Some guests drift toward the pool, where the hills frame the horizon in soft light. Others choose a slow walk through the grounds, the scent of sun-warmed earth and olive trees lingering in the air.
There is no itinerary this morning. No departure time. No monument waiting. Only the village, the grounds, and whatever the morning asks for. After eight days of generous outward movement, the inward stillness of this morning is its own kind of richness. The pool. The terrace. The rolling green hillside in the early light. A book not opened since arrival, finally read.