La dolce vita with a touch of tweed

When my ancestors were still clutching flagons of mead and blinking their way out of the Dark Ages, the gun to my left (well, more correctly his illustrious Medieval ancestor) was making fine Tuscan wine. As was the 13th-century ancestor of the gun to my right, as well as sitting on the Papal throne. The Florentines don’t so much have a sense of history as they are the living embodiment of it. They are also excellent shots. At least one flagon of mead was required to steady the trigger finger once I discovered that the cartridge-to-kill ratio among my fellow guns rarely rose above a second pull.

We stood on the first drive of the day, Roccolo, in a wide, grassy ride at the bottom of a small Tuscan valley, wooded on both sides. A couple of gesticulations from Lorenzo the loader made it clear that birds were incoming over the trees and along the ride. A few steadying shots and then the first pheasant was claimed and we settled into the rhythm of double gunning, a novelty for me, but the way that they shoot the drives at Tenuta Aiola. “Why wouldn’t you shoot with double guns?” queried