A quick glance into Italy’s best kept Celtic secret
There’s a low humming in the Tuscany mountains that I wasn’t aware of until we open the door to the balcony. Small, the space fit two wicker chairs and stretched the length of the building, each room cordoned off by geometric railings repeating rapidly down the line. We pop our legs up onto the green steel separating us from the reaching fingertips of the treeline, a bottle of rose perched between ice cubes in a plastic cooler at our feet. Then we hear it.
Admittedly, the bottle disappearing between our lips is not the first of the evening. My head has a delay, cloudy thoughts, feelings, and actions arriving precious seconds after demanded. Everything we say feels urgent, and the dulcet tones of “The Verve” sing quietly from my boyfriend’s speaker.
On all geographical counts, we are walled in. The possibility of wide horizons ends abruptly as Mother Nature peaks skyward. From our balcony, we can make out a small gap in the rocks, a window to the world beyond held in a screenshot of sky. The heights and troughs of the scenery leave everything to the imagination. Before the mountains, we are greeted by several small towns, clusters so storybook, you feel like you’d know the streets like the back of your hand before you’ve ever seen them. Pink, yellow, blue, a rainbow of glass and sandstone reflects back on our tiny slice of heaven. The tallest building by far is a church. It bears, not a spire, but a thick grey tower. It sits on the crest of the hill, presiding over its colourful community with a birds-eye view. The row of four trees beside it almost matches it in height, it’s not a giant by any means. But its theirs and, by extension, for the next 3 days, it is ours. As it turns out, this postcard belongs to Barga, a tiny, near vertical town 20 minutes and 20 euro away from our hotel.
Immediately upon arriving in the village, we are met with a rather un-italian sight. Above us towers a golden statue of a muscular form, eyes blinded by a large metal box, like a VR headset, and modesty protected by, of all things, a kilt. As informed by the hotel reception, my boyfriend and I had managed something we couldn’t have planned if we tried. We had arrived in Tuscany during the 3 days of the year that the tough edges of our accents somehow rounded. Between the 3rd and the 6th of September, Barga celebrates the heritage that 60% of its inhabitant’s share. In the early 20th century, many Barga locals emigrated to Scotland, and their return to the town brought more than just their hand luggage. Referred to as the “most Scottish town in Italy”, we had stumbled right into the heart of the 2026 Scottish Festival.
The entire town is an uphill climb, each street taking us closer to the heat of the Italian sun. The New Town resides at its base, a square of cafes and bars surrounding the town hall, the flag posts of which bore a very familiar sight. The Saltire waves in the tiny gusts of wind that whisper through the town. The cobbles of the streets are full of tartan-clad tourists, bagpipes dotted amongst the crowd. Some wear crests of other countries alongside the patterns, an internation union over the persisting tones of Scotland The Brave and a love of Celtic culture. There appears to be an abundance of Canadians. We spot at least 4 groups of maple-leaf t-shirts whilst traversing the narrow alleys. Spiralling upwards, we reach the Old Town. It wouldn’t be an Italy trip without a pasta dish, we decree, so we find ourselves a table at a cluster of outdoor seats. Just as we settle in, condensation smudging on the chilled steins in our fists Scotland seems to find us again. A hot pink amalgamation of kilt and man appears over my boyfriend’s shoulder, candyfloss kilt hose emerging from his identically hued Dr Martens. He wastes no time once’s he’s found his spot and pulls his increasingly unique outfit together with a set of bagpipes that Elle Wood’s would be proud of.
The Old Town also acts as a pop-up market during the Scottish festivities, and it doesn’t take us long to find a beer stall. Both hankering for a taste of that sweet Vitamin T, we are somewhat disheartened to find it only stocked with Belhaven and BrewDog. Alas, beer is beer, and we cough up a whopping 14 euro for 2 pints of Craft Pilsner. Suddenly, it really does feel like home, Edinburgh’s price points murmur faintly in approval as I take a sip. Unfortunately for my wallet, a sip is all I can muster; maybe Scottish beer isn’t supposed to travel after all. We wander through a stone archway with our very full plastic cups and find 4 plastic tables filled to the brim with shortbread tins and small Caledonian knickknacks. Everybody behind the stalls smiles wide, nodding enthusiastically at the American tourists “oooo”-ing and “ahhhh”-ing behind us. In terms of purchasable goods, it reminds me of those shops you find on the Royal Mile, one of those ones that inexplicably bears a photo of Princess Diana on its dangling sign.
We finish off our day in a small courtyard populated by dinner tables and LED candles. The restaurant, Wine Not?, is an absolute highlight of the day, and our weary souls are rejuvenated by unbeatably sweet Amaretto sours. The egg white foam that sits above the booze is thick, pure velvet on our tongues.
Never in my life did I expect to find such a passion for Scottishness outside of our own stomping ground. There’s a strange spark of magic in seeing your own culture through the lens of another, a lingering sense of familiarity that can make anywhere feel like home. If you happen to find yourself in Tuscany early next September, spare a day in your itinerary for Barga. It will be the sunniest tartan you ever did see.
