In Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, the hopes embodied in the title dissolve into grimness and black irony. It was all Mussolini’s fault. Despite the endless opportunities Italy offered for enjoyment, Fellini never trusted his own country, or his countrymen. He could not relax into dolce far niente.

Perhaps he should have spent more time in Tuscany, surely the most civilised region on earth. Venice may claim to be La Serenissima, but among Tuscany’s gentle hills, hill villages and glorious cities, nature and man are in a harmony so serene that one can almost hear the music of the spheres. History has been kind enough to allow civilisation to flourish there, shaped by both bourgeois and aristocratic families.

The Medici started as bankers, and in the late 14th century a Florentine called Antinori featured in the city’s wine-makers’ guild. His descendants prospered. Twenty-six generations later, the Marchese Piero Antinori still makes wine, but there has been a change. In the post-war years, the Italian wine industry was not in a healthy state. It had long since been surpassed by the French.

For decades, many Italian wine-makers seemed to have no ambition beyond churning out a mass-market product that would sell cheaply, and deserved no better fate. It was the sort of plonk which youngsters would glug down with spag bols over the kitchen table. There was decent Chianti. There was also the stuff which came in bottles covered in straw, served by waiters waving 4ft-high pepper pots while singing ‘O Sole Mio’.

Although his family owned around 5,000 acres of vineyards, the Marchese Piero decided that radical improvements were necessary. Why should Tuscany restrict itself to the Sangiovese grape, which can make good wine but could also benefit from blending. So he planted Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Petit Verdot.

But what was he to call these new products? Italian rules were strict. It was even suggested that he might have to sell them as vino da tavola: some table. Then a new name evolved, and stuck: Super Tuscan. The Antinoris brought the first one to market: Tignanello, drawing heavily on Cabernet Sauvignon.

It was an immediate success. Although there were debates as to how high it would rank in a Bordeaux hierarchical classification, it would certainly feature. The Antinoris followed it up with Solaia, while rivals rapidly appeared, principally Sassicaia, usually the most expensive, often priced en primeur at the rate of a first-growth claret, which is slightly undeserved – but a serious drop of stuff.

We had assembled to concentrate on the Antinoris’ wines, guided by Allegra, one of Marchese Piero’s daughters. Wine people are usually fun, and she was no exception. Though the wines could speak for themselves, the experience was enhanced by her vivacity and enthusiasm. Ranald Macdonald of Boisdale, whose food has been celebrated here, supplied a simple dinner: cullen skink pie, haggis, a magnificent Scottish chateaubriand and some admirable cheese.

As for wine, we began with a non-Tuscan interloper, Franciacorta from Lombardy: an Italian fizz at least the equal of any prosecco I have tried. But this was a red evening. The Tignanello ’15 was excellent, yet it was surpassed by a Guado al Tasso, also from 2015. It had depth, length, fruit and power. By no means yet at its peak, it will last for many years.

It is already a good wine. Might it mature into greatness? 2035 will see the 750th anniversary of the House of Antinori. That Guado al Tasso deserves to feature in the celebrations.