Mystic piazza; Puccini's birth place, the magical Italian town of

IT'S PROBABLY fair to assume that the bride - an Italian who has spent a few years in Britain - could have asked her father to arrange her wedding almost anywhere and had her wish granted. She chose Lucca, in winter. It's easy to see why.

There's nothing fast about the city. Insulated by three walls - Roman, medieval and 16th century - it sees off most contemporary contagions, including the solidified slick of red and gold plastic signage promising McFast food. Lucca is so laid back it soothes the senses on even the bleakest day, its inhabitants contriving to make the passeggiata (evening stroll) of other Italian towns seem almost dynamic. Look at the Lucchese and you realise there is always time for coffee and cake, perhaps amid the marble and gilt of the Antico Caffe Simo.

During the service - with singing of such shattering beauty that devout atheists might momentarily consider God a possibility - the Lucchese wander around the Duomo di San Martino, staring at the congregation (Etonian-British) with understandable fascination or horror.

Afterwards, assorted photographers storm into the crowd which spills onto the piazza. I linger in the duomo, a tourist enjoying a private recital of Widor's Toccata. Then we are off to the Villa Mansi, a few miles outside town, a doll's house of gently crumbling plasterwork, playful trompe l'oeil murals and unashamedly theatrical chandeliers - a place which demands a party. It gets one.

If you're eager to have the duomo to yourself, or to stroll through the Villa Mansi with a glass of something fortifying in your hand, persuade a friend to marry in Lucca. But should none oblige, don't write the city off, especially in winter. True, the weather might be memorably awful (neighbouring villages have suffered floods far more ferocious than those that have recently afflicted Britain), but when the sun emerges, it does so with a dazzling flourish.

From the top of the Torre delle Ore, the city clock tower, on a Sunday afternoon, Tuscan cliches are played out to gratifying effect: acres of terracotta pantiles surmounting green shutters and slim, pink-red, ancient brick; the city's outskirts intrude in the middle distance before the mountains on the horizon reclaim the view, clouds melting into them, stranding their peaks in the sky. Then the bells toll four; four too many for a post-wedding skull.

It is time to retreat to Puccini's birth place, an anonymous if typically handsome house not far from the Piazza San Michele. In Britain, it would remain closed until an "interpretation centre" had been grafted on, a maze of fire doors inserted within and a franchise negotiated for Puccini T-shirts. In Lucca, though, the house remains unadorned. In winter, you invariably have its bare floorboards to yourself. You're handed four well-thumbed sheets of A4, telling you all you need to know, rather than being obliged to buy a brochure, thick on gloss, thin on facts, and are left to stroll, perhaps to the strains of Turandot (the piano on which it was composed is here), past original manuscripts and Puccini's fur-lined evening coat, as well as a few notes he scrawled after the operation for throat cancer which left him unable to speak.

Outside, the Lucchese show the same good sense, eschewing the misconceived English addiction for pedestrianisation. Assisted by the narrowness of the flagstone or smooth cobblestone streets (unpassable to any coach), they have channelled traffic, rather than prohibited it, and set aside worthwhile, unobtrusive car parks - an implicit reminder that, amid the alleyways, piazzas and arches, this is somewhere people live, not a theme park deserted at dusk by employees scurrying home.

Similarly, there is no blight of gift shops, but places where you can eat and drink for a tenner - as at the Trattoria Buralli - or for rather more. The bride and groom suggest Buca di Sant'Antonio in Via della Cervia. Their judgment proves assured: black-aproned, black- tied waiters deliver dadolata di ventresca alla maggiorana, maccheroni al merluzzo, petto di favaona all'uva moscato (tuna with white wine and marjoram, pasta in a cod sauce, roasted breast of guinea fowl with bacon and grapes), and a 1996 merlot. Copper saucepan lids, ancient colanders and (perplexingly) battered tubas hang from the whitewashed walls and ceiling. By 4pm, it seems to make perfect sense, just as the football commentary - all shrill banality in Britain - sounds almost musical as it leaks from behind the kitchen door.

It would be wrong, though, to allege that Lucca is allergic to all modernity: it just has a talent for deferential assimilation, an instinct for knowing when to lay on luxury, and when to leave well alone. At the Palazzo Alexander, a four-storey 12th century house retrieved from a decade's dereliction and turned into a family-owned hotel, I am allotted the Butterfly Room, so named because from its balcony window you can see Lake Lago, site of Madame Butterfly's composition. The room is a feast of gilt and opulent yellow- patterned fabrics, and it has a floor of aged, biscuit-brown polished wood rather than the almost inescapable blond parquet.

The bathroom promises luxurious fun - not enough, perhaps, to satisfy Caligula in experimental mood, but probably more than adequate for, say, Joan Collins. The bath boasts a whirlpool, controlled by a switch which wouldn't be out of place on a flight deck. I press a succession of panels, each embellished with an icon, but can't get any swirling action. But, by the time I clamber out, two red lights are glowing encouragingly - the water should be nicely warmed up for the next refugee from the British winter need to know How to get there The nearest airport is at Pisa. Dialaflight.com is offering flights with Lufthansa in the last week of February for #192 plus #37 tax. Call 0870 333 4488 for availability.

Where to stay Palazzo Alexander, 48 Via Santa Giustina, Lucca (0039 0583 583 571).

Copyright 2001
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