When I think of Tuscan hill towns and the countryside surrounding them, an ideal stretch of roadway comes to mind. Off to the left is row after row of gnarled olive trees, limbs spread in arthritic helter-skelter, to the right, vineyards neat and laden with grapes. Dirt roads, white as chalk, run cursively through dry grasses and fields of grain. In the middle distance, upon one of those soft rolling hills that are verdant in the spring and sere by August, there is a straight line of dark cypresses marking …