One Sunday supper, over red wine and meatballs, my Italian mother-in-law announced that her nephew—our cousin, one of the youngest in a field of 13—was getting married. The destination? Sicily. We sat eight-deep around her steadfast dining table on Long Island, which had shepherded us through Feasts of the Seven Fishes, Easter celebrations, and countless birthdays, and it was decided right there that we would need a house—or rather, a compound—where we could all stay together and embrace the charms of their ancestral homeland.
We needed space. Lots of it. Enough to hold five adults, three children, and one communal dream of living like Sicilian locals. When my husband found Villa Arcile, a seven-bedroom, six-bath home base nestled among lemon groves in the sleepy hills of Brucoli, we knew we had completed the mission.
As we spilled out of our two rental cars and onto the Italian villa’s outdoor terrace a few months later, the sound of our dragged luggage fighting against the gravel couldn’t drown out the squeals of delight. Somehow, reality was even better than our fantasies.
The beating heart of the property centered around a half-circle outdoor courtyard flanked by seven arches inviting you to choose your own adventure. Some days, we’d go right, walking onto a terra-cotta patio perfect for sipping Grillo at sunset. Other days, we’d choose left for ping-pong table battles near the gardens, ripe with olives and lemons whose trees provided shade for the chickens puttering around in the nearby coop. But most days we headed straight, descending a small set of stairs to a gated pool deck. The 26-foot rectangular oasis was flanked by lounge chairs, freestanding umbrellas, and an outdoor kitchen.
We spent entire days splashing in the pool, sipping cocktails, grilling fish, and sending the kids into the groves to gather lemons for both. My daughter learned to jump into open water that summer as we all counted her down with cheers and applause until she leapt, landing gracelessly in her nonna’s open arms, both of their mouths filled with chlorine and laughter.
Inside the house, we found the charms of authentic Sicilian life—wrought-iron bed frames, geometric floor tiles, barely-there curtains, and heavy wooden furniture. The layout of the bedrooms was ideal for our crew, with us two young families laying claim to the upstairs, my niece and nephew thrilled to be in the only room with two beds. My mother in law, traveling solo, landed downstairs in the peaceful corner bedroom having long passed the years dedicated to navigating bedtime meltdowns and middle-of-the-night wake-ups.
