The rolling Umbrian hills rise to the north‑east, while villages along the way bear names straight out of Tolkien’s Shire: Narni—the Latin name that inspired C. S. Lewis’s Narnia; Castelleone, Lion Castle; Acquasparta, Strewn Water; and Casa del Diavolo, quite literally the House of the Devil.

Bellaugello lies tucked into the hills between Gubbio and Assisi. Getting there almost certainly requires a car; the nearest international airports are Perugia and Florence.

A few kilometres past Perugia, I leave the E45 and join the Strada Provinciale that leads to Gubbio—the medieval town where, legend has it, Saint Francis tamed a ferocious wolf some seven centuries ago.

The road winds upwards for about twenty kilometres until I reach the bend Alec has instructed me to watch for: a stone wall on the left. I slow down, turn sharply right, and take a narrow, unpaved road. From here on, it is all thick vegetation, scattered farmhouses, and breathtaking views of hills and valleys that reveal themselves at every bend. Small wooden signs, staked into the ground at each fork, quietly point the way to Bellaugello.

At last, when the road becomes too narrow to drive, the final sign announces the entrance. Beyond the gate, a terraced field carved into the slope holds two parked cars and a pickup truck. A stone stairway descends from the parking area, curves through green grass around a fig tree, and leads down toward the house. I grab my bag and begin the descent.

The sweet scent of lavender and the low hum of bees intensify under the afternoon sun as I pass lilac bushes planted throughout the grounds. The insects don’t seem the least bit interested in me.

At the bottom of the stairs, a broader terraced garden opens up and reveals the two‑storey, brick‑and‑stone guesthouse in all its bucolic beauty. I recognise the rustic wooden table from the website photos and suddenly find myself looking forward to tomorrow’s homemade breakfast in the garden.

“Trust me, you can never get tired of that view.”

I turn to see Alec. He’s wearing shorts and a T‑shirt, revealing the sun‑tanned skin of someone who spends most of the summer outdoors. His eyes are on me, yet also somehow still on the valley beyond—paired with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“I don’t even know what I’m looking at,” I reply, “but yes—I trust you.”

He steps closer to the fence. “We’re in the area called Frazione Valdichiascio,” he says, gesturing toward the creek below. “That’s the river Chiascio. And the hill behind it—” he raises his arm slightly—“that’s Mount Subasio. You can spot it by its bald top.”

After a few more observations on the local geography, Alec leads me inside to check in. The main hall, which also serves as the dining room, is simply furnished, adorned with woodcraft pieces and paintings—the kind of unforced harmony you would expect in an Italian country farmhouse. Every element feels as though it belongs, fitting together like pieces of a completed puzzle.

Then, from the garden door at the back of the house, comes the unmistakable splash of someone clumsily diving into the pool. I remember the website photos of the infinity pool perched at the edge of the terraced garden, overlooking the valley. Suddenly, I’m very grateful it’s a hot summer day.

Not much later, I’m stretched out on a deckchair by the pool after a swim that consisted mostly of floating still and chatting with the other four guests. One couple—two men from Emilia‑Romagna—head off to Gubbio for dinner. The remaining guests, two gentlemen from Washington, D.C., choose to linger, and now nap side by side in the shade, holding hands.

“Why Umbria?” I ask, certain the answer lies in the view before us. Alec surprises me with something far more nuanced.

He tells me about first discovering the region in the late 1980s, when Umbria felt forgotten and untouched. He speaks of returning again and again with his partner, of falling in love not just with the landscape but with the ethos of the place. They wanted to live an Italian life—not surrounded by foreigners—and Umbria offered exactly that.

As an Italian, I smile at this idea. Alec explains further: a desire to escape celebrity worship, consumerism, and the relentless competitiveness they felt back in the UK. What drew them instead was a slower life in the sun, grounded in commitment and honest friendship—values they found embodied in Italy.

They spent five long years viewing properties—more than fifty in total—until they found the right one: south‑facing, surrounded by its own land, rich in water, close to town, and above all, a house to restore properly. Not a ruin, not someone else’s failed vision, but a place with history. Bellaugello, traced on Umbrian maps as far back as the 1600s, was exactly that.

Later, resting on the king‑size bed in the Duca room, I reflect on something Alec said earlier: he wanted to carve the place from his own vision, but not from scratch. Bellaugello needed an ancient story of its own—and it had one.

It renews you with mist‑covered valleys at dawn and surprises you with baskets of freshly picked figs and peaches at breakfast. Here, you can sleep late, lie by the pool all day, or set out early to let Umbria embrace you. Whatever you choose to do—or not do—whatever you wear, whoever you are, you are never asked to explain yourself.

That, to me, is what a gay guesthouse truly is: a place where respect is both given and received; where differences are not feared, but welcomed and embraced.