Dante’s Beach, Ravenna

When Machiavelli was tortured, then banished from Florence in 1513 to his modest farm in the Tuscan countryside, in the afternoons he used to ‘sink into vulgarity’, as he put it, and play cards and backgammon with the local men in the tavern next to his small house. Then, at the end of the evening: ‘I return to my house and enter my study; and at the door I take off the day’s clothing, covered with mud and dust, and put on garments regal and courtly; and reclothed appropriately, I enter the ancient courts of ancient men, where, received by them with affection, I feed on that food which only is mine and which I was born for, where I am not ashamed to speak with them and to ask them the reason for their actions; and they in their kindness answer me; and for four hours of time I do not feel boredom, I forget every trouble, I do not dread poverty, I am not frightened by death; entirely I give myself over to them.’

When I myself retire to what is known as my study after indulging in my own versions of vulgarity, such as going to Lidl, I strip off my cream-coloured collarless linen shirt and, topless, sit down at my desk in just my navy blue harem pants to stare out of my open window at the night.

How on earth could Machiavelli have coped with the robes of court in this infernal heat? And what about the insects? Weirdly, this summer there are hardly any mosquitoes, which ought to be great but is actually disturbing. Why aren’t there any? But there have been industrial amounts of flies because this is the time of year that the farmers dump mountains of merda on the fields surrounding our modest farmhouse.

I once got a commission from Condé Nast Traveller to write a piece about Turkish Cyprus, which was a favourite place of mine. It began: ‘Phil, the owner of the Turkish Delight pub, whacked down his fly swat on the counter of his bar. “Eleven,” he said. “Not bad.”’

I thought it was hilarious, but it was completely out of place in such a magazine, which is obliged to avoid talk of flies and whatnot. The piece was spiked. The fly situation here is not as bad as that but it does not take many flies to make life hell.

Machiavelli had seven children (which is one more than me) and was said to be a good father. And, for once, I am feeling like a good father.

My eldest son, Francesco Winston, 21, who is working in a restaurant in the village for the summer, has bought a 1989 Mercedes 200 for €1,800 in fantastic condition and a really groovy colour, ‘Champagne Metallic’.

He was convinced he had got a great bargain, which he has, but he had not checked out the issue of insuring a classic car such as this. The previous owner had blithely said that, because it is a registered macchina storica, we would only have to pay a couple of hundred euros a year. That turned out to be sort of true, but such a policy only allows you to drive to and from classic car rallies and the mechanic. A policy allowing you to actually use the car, Francesco Winston discovered, would cost around €2,000 a year. My Land Rover Defender costs around €400 to insure.

He was very angry with the previous owner but he should have checked before buying the car. ‘I’m selling it,’ he moaned. I was determined that he wouldn’t. I tried numerous insurers. All wanted around €2,000. I found out online via the number plate the name of the insurer the previous owner had used. I rang them. It turned out that he only had the policy which allowed him to drive to and from rallies and mechanics even though he drove everywhere.

No one, it seemed, insured classic cars any more at a decent price. So I rang the nearest classic car club in Forli for help. It was on holiday until September. I rang another one in Cesena and a man called Martino picked up the phone.

How on earth could Machiavelli have coped with the robes of court in this infernal heat?

‘Are you the journalist and writer Farrell?’ he asked.

‘Er, yes.’

I replied tentatively because the Romagna where we are is called the ‘Red Romagna’ as it was the stronghold of the Italian Communist party, the largest in Europe outside the Soviet bloc. I used to write hostile articles about the antics of the compagni, as they and their heirs are called, and once received a bullet in the post for my eldest daughter.

‘My mother is a huge fan. She has kept every article you have ever written,’ he said.

What an incredible coincidence. She was a reader of a daily newspaper called Libero, where I wrote a column called Fumo di Londra (London Smoke) for many years and also, for a while, did the agony aunt column in which I advised Italians how to sort out their love lives.

Martino gave me the names of two insurers who specialise in classic cars: one could not help but the other would do it for €400, with extras such as breakdown assistance.

‘Grazie, Papa,’ said Francesco Winston. ‘Grazie.’