LORENZO was showing us around the apartment we had rented from him in Lucca for a month. “Allora,” he said. “If you make a mistake with the recycling, you could be fined 100 or 150 euros.” He pointed to a sheet listing the days on which to put out different coloured bags of different types of refuse, and by what hour.

This was not perhaps the most relaxing introduction to four weeks under the Tuscan sun, but as we have come to know this exquisite medieval walled town better, we begin to appreciate that la dolce vita is in part made from rules like this. The perennial Italian interest in appearances extends, in this wealthy region at least, to the streets and pavements as well as to those who sashay down them in furs and leather and Ray-Bans. Added to these fashionistas are townsfolk of every vintage who use the magnificent fortified walls as a personal gym. Staying healthy in these circumstances is a pleasure, not a chore. No need for serried ranks of treadmills as the Lucchesi walk, cycle, and jog their length (around 4km) every day. Under the shade of horse-chestnut and oak trees, pensioners play chess, parents do tai chi with their toddlers, a marathon is run, cats are led on leads, and dog walkers compete in a six-legged race with their mutts (“Luccanina”), some of whom resort to carrying their glove-sized pets over the finishing line, others moving faster than Usain Bolt when their hound picks up a scent.

On the eve of packing away straw hats and mosquito cream and returning to Scotland it is easy to exaggerate the delights of a culture we know only superficially. On journeys across Tuscany, from coast to mountains to city, we have seen eye-watering prosperity and dismal hardship. Some of the villages the bus and train pass through are woebegone and defeated, empty as a washing line on a wet day. These are the places where beggars, hawkers, refugees and buskers climb aboard for a day’s pan-handling in the better-heeled towns.

Yet we can learn a lot from our Italian cousins – and I use the word advisedly. Probably half of our own Italian community has its roots in or around Lucca and Barga and neighbouring villages, from where their forebears emigrated in the past century and more, bringing with them fish and chips.

The near-universal interest in food – its quality, provenance, seasonality, taste and how to cook it – is humbling. At lunch with Lorenzo, we were shown his parents’ vegetable plot, a half-acre that, with its aubergines and beetroots, radishes and courgettes, beans, tomatoes and figs, would make a Beechgrove gardener green-eyed. Only the chickens were below par, recovering from a night-time fox, which had carried off five of their mates.

That a young estate agent could make time for a relaxed mid-day meal is indicative also of the pace of life that many small-town Italians enjoy. Commuting long distances is less common than in Britain, as is clock-watching. The working day stretches from early to late, but there is a sense, in restaurateurs, shop-assistants and bankers alike, that employees enjoy what they do.

It is awful to reflect that when in future we return to these shores, we will have to join the Non-EU Passport Holders line at Customs. Despite the unease Catalonia is causing within the state of Europe, Brexit still represents the most unsettling and wanton break-up of this stable post-war unit, whose original purpose, above all else, was peace and prosperity. Already the vote’s impact is evident in the plummeting exchange rate for sterling and markedly higher prices in shops. Pity those Brits living here whose pensions will be hard-hit on our withdrawal. Even worse, these former citizens of a unified and open-bordered continent will soon be in limbo, requiring residency permits and, if they are wise, private health insurance.

Equally troubling is what impact our departure will have on Europe’s character and prospects, and on the way we are viewed. Seen from Tuscany, the UK’s lemming-like leap over the cliff-edge makes no sense. It is years since we were a serious political and industrial power that straddled the world, too often with our foot on a foreigner’s neck. Once upon a time we could reasonably claim to be able to stand on our own feet, and gesture rudely to those garlicky nations across the Channel. That era, thankfully, is long gone. So at what point in the past 60-odd years did we become so cocksure about our abilities and paranoid about our fellow EU members’ motives? When and why did we grow resentful and insular?

Few in Italy might understand why we voted for Brexit, but their bafflement and regret will quickly pass. By then, however, we will be on the outside, looking in, noses pressed against the window of Europe like kids at an ice-cream shop. Kids whose mother has told them gelato is bad for them, and dragged them bawling back home.