We came to Aulla looking for convenience, but found peace, pasta, and the kind of silence you do not want to escape from.
We had booked the house months in advance, not for its charm but for its practicality. After days of planning trains and transfers through Rome and Venice, we needed a base near Cinque Terre, somewhere quiet enough to rest, yet close enough to catch an early train to the coast. When we found an Airbnb in a small Tuscan town called Aulla, the listing promised three bedrooms, a garden, and a jacuzzi. It seemed like the perfect stopover. What we didn’t expect was that it would become the kind of place that makes you forget what you came for.
When we arrived, our hosts, a Tuscan couple with the kind of effortless warmth that defines the region, insisted on picking us up at the station so we wouldn’t have to drag our suitcases up the hill. They greeted us with a homemade dessert and a chilled bottle of local prosecco. That simple gesture, humble yet generous, set the tone for the days ahead. Their kindness carried the quiet charm of Tuscany itself: proud, gracious, and disarmingly human.
The house sat at the edge of town, a two-story ochre villa surrounded by olive trees and rose bushes glowing under the September sun. From its terrace, you could see the hills folding into one another in layers of green. Inside, every room felt storied, with chandeliers catching the morning light, sage-green walls in the bathroom, and marble floors cool against bare feet. It wasn’t trying to impress; it simply was. The kind of place where time slows down, where the air hums differently.
Aulla, too, has that unassuming beauty. Built at the confluence of the Magra and Aulella rivers, it was once a stop on the medieval Via Francigena pilgrimage route. Today, it sits quietly between the sea and the mountains, a Tuscan town untouched by tourism’s polish. The train station, Aulla Lunigiana, is only a thirteen-minute walk from the house, linking the town to La Spezia and the Italian Riviera. Yet despite its proximity, Aulla feels suspended in its own rhythm, the kind that invites you to listen instead of rush.
In the mornings, we woke to the faint crow of a rooster and the smell of earth after dew. Someone would grind coffee beans while others planned an ambitious day exploring the coast. But the plans rarely won. Breakfasts turned into slow lunches. Someone put on music. Someone else opened a bottle of Chianti before noon. The hills outside shifted from gold to green, and by the time the sun melted behind them, we were already talking about dinner.
When we finally did venture out, Aulla revealed itself quietly. The streets are broad and sun-washed, the cafés filled with locals instead of tourists. Around two o’clock, everything closes – shops, bakeries, even the supermarket. The town falls silent for la siesta. At first, we found it inconvenient. Later, we learned to love it. There was something deeply Italian about that collective pause, the shared permission to rest.
Afternoons often ended with a walk through the old quarter. La Brunella Fortress, from the 16th century, still watches over the valley, its stone walls now home to a small natural-history museum. From up there, you can see the Magra River winding through the landscape and the rooftops of Aulla glowing under the late-day sun. A short walk away, the Abbey of San Caprasio hides behind an unassuming façade. Inside, you can trace layers of history – Roman foundations, medieval relics, the faint echo of pilgrims who once stopped here on their way to Rome. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t announce itself but stays with you long after you’ve left.
Evenings back at the villa felt like returning to another lifetime. We cooked simple dinners, fresh pasta tossed with olive oil and basil from the garden, a plate of pecorino, a glass of red wine, while cicadas filled the air. After dinner, we slipped into the jacuzzi, our laughter rising with the steam, the scent of jasmine drifting through the night. Above us, the stars seemed impossibly close, as if the world had paused just for us.
By the third day, the idea of leaving felt almost absurd. We had planned to visit all five Cinque Terre villages, but after seeing Vernazza, Riomaggiore, and Manarola, we stopped chasing. The crowds were beautiful but restless, the kind of beauty that asks to be photographed. Aulla, on the other hand, didn’t ask for anything. Its beauty was quiet, grounded, content to exist without witnesses.
Inside, the house seemed to absorb our calm. In the living room, a rattan chair by a gold-framed mirror became my favorite spot, the kind of place where you could sit with a book and forget to turn the page. Each bedroom had its own soul, one deep blue with botanical prints, another in olive tones with a chandelier above the bed. Even the bathrooms felt poetic, with patterned tiles and brass fixtures reflecting the afternoon light.
One evening, as the light turned honey gold across the marble floor, someone said, “We should have booked an extra night.” Nobody disagreed. That’s the thing about Tuscany, it has a way of reminding you that stillness is part of the journey.
On our last morning, I stepped outside barefoot. The grass was damp with dew, the hills veiled in soft mist. Somewhere, a church bell rang. It was so quiet I could hear the leaves moving. That’s when I realized what made this place extraordinary wasn’t its proximity to anywhere, but the space it offered for your mind to slow down.
By mid-morning, our hosts appeared again, ready to drive us back to the station. As we waved goodbye, the woman smiled and said, “Come back when you need the silence.” And I think I will. We had come to explore the coast, but it was the hills that held us captive. Aulla reminded us that true luxury isn’t in movement, but in the rare gift of having nowhere to rush to.
If you ever find yourself planning a trip to Cinque Terre, consider staying inland. Stay where you can see the hills blush at sunset, where the nights are filled with quiet instead of footsteps, and where time stretches just enough to remind you that rest can be an adventure too.
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