It has been 15 years since I bought my small apartment in the Veneto, and even longer since my love affair with Italy began.

As a typical English family, we had always taken our summer holidays in France. We enjoyed speaking the language after learning it at school, and we loved exploring, discovering old spa towns with their grand architecture, gracious parks, and thermal establishments. 

However, after a decade, we felt that we had exhausted the idea of taking the waters from Evian to Vichy and took the plunge (almost literally) the following year driving over the Alps and discovering the delights of Italian spa towns which are totally different in atmosphere. 

After a stay in San Pellegrino, charmingly shabby with yellow plastic crates stacked everywhere for its famous bottled water, we ventured further afield over the next few summers. Eventually the same thing happened. We had just about exhausted the supply of Italian spa towns. However, I had acquired an old guidebook which mentioned a virtually unknown area of extinct volcanos and hot springs with three towns, two prosperous and one faded, past its prime. “Got to go there!” We did, and the rest is history.

After three years of staying in a modest albergo in Battaglia Terme in the Euganean Hills, my retirement was coming up, and I happened to mention one day that if I were ever to buy a second home in Italy it would be in this forgotten little town. So I did, despite my partner protesting that it was foolish, I wouldn’t want always to return to the same place, and I didn’t speak the language. What’s more, he didn’t think he’d always want to come with me.

I did not take his advice. I went to evening classes to learn Italian and fell in love with a second floor, one bedroom apartment with a delightful view of what I now regard as ‘my’ hills. I stumbled through the purchase (being advised always to say ‘si’ to avoid paying for a translator) and found myself the only foreigner in the little town, an object of some curiosity.

We felt very welcome. Middle-aged women were shocked that I’d never made gnocchi and gave me lessons, I had baskets of fruit and vegetables left as presents during the summer glut. (How do you use 40 aubergines?) We were invited for long, lazy lunches in gardens, and we caught the local train to Padua or Venice to do our shopping. I was invited to give a talk in the library about why I had chosen this particular place to live (they were immensely flattered) and in return, I set up an English conversation group there on Wednesday evenings whenever I was in residence.

Now I’m an established resident. Each time we arrive from Venice airport, we only have to walk a few yards from the train to be greeted by “ben tornati!” (Welcome back). We’ll be told about unmissable local events and have several invitations before we even arrive at via Masini only 5 minutes away.

The students from my conversation group have introduced me to experiences like helping with grape and olive harvests, or trips to the Dolomites to experience cheese-making. We go for walks in ‘my’ hills and meet for a glass of Prosecco in the bar after the class, because they never want to go home. What a wonderful life!

You’d think after living in Battaglia for 15 years we’d have seen and experienced everything it has to offer, but no. It amazes me that each time we’re here we discover something new; a little restaurant hidden in the hills maybe, or even a 16th century villa surrounded by the urban sprawl extending from Padua yet only 5 miles away from us. (This was the most recent discovery, and the subject of my next letter.)

From now on, you can follow what I get up to from month to month in this new column “Letters from the Veneto”, and maybe pick up a few tips about Italian holidays or living in Italy. Please feel free to write back if you need to know anything, or simply just to make contact.

If you’d like to read about her Italian misadventures in more detail, Myra's book, "The Best Mud in Italy", is available from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.