On the lawn, dancing fireflies form a hypnotic, flickering carpet, which appears to merge seamlessly into the lights of villages nestling in the valley. Somewhere beyond the fields filled with ripening farro wheat, crickets and bullfrogs provide an incessant soundtrack. The scene is classic Tuscany.
In the right dining circles, it is known that a Tuscan holiday home is judged by its commuting distance from the centre of Florence. The rule is that to remain socially acceptable, a villa must be within 35 minutes' drive of the city, thus removing the possibility of the middle classes venturing far from the gently rolling landscapes, olive groves and curiously affluent peasant lifestyles that characterise southern Tuscany.
The Garfagnana valley breaks all these rules. Lying at the northern tip of the region, it is well beyond the requisite travelling time - probably even by helicopter. Here, the undulating scenery is replaced by two dramatic mountain ranges - the Tuscan Appenines to the north and the more rugged Alpi Apuane to the south - which create a unique climate for the inhabitants of the tiny hamlets that dot the lush, narrow valley floor and cling to the chestnut-forested hillsides. This weather system is the reason why the Garfagnana is literally, as well as metaphorically, cooler than its more familiar southern neighbour.
The inhabitants of Garfagnana are dismissive of connections with their regional cousins. In fact, many feel a closer affinity to Scottish seaside towns, such as Ayr and Largs, that have become home to generations of local families since the turn of the century.
The firefly extravaganza comes at the Braccicorti farm at the end of a four-day trip that has allowed us to take full advantage of the spectacular setting. The farm, still worked by a local couple, now boasts accommodation in the converted barn, as well as a golf course that plays more like Augusta than a course hacked out of the terraced hillside.
But our base is the walled town of Barga, which lies at the southern tip of the valley.
A climb up Barga's cobbled streets to the 14th-century church offers views across terracotta roofs to terraced foothills and mountain ranges.
On paper, the itinerary looked sedate and unappealing, a few too many strolls around belltowers. In reality, it turned out to be exhilarating and exhausting, with the few gentle strolls offering brief but welcome respite from trekking up through the trees or crashing down through them on mountain bikes.
Our first outing is a trek through the Orecchiella National Park in the Appenine range. Rob, our guide, is a man who should be canonised for his patience in the face of facile questions. "Nothing too steep," he says, as our minibus pulls into the car park. Half an hour later, I realise that guides, even the saintly ones, are not always to be taken at their word.
The trek begins with a steady climb up narrow trails thick with tree cover. The going is heavy, thanks to a series of severe thunderstorms that hit the valley earlier in the week. But perseverance is soon rewarded: after a few hundred feet, we break out of the trees and into a summer pasture filled with contented cattle. Five minutes more, and we are resting on a rock on the summit, gazing down on the belltowers and man-made lakes of the valley floor. This is the beauty of the Orecchiella trek: every so often, you turn a corner out of the trees to find a stunning view across the valley to the rugged peaks of the Alpi Apuane.
Five hours later, after a picnic lunch in the old shepherds' village of Campaina, we arrive back on the road, where we are picked up by the minibus.
Every member of the group, which has gelled almost imperceptibly on the hoof, buzzes with the sense of achievement. More so when somebody points out a rough, white wooden cross sitting on the highest point of the ridge above the treeline and asks what it is. "That's where you took your first breather," replies Rob.
Back at Barga, we take well-earned drinks on the terrace of the Villa Libano, which dates back to the 16th century, and has been the site of a hotel for the past 50 years. Four months ago, it was bought and refurbished by Leo Campagna, a former under-18 Scottish rugby international whose family emigrated to Scotland when he was a boy. Sitting on the overgrown terraces forcing down Leo's homegrown cocktails, while thunderstorms break beneath us in the valley, is the perfect way of unwinding from the day's exertions.
The next day we are meant to be taking in the sights of Lucca in the main Italian plains, 40 minutes south of Barga, by train. But the heat is stifling - 33C by 11 a.m. - so a few of us spend the afternoon lounging by Barga's open-air public pool, virtually empty on a Monday afternoon. That we can pick and choose what to do with our time is another pleasant surprise.
The day by the pool was a good move, since the real work begins the next day. There is nothing more life-affirming than mountain-biking down real mountains, especially when the scenery falling steeply from the dirt trail is of the Alpi Apuane. It is at the front of our minds that these forest tracks have hosted world championships, testing the best downhill and cross-country cyclists.
The trails are but a short hop from the deserted village of Vagli Sotto, which overlooks an eerie, man-made lake. At the bottom of the lake lies a village flooded in the Sixties. Every few years, the lake is drained, offering tourists the opportunity to examine a settlement perfectly preserved in the mud.
The lakes of the Garfagnana may hold other secrets. Talk among locals is still dominated by the "miracle" that blessed the region on the day before our arrival: a massive, shining cross was spotted shimmering beneath one of the lakes - the picture is emblazoned across the front pages of the local press - and was being taken as a sign that the Garfagnana is indeed God's own country. We hope so: we will need all the help we can get on these climbs.
The route for the day is billed as an easy introduction to mountain-biking. That means beginning with a steepish but short climb up a trail hugging the side of the mountain - tougher than you would think after an incredible picnic of local meats, cheeses and salads. Then, bone-tingling downhills: a fast descent through tree cover, negotiating treacherous switchback curves and thick mud. Just holding on is a challenge, but Rob sets tougher rules: to brake is to die. At these speeds, a tree root or small rock could mean the difference between pure adrenalin rush and a visit to the local casualty department. By luck, we all make it down safely, pale from terror and streaked with dirt.
Another high-speed descent follows, the group now more willing to throw themselves into curves and across small streams. Best moment is when one previously reserved member of the group, in his sixties, comes screaming out of the trees into the village, head to toe in mud.
At this point I am hit by two revelations: activity holidays are not necessarily about trailing around with people in Dayglo and perhaps I should give up journalism to become a mountain-bike guide in the Garfagnana.