It's as much a part of my annual Italian holiday as pasta and the sea. As the sun sets on the village in Tuscany we return to every year and the starlings are silent in their nests, the sound of accordions and smell of wood smoke drift up the hill from the sagra, where the kitchen is busy and the garden waits for the locals, with fairy lights strung over a dance floor in an ancient olive grove.

We eat among the locals on crude benches, wild boar, fried seafood, unsalted bread and strong San Giovanni red wine from an unmarked bottle. Then down to the dance floor where the children can run and jump and hide among the trees, we let them off and watch the locals do their thing.

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