in hand. On that particular day, we were driving through the countryside when I saw it — a view so harmonious, so perfectly balanced, that I instinctively had to stop. There was no studio, no planning, no preparation. Just the open road, the warm air, and that magnificent panorama. I only had a small canvas with me and my paints. That was enough. I sat down in the grass beside the road, the earth still warm beneath me. Wildflowers brushed against my legs, and the scent of sunlit fields drifted gently on the breeze.

 Ilse poured coffee from her flask, and we shared that simple moment — two travellers, alone in the Tuscan countryside, with nothing but time and gratitude. There is something deeply honest about painting en plein air. The light changes. The shadows shift. You cannot hesitate. You must respond — quickly, intuitively — to what is before you. For about an hour, I worked, trying to capture not just the shapes of the hills, but the stillness. The quiet poetry of the place. The way the road curved like an invitation into the distance. 

As I was putting in the final touches, I heard a bus approaching. It pulled over nearby, and soon a small group of tourists wandered toward me, curious. They stood behind me quietly at first, watching the painting take its final form. One gentleman stepped forward and asked, “Is it for sale?” I smiled and said yes. I told him the price and added, “Give me ten minutes to sign it.” He nodded and returned to the bus. I signed the painting with a full heart. Not just because it was sold — but because it had been created in that very place, under that sky, in that moment. 

Ten minutes later, he returned as promised, paid the exact price, and carefully carried the painting back to the waiting bus. And just like that, they were gone — driving off through the Tuscan hills with a small piece of that morning in their hands. Ilse and I sat quietly for a while after they left. The fields were still golden. The towns still watched from their hilltops. The world felt calm and perfectly ordered. It had been one of those rare days where everything aligns — art, travel, love, and providence — woven together in the simplest of ways. 

Tuscany gave us more than scenery that day. It gave us a reminder: when you stop, truly stop, and respond to beauty without hesitation, the world often answers back in the most unexpected and generous ways. It was, without question, a fulfilling and unforgettable day.