Al Nono Risorto, Venice

Fegato alla Veneziana sounds more romantic, doesn't it, than liver and onions? But that's what it amounts to, and they serve up a fine plate of it in the cosy dining rooms of Al Nono Risorto, just over the bridge from Campo San Cassiano. We stumbled upon it at first, then it became our 'neighbourhood restaurant' when we stayed a week in winter in an apartment at the edge of the square.

The restaurant comprises a series of dining rooms. The first, straight off the street, has a high ceiling, a bar and terrazzo floor tiles reminiscent of a French brasserie. Other rooms are smaller, and lower. When the restaurant is busy it's all bustle and noise and the staff of bright young things, some of whom seem more interested in how they look than what you have ordered, can be distracted. On one occasion when the restaurant was heaving and breaking the sound barrier I ordered fegato but was brought a steak (and a pretty raw one at that).

But don't let that put you off. This place has atmosphere. Enter into the spirit of it all and you'll enjoy it (as long as you don't have sensitive ears). We also ate pizza and pasta and chicken and seafood and other dishes that were excellent and extremely good value. The restaurant owner sat inside the door and checked every bill as diners came to pay – and rounded each one down. Well he did ours anyway. Nice touch.

We've only eaten here in winter, when the adjoining canopied garden was tired and closed, but I can imagine that it's a lovely space in which to eat in the warmer months. On winter evenings the light from the restaurant casts a warm glow onto the pavement outside, making it almost imperative to stop and read the handwritten menu taped to the window.

If you pass and hesitate, go in. You won't be disappointed.

Al Nono Risorto, Santa Croce 2338, Sottoportego di Siora Bettina, Venice 30121

Tel 041 524 1169

Here's another place without its own website. They obviously attach more importance to food than technology, which is fine by me. You'll find plenty of reviews out there though.

Antica Osteria della Valle, Todi, Umbria

If you imagine Umbria to be one big rural idyll, as I once did, the southbound E45 towards Todi comes as a bit of a surprise, flanked by industrial and retail units. I suppose not every Umbrian can be a farmer or an olive grower or a vineyard owner any more than we can all be sheep farmers or farm shop owners in Britain. The complete rural idyll is something of a myth, even here.

But as we headed south, there were increasing glimpses of the gentle Umbrian countryside – densely wooded hills, groves of shimmering olive trees and row upon row of vines, dripping with grapes, awaiting the Autumn harvest. That was more like it. And suddenly there was Todi, a proper hill town, doing what hill towns do best – perching on top of its hill.

Todi itself is a rather unremarkable town when compared with Umbrian neighbours Assisi or Orvieto, but it's a pleasant enough maze of steps and slopes and squares. In the broad piazza, where we stopped for coffee, a road crew was assembling the most enormous stage, with a lighting and sound rig that would do justice to The Rolling Stones. We never found out what this was for, but whatever it was it was going to be loud. Perhaps it was The Rolling Stones.

Persistent searching of the town rewarded us with the discovery of the recommended Antica Osteria delle Valle, where we stopped for lunch. The streetside restaurant was simple and inviting, with a shady canopy above just a handful of outside tables. The day's menu was handwritten and taped to the window (usually a good sign). The attractive young waitress, who may have been the owner's daughter, or may have been here temporarily from eastern Europe, spoke English with a markedly strong, strangely Transylvanian accent. She offered help with the menus. "For eny help viz ze menu you only heff to esk me. But plees, mek sure zat you finish your meal before sunset... oh, look, you heff cat yourself on ze knife... here, let me see..." Sorry, I watched a lot of Hammer horror films as a child. Somehow, Ingrid Pitt has made a lasting impression.

We started with the recommended antipasto della casa – crostini with fondue cheese flavoured with truffles, then a selection of bruschette and some other items which we couldn't identify, but which tasted good nevertheless. Then the pasta della casa – strangozzi with fresh tomatoes and truffles, and I had the beef fillet. The strips of meat were beautifully cooked, meltingly tender and served with rocket, lemon and olive oil, with a scattering of juniper berries on top. The odd whiff of two-stroke from a passing scooter added a certain non so che.

Curiously, there were no mirrors in the toilets...

Osteria delle Valle, 19 Via Ciuffelli, Todi

Tel 075 8944848

The restaurant doesn't appear to have its own website, unless it only comes online after sunset...?

California Park Hotel, Forte dei Marmi, Tuscany

Despite my hopeful expectations, the girl on reception didn't greet our arrival by singing the words 'welcome to the Hotel California'. Spoilsport.

I've no idea what California has to do with this lovely hotel, but I suppose there is a certain 'west coast relaxed' feel to its location – in beautifully landscaped grounds just a couple of hundred metres from the beach. Our room was in a two-storey villa a little way away from the main hotel, near the swimming pool and surrounded by manicured lawns and shady trees. We had our own spacious terracotta-tiled terrace, bordered by jasmine and hydrangea.

This is the kind of hotel where you can't help but relax. We woke later each morning we were here, and did less each day. But the highlight was undoubtedly the food, especially the seafood. Dinner was served in a bright airy restaurant with a vaguely nautical feel. On out first night here we had pasta with scampetti, which was extremely good, then gilthead bream and an excellent veal chop. It was dark when we emerged from the restaurant to enjoy coffee and liqueurs on the terrrace, served by a mature lady with a striking resemblance to the actress Honor Blackman. There were a few families staying at the hotel while we were there, and the sounds of children enjoying themselves in the garden, squeakily making animals out of balloons late into the evening, was a slightly surreal but rather pleasant backdrop to Honor's refined service.

Ms Blackman was in fine form on our last night here, as I found her in the bar tasting varieties of limoncello offered by a handsome young Italian girl whose mother apparently made the stuff. Honor made her selection and put the chosen bottle behind the bar. 'I will reserve this for my best guests...such as this gentleman!' she flattered huskily. We never saw sight of the bottle again.

Our final dinner was again outstanding. Crostini with clams, then a wonderfully flavourful tagliatelle with morsels of langoustine and zucchine flowers. Pasta with aubergine, then roast chicken, which really did taste like chicken! Finally fresh fruit and pecorino cheese.

The taste of that langoustine tagliatelle will stay with me for a long time. Perhaps the song was right. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

California Park Hotel, Via Colombo, 32, I-55042, Forte dei Marmi (LU), Riviera della Versilia

Tel 0584 787121

California Park Hotel

Villa Liberty, Siena, Tuscany

We reached Siena in the mid-afternoon and, despite having no directions (we'd accidentally thrown them away back in Florence), found our hotel - the Villa Liberty - quite easily. It was situated on a broad, tree-lined avenue on the town's outskirts, about ten minutes from the centre, and we could park right outside. Small and homely, the Villa Liberty was comfortable and clean and definitely up to the job of accommodating us for one night. It also had the tallest ceilings of any hotel we've stayed in, and an unusual shower which sprayed water randomly across the whole bathroom.

We found the Piazza del Campo broad and sunlit, but overall Siena seemed a dark town, with dark buildings and alleyways that somehow seemed to hold on to its medieval past more than most. We'd missed the Palio by just days, and even managed to miss a procession with music and horses and costume that took place on the very afternoon we were there.

Weary and a little footsore, we found a promising trattoria on the way back to the hotel. Here I committed the cardinal sin of the travel reviewer, because I didn't make a note of its name. My spaghetti puttanesca (chef's recommendation) to start was fine, as was the Caprese salad. My vitello alla griglia was good too - a huge, thinly batted escalope of veal with a side dish of cannelloni beans. Swordfish all'Amalfi (odd when we were such a long way from that coast) was still swimming, but had swapped the Mediterranean for a rich sauce of tomatoes and capers. The bottle of Chianti was very good, but so it should have been for the price.

So really it was all okay. But the menu seemed all over the place and written to please a common denominator - the tourist. Maybe we were just being grumpy that evening, but sitting in the restaurant we noted that as each set of guests was talked through the menu and proposed the 'chef's recommendations', the same poor fish was removed from the window display and paraded around the restaurant as sea bass, which it plainly wasn't. When it came to dessert, a sample dish of tiramisu circulated the room like an experienced, if slightly worn, party host.

We wound our way back to the hotel as the evening sun cast a dramatic glow over the old town. While Helen took a shower I enjoyed coffee and whisky in the comfortable lounge, where I was joined by two Dutch ladies. Unfortunately my Dutch is limited to brief business dealings with a client in Holland, so I only knew how to say 'good morning', 'good afternoon' and 'happy Christmas', none of which seemed appropriate to the occasion. I downed my whisky and retired to bed.

Too late I remembered that they might have liked the joke about the sad fate of the Dutch girl with inflatable shoes. Think about it.

Hotel Villa Liberty, Viale Vittorio Veneto 11 - Siena

Tel 0577 44966

Villa Liberty, Siena

Al Miralago, Gargnano sul Garda, Lombardy

The boats were in, the nets were still wet, but the fish had gone. I'd walked the mile or so north of Gargnano that hot Sunday morning, past the imposing Villa Feltrinelli, where Mussolini spent several years during the war, past the old lemon greenhouses now bereft of lemon trees, looking for... well I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for exactly, except that they were called Franz.

I'd read in a book at the hotel where we were staying that there was a fish market in Gargnano, and thought that, like most fish markets, it would be photogenic. The young owner of the hotel explained that 'Franz' fished Lake Garda each evening, when the weather allowed it, and that their most prized catch is a member of the salmon family called coregone, more prosaically known as common whitefish. They sold the catch each morning beneath the arches of the town hall in the village. He told me where I would find them and even offered to ring them to tell them I was coming. I told him that wouldn't be necessary.

It turned out that Franz was the nickname of the Dominici family of fishermen. I don't know why. I found them in a cluster of old stone buildings tucked away down by a tiny church on a little inlet to the lake, the trappings of their work strewn around. By mid-morning their working day was over, and there was nothing to photograph but their nets.

It was blisteringly hot as I walked back to the village. The earlier mist over the lake had burned off, leaving the water deep blue and the air gin-clear. It was silent, apart from a distant church bell and the occasional scuttle of lizards at the roadside as I passed. Gargnano, which had been quietly drowsing in the sun when I passed through earlier in the morning, had now sprung into life as villagers strolled the streets and met and chatted, or stopped for coffee or drinks, in relaxed Sunday tradition.

We decided to have lunch. From a handful of restaurants directly overlooking the lake we chose Al Miralago, because the place looked spick and span and friendly, but also because their menu offered lake sardines, which I wanted to try. Comfortably seated in the shade of a huge canopy we watched the gentle Sunday activity of the little town over cold beer and prosecco and a basket of bread. The lake sardines were plump and juicy, and grilled to a crisp on the outside. Like sardines from the sea, only earthier.

I wonder if they were caught by Franz?

Al Miralago, Lungolago Zanardelli 5, 25084 Gargnano BS

Tel 0365 71209

Al Miralago, Gargnano

Ristorante U'curdunn, Locorotondo, Puglia

I've always thought that gracious hospitality comes naturally, perhaps innately, to Italians. So it's probably not surprising that even the youngest citizens seem to be proficient at it.

Like the young chap at this restaurant in Locorotondo, who was sweeping the pavement terrace outside when we arrived one evening fifteen minutes before eight o'clock. He would have been maybe nine, ten at the most. When we asked him if the restaurant was open, he first replied that it wasn't, yet. Then, as it dawned on him that if we went away to wait somewhere we might not come back, he put down his broom and, with a deferential bow and wave of his hand, showed us into the empty restaurant and to a table for two by the window. He brought us menus which he opened with a flourish and got as far as pouring us water before a fully grown colleague took over, and sent him back to finish his sweeping. I think he would comfortably have looked after us all evening.

In the more experienced hands of one of the restaurant's elders we enjoyed a selection of antipasti that included a cold salad of the tenderest octopus, delicious grilled vegetables and creamy, creamy burrata. There was also tripe, popular in these parts, in a fat, cigar-shaped roll, which had the texture of a belly button and the taste of a burp.

The place had a homely feel about it, and the service was friendly too. It felt like we'd come to share their food in their dining room rather than eat in their restaurant. As we left, the young lad was standing at the front door. He nodded and bade us arrivederci. He was learning fast.

Maybe one day he'll be running the restaurant.

Ristorante U'curdunn, Via Dura, 17, 70010 Locorotondo (Ba)

Tel 080 431 72 81

Ristorante U'curdunn, Locorotondo

Hotel Marconi, Venice

There's really only one way to arrive in Venice in style. Within minutes of landing at Marco Polo airport we were bouncing across the lagoon, the wind in our hair, the summer sun (and broad smiles) on our faces, in a sleek and beautiful boat. Varnished wood, polished brass, soft yellow leather seats. But we stood, to catch every glimpse of the approaching skyline.

Finding a chink in what appeared an impenetrable façade, our boatman turned in stealthily, as if to take the city by surprise, creeping slowly into Venice along a narrow, silent, sunless alley of still green water. Suddenly we emerged into broader water and burst into a scene so bright and intense and animated it was as if we'd been thrust onto the set of an epic film – scene painting by Canaletto, choreography by Busby Berkley. Just beyond the Rialto bridge we docked and our luggage was lifted up onto the pavement directly outside our hotel.

The Marconi was elegant, welcoming and relaxed. A tiny reception and lounge, directly off the fondamenta, were elaborately decorated and furnished, and adorned with original paintings. Our room on the first floor had beautifully plastered and painted walls, solid wooden furniture, a wooden bed-head hand-painted with garlands of flowers, and Murano glass light fittings. The floor, as throughout the hotel, was a marvellous terrazzo. Our room was at the rear of the building, and the view from our window, or lack of it, was the only disappointment - we looked directly onto a matrix of scaffolding tubes and planks. But it hardly mattered.

Breakfast at the Marconi was taken in a ground floor room at the back of the hotel, and the breakfast buffet offered an excellent selection of ham, cheese, scrambled eggs, spicy sausages, bread, pastries, cakes, yogurt, fruit, juices, tea and coffee to start the day. The room was pleasantly furnished but with strangely frosted orange windows, which cast a sunny glow into the room but obscured any view of the outside, other than occasional vague shapes moving nearby. One such vague shape became clearer as it moved towards us, just outside the window behind me, sat on the window ledge and then proceeded to remove its jeans and pull on a pair of shorts.

I think we had just experienced an Italian builder's bum.

Hotel Marconi, Riva del Vin, San Polo, 729 - 30125 Venezia (VE)

Hotel Marconi, Venice

L'Asino D'Oro, Orvieto, Umbria

We'd eaten here before. The first time, a lazy lunch, outside in the little alleyway, of traditional dishes with a twist – like lasagne made with bread instead of pasta. Our return visit to L'Asino D'Oro found chef Lucio Sforza firmly in residence.

It was a warm and busy September Saturday evening. Light and easy-going by day, the old town took on a different, darker personality as night drew in and we picked our way through its arteries to Orvieto's medieval heart. It was no surprise that by 8.30pm, when we arrived, all of the restaurant's outside tables were either occupied or reserved and we were invited to sit at one of only two tables inside.

The room was starkly bare. Pale ceramic tiles covered the walls, which were adorned by two ancient mirrors. The floor was dark wood, the colour of old tobacco. The tables were laid with the same practical paper tablecloths as outside. The only other furniture in the room was a tired blue dresser. Whilst the view through the open doorway to the warmly lit terrace outside was enticing, this room, with glimpses past a dark wicker screen into the kitchen, felt like the inner sanctum.

Signore Sforza spent more time front of house than in his kitchen, roaming from table to table asking, 'Va bene?' and cutting a formidable figure in long black apron and chef's clogs, with cropped grey hair and gaunt, stubble-covered jowls that barely moved when he smiled.

Just one of the dishes I ate was worth the cost of the entire meal: cinghiale dolce e forte – wild boar in a 'sweet and strong' sauce. There was no prettiness about its presentation. Half a dozen pieces – quite large chunks – of wild boar, smothered in a thick sauce so dark it was almost black, and dusted with cocoa. It smelled sweet, with a hint of warm spices. The boar was fork-tender, falling apart in delicious soft strings. There may have been roasted peppers somewhere deep down in the rich and complex sauce. There may have been cinnamon and vinegar. There were definitely pine nuts and chocolate. There were hints of a mole poblano, and again of a rendang... but only distant hints. This dish had firm Umbrian roots and was inextricably the product of Sforza's magic touch. It was quite simply the most delicious thing I had eaten for a very long time.

I also ate a timballo of aubergines and peppers and a dish of chicory and biettone on a bean purée which were good, would have been very good if I hadn't tasted the boar. That wild boar with its wild flavours.

Funny to think that a restaurant this good can get away with calling itself the Golden Donkey.

L'Asino D'Oro, Via del Popolo, 9, 05018 Orvieto (TR)

Tel 0763 344406

Sadly, I only seem to be able to find 'the same old' review websites referring to L'Asino, and as far as I know they don't have their own site. So you'll just have to go there.

STOP PRESS... ACTUALLY YOU CAN'T GO THERE NOW. WELL YOU CAN, BUT LUCIO SFORZA WON'T BE THERE ANY MORE. HE'S MOVED TO ROME AND OPENED A RESTAURANT THERE CALLED... L'ASINO D'ORO.

Hotel Levante, Torre Canne, Puglia

This leg of our southward journey from Ancona was, as we'd suspected, long. We left the mountains behind as we departed Marche and passed through the hilly green terrain of Abruzzo. The landscape deflated and flattened as we reached the northern tip of Puglia. Buildings changed from warm stone and terracotta brick to white render. Oak trees gave way to palms.

Just at the edge of the Gargano peninsular we detoured off the A14 to pause, stretch our legs and eat, and found ourselves in the slightly worn little lakeside town of Lesina. We might just as well have driven a stagecoach into Dodge City. The streets were deserted, save for a couple of dusty, curly-tailed dogs basking in the sun. When we did see people, they were weathered and dark, black-haired and nut-skinned. It felt noticeably hotter here. The place looked like it saw few tourists, and felt like the sort of town in which you could disappear, if need be, for a few weeks, maybe more. Maybe forever.

We bought bread and cheese for lunch, then wandered down to the waterside of Lago di Lesina, a long but narrow stretch of water that separates the town from the Adriatic. A grey concrete promenade ran along the lake edge to the north, with grafitti-covered benches at intervals. Scraps of litter blew around the promenade wall as we ate, looking out across the choppy grey expanse of the lake.

As we pushed even further south, the coastline was intermittently scruffy, then smart. And then in Torre Canne we found the Hotel Levante and stayed for three nights. It wasn't quite what we'd expected, after the rural neatness of Marche and Umbria. The town was a bit ragged in parts, pleasant in others. The hotel was pretty smart on the whole, but any character or charm it may once have possessed had been knocked out of it by the pounding of package holidays. The restaurant was pleasant enough, but the menu promised the kind of ubiquitous food that's the stuff of tour groups. This may be extremely unfair, because we never ate here, to both the hotel and the tour groups.

As we settled in, we realised that the hotel had its good points too. The pool and grounds were good, there was direct access to a private beach, along which you could walk to the town and back, and our room was big and comfortable, with a large sun terrace, perfect for enjoying the makeshift lunches of produce we'd bought from the market. And it was a great location for exploring the region, and especially nearby restaurants.

Smart Hotel Levante we quite liked in the end. Scruffy Lesina we liked from the start.

Hotel Levante, Via Appia 20, Torre Canne (72010), Puglia

The hotel doesn't appear to have its own website, but this link gives most information:

Hotel Levante, Torre Canne, Puglia

Caffé Meletti, Ascoli Piceno, Marche

Most Italian towns, it seems, have a culinary claim to fame. Nestling in the shadow of the Sibillini mountains, the town of Ascoli Piceno has two: its large olives, stuffed with meat, breaded and deep fried (olive all'Ascolana) and its anisetta, a clear, aniseed-tasting digestif, best enjoyed sitting on the terrace of the grand Caffé Meletti, overlooking the pastel-stoned Piazza di Popoli. Not to disappoint the Ascolians, we tried both.

At a canopied stall at the edge of the square we bought a plentiful paper cone-full of olives and one of suppli di riso to eat as we wandered. The olives were salty and strong, with a crisp coating of fine crumbs. The suppli, crunchy and subtly cheesy. Street food of quite a refined nature.

From our vantage point on the Meletti's terrace we sipped anisetta (and dusted off the crumbs) as we watched a scene that, in essence, has probably not changed for hundreds of years – a piazza polished smooth by a million footsteps. Caffé Meletti is one of those Italian institutions that's oddly out of proportion to its location. Inside, its polished wood and brass and tiles seem more in keeping with a cosmopolitan city than a mountain town. I can't help wondering how, before tourism touched here, it was sufficiently frequented to stay in business. Maybe the locals drank a lot of anisetta?

I would, if I lived here. It would help to wash down all those olives.

Caffé Meletti, via del Trivio n. 56, 63100 Ascoli Piceno

Tel 0736-255559

Caffé Meletti, Ascoli Piceno

La Locanda di Desideria, Carnaiola, Umbria

Sometimes you sit in a restaurant and wonder, don't you, if you've made the right choice? This time the choice had been made for us by the owner of the agriturismo where we were staying. She insisted that we eat well that evening and took the liberty to book, on our behalf, a local trattoria in Carnaiola, the next village. (Easy to see across the wooded valley, less easy to reach by road!) The food there was very good, she assured us, as the chef was a Marchigiano who had moved to the area. Chefs from Le Marche are renowned across Italy for their kitchen skills.

Our arrival was observed by curious, giggling children, who seemed not used to seeing visitors from outside their village, let alone anyone as alien as English people. A sign outside the dour stone building said simply 'cibo e vino' – food and wine. The down-to-earth theme was to continue throughout the slightly surreal evening.

The trattoria's owner stood expectantly, and perhaps a little impatiently, at the door and welcomed us with a simple, knowing enquiry – "inglese?" He had a touch of the Marco Pierre White about him; an edge of unpredictability off which he might topple at any moment. You pay attention to people like that. We were led to a small table inside an empty, cavernous room, where the chef's wife sat on a sofa, breast feeding their baby. Their blonde-curled toddler son wandered up and chattered to us at length, oblivious that we couldn't understand him. A swallow flitted around the vaulted ceiling of the restaurant, perching at intervals on the iron tie-rods that held the ceiling together, seemingly unable to find its way out.

The restaurant remained deserted, apart from us, all evening, though we later realised that Italy were playing a World Cup match that night. The menu we were offered was frugal in its choice – first pasta, then meat. But less frugal in its delivery. We ate delicious ravioli in a sauce of pistachio nuts and poured red wine from a chipped jug. The chef and his family sat at the next table and enjoyed the same food. Except they finished first.

Then the meat. A single, huge, pork chop on an old plate. Nothing else. Tender and succulent, simply grilled with a light touch of fennel and garlic and served with its meagre cooking juices. I'd like to say there was a wedge of lemon on the side of the plate, but I don't think there was. I'd also like to say that I've never had a pork chop so good. I can taste it now.

As we pushed back our empty plates, the chef said goodnight and disappeared out of the front door. A motorbike growled into life and he was gone. To watch the rest of the match, probably. We never saw him again. His wife cleared our plates, then settled on the sofa with the children as we finished the wine. I think she forgot we were there. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms, and then she and the toddler, exhausted, fell asleep too, leaving us the problem of how to ask for the bill and exit the restaurant.

I'll leave you to work out how we did it. The swallow was still there when we left, by the way.

Locanda di Desideria, Via Piave, 25 Carnaiola - Fabro (TR)

Tel 0763 839452

La Locanda di Desideria, Umbria

Osteria Santo Spirito, Florence, Tuscany

There's something quite romantic about stepping off a boat virtually straight into a train station then waiting with your cases on a sleepy, sunny platform for the train to arrive. We left Venice, and hauled through the grafitti-clad stations of Ferrara and Bologna, then through a series of tunnels carved through the hills, some of them plunging us into darkness for five minutes or more, until we finally emerged into the brightness and heat of Florence.

That warm autumn evening we left our hotel and crossed to the south side of the Arno. It was still light when we turned into the faded Piazza di Santo Spirito, but the sun was sinking quickly, warming the buildings on one side of the square and casting long dark shadows on the other. We passed a bar where workmen gathered outside in the remnants of the sun, enjoying a drink at the end of their working day. A young boy was kicking a football against the base of a statue, and a makeshift stage heralded the beginning, or it could have been the end, of some event or festival. Washing hung from the upper windows of the buildings, and voices and music and the smells of cooking wafted into the square.

At the far end of the piazza we found the Osteria Santo Spirito – an unassuming, vaguely bohemian little place. Inside, the walls of the tiny dining room were painted blood red. Outside a few tables spilled into the square on a makeshift terrace next to a newspaper stall that was closing for the evening. We took a table outside.

Within half an hour the place started to fill and by the time we had finished eating it was packed, humming. And no wonder. The food was very, very good. Sweet prosciutto wrapped around wood-smoked mozzarella, served with the wildest, pepperiest rocket I've ever tasted; a superb risotto with pesto and prawns; wonderfully fresh sea bass and, later, a beautifully presented chocolate cake. All was served on enormous, old, colourfully hand-painted and severely chipped plates.

A special bonus was that amongst the waitresses, in faded jeans and Santo Spirito tee shirts, one looked uncannily, exactly like a young Sofia Loren – almond eyes, high cheek bones, coquettish smile... this place had a lot going for it. I decided we might eat here again the next evening.

We did and, whilst it was still good, somehow the edge, the magic wasn't there. If you've had a great meal, don't eat in the same place again the next day is the lesson I suppose. Worst of all, Sofia wasn't there. Gone to join the film industry, no doubt.

Osteria Santo Spirito, Piazza di Santo Spirito, 16, 50125 Firenze

Tel 055 2382383

(Last time I checked, the restaurant's website was still under construction, but location details are up there. Just checked again to find it's one of those annoying hosting pages. It might have changed by the time you try it.)

Osteria Santo Spirito, Florence

Il Laghetto (Marcello's), Portonovo, Marche

The Italians have a saying, apparently, that restaurants with views only serve food fit for dogs. Sounds to me like a rumour started by the owners of restaurants with no view. This place unequivocally dispels the myth.

No more, really, than a shack on the beach (quite a smart shack, though), Il Laghetto assumes pride of place on the curved bay of Portonovo. The name means little lake, after the tiny lagoon behind the beach that hosts night-time frog croaking contests. Locally, it's simply Marcello's.

We've eaten here a handful of times. The first time was delicious chaos. We hadn't booked, but just managed to bag a table by the bar. The restaurant was packed, heaving, the waiters sweating as food was delivered by the bucketload from the kitchen. The noise was deafening, the atmosphere electric. We didn't really order, but left ourselves in the hands of our 100-mile-an-hour waiter, who brought us dish after dish. Mussels, polenta, clams, razor clams, sea snails, prawn risotto, fritto misto... it just kept coming. And it was very, very good.

It was all calmer, and most memorable, when we returned to celebrate our wedding anniversary. The table waiting for us directly on the beach was laid as crisply as in any fine restaurant dining room. In the curve of the bay, a handful of boats had moored for the evening and at another of the restaurants along the shore, as dusk fell, a guitarist started to play gentle jazz. Our waiter invited us to enjoy the view, but we had already taken the liberty.

We ordered souté di vongole and pesce azzuro and rombo – a whole grilled turbot between the two of us. Wine was placed in an ice bucket, its feet secured in the shail. A plate of tiny whole fish, lightly dusted with flour and fried to a crisp, was placed before us. The pesce azzuro, our waiter exlained, should be eaten with the fingers, no cutlery, and whilst piping hot. Scottaditto. He made burned fingers gestures, blowing onto his hands, to emphasise his point. Prizing the tiny backbones from the fish, we sucked on their salty, lemony flesh, leaving neat little piles of bones on the sides of our plates. Next a heavy copper pan, hot from the hob and rattling with glistening clam shells bathed in a garlicky liquor which dribbled down our chins and clung to our fingers. Then the turbot was skillfully filleted at the table and its sweet white flesh served to us simply with roast potatoes (but what roast potatoes!)

That night Italy were playing the USA in the first round of the World Cup. A TV inside the restaurant showed the game. It was dark when Italy scored their first (and only) goal in the match, raising a cheer from inside the restaurants along the beach and signalling the lamplit boats in the bay to sound their dull foghorns.

Il Laghetto, Portonovo di Ancona

Tel 071 801183

Il Laghetto, Portonovo

Castello Chiola, Loreto Aprutino, Pescara, Abruzzo

The mountains became mightier and snow-capped as we drove south. Road signs for Loreto Aprutino were elusive and intermittent, and we got caught up in the tangled mess that is the outskirts of Pescara. But eventually we reached the hilltop and followed a steep cobbled road to where honey-coloured Castello Chiola, our destination for just one night, watched over the town.

Here was quite simply the largest hotel room we have ever stayed in. You could pace about the room for hours and not pass the same piece of furniture twice. I mean, this was one big bedroom. When you occasionally passed a window, the views over the town and the still-snow-capped mountains were splendid. Outside, a small pool on the sun terrace was icy cold, but once the feeling returned to my lips I was able to describe it as 'refreshing'.

We didn't eat at the hotel, thinking the dining room and the menu too grand for what we wanted that evening – a simple, relaxed supper. The town isn't exactly awash with restaurants, but just yards from the hotel we found a door in a wall behind which we enjoyed excellent food at the most modest of prices. A simple antipasto of bruschetta, then pasta and beautifully tender grilled meats were served to us by a gum-chewing waif of a girl. At the end of the evening, the staff of the restaurant were gathered in another part of the room and smiled and nodded graciously as we left.

We returned through the keep to the hotel, and reached our room. Just half an hour's walk across the dense carpet, and we'd made it to the bed.

Castello Chiola, Via degli Aquino, 12 65014 Loreto Aprutino (PE)

Tel 085 8290690

Castello Chiola, Abruzzo

Nonnamelia l'hostaria, Orvieto, Umbria

Orvieto is officially a slow town. A 'cittaslow' as the Italians call it. You can feel it in the streets.

The initiative was founded in Italy (of course) as a spinoff of the now well-recognised Slow Food movement, which itself began as a reaction to the entry of McDonald's into Rome in 1986. Cittaslow is a valiant bid to promote a better way of life, to improve the environment and to resist the intrusion of large franchise stores, and therefore the erosion of individuality. British towns are now being invited to join the more than 30 Italian communities which have taken up the challenge of resisting the frenetic, ever-quickening pace of living and trying to improve the quality of life.

Anyway, the point is I was reading about all this while sitting in this lovely restaurant on the Via del Duomo one lunchtime, waiting for our order. The front doors of the restaurant throw open to the street on warm days or evenings, the dining room is filled with quirky wooden furniture and even quirkier chandeliers, and the young staff is on the ball. The food was pretty good too. We ate here twice. The suckling pig was good, as were the lamb cutlets and the beef straccato. We know the restaurant makes its own bread, because we stumbled inadvertently into the kitchen and found them doing so. The service, as befits a 'cittaslow' was unhurried, but efficient, so that we always had bread or wine or water to accompany conversation between courses.

So it was with some incongruity, in this relaxed restaurant in this slow town, that an American family bustled in that lunchtime anxiously looking at their watches, and the mother, most anxious of all, and apparently concerned that they might miss their rail connection, demanded of the waitress, "How quickly can you make us a pizza?"

Nonnamelia L'hostaria, Via del Duomo, 25 Orvieto

Tel 0763 342402

Nonnamelia appears not to have a website, but you'll find some reviews if you search.

Villa Maria, Ravello, Campania

It wasn't the most salubrious of arrivals, our first night in Ravello. We had flown through thunderstorms above Rome and waited for two hours for our luggage at Naples airport before being driven at breakneck speed through heavy rain southwards to the Amalfi coast. To be deposited unceremoniously in Ravello's wet and deserted square and left to pick our way through the town's black, cat-filled alleyways to find our hotel: the Villa Maria.

Late, bedraggled and damp, we were shown conspicuously to a table in the elegant dining room, filled with people who seemed mostly to be finishing dessert. The waiter handed us menus and pressed us to order before the kitchen closed for the evening. I don't remember what we ordered – pasta I think. But we weren't in the mood to enjoy it. Tired and irritable, we quickly finished our meal, skipped dessert and coffee and retired to bed. We drifted to sleep to the sound of rain spattering our window, thinking of the clear skies and sunshine that we hoped the next day would bring.

It didn't. At breakfast the view from the enormous windows of the dining room was shrouded by a dense curtain of mist and rain. The plastic canopy over the dining terrace blew wildly in the wind, and the waitress shrugged and shivered in exaggerated reaction to the cold. Breakfast itself was brighter. There were fresh juices, rich coffee and herbal teas, home made biscuits, freshly baked bread, pastries and cakes. There was Parma ham and salami and cheese. And delicious, really delicious fresh fruit. Things were looking up.

Heartened, we borrowed umbrellas from the hotel and set off to explore Ravello. By late morning the rain had stopped, the sky was clearing and the sun appeared, quickly drying the pavements. The square came to life, as canopies were raised and tables and chairs were arranged outside cafés. The hotel now took on a brighter air too, and over the next few days we came to feel completely at home here. Our room was quite small and simply furnished, but adequate. The public rooms of the hotel were elegantly furnished, with beautifully tiled floors and tall windows.

The hotel's piatto forte is undoubtedly its outdoor dining terrace, a beautiful vine and bougainvillea covered area with stunning views down towards Amalfi and the Mediterranean. And the food...? Simple dishes, simply cooked and simply presented. And none the worse for that. It's the quality of the ingredients (many of them from the hotel's own organic vegetable garden) that matters here. We enjoyed delicious grilled lamb cutlets, home-made pasta, fabulously fresh fish, vegetables simply dressed with olive oil and lemon juice, amongst other delights. All served with charm and professionalism and a genuine respect for local ingredients.

From a very comprehensive list of Italian wines, we were invariably steered towards a local, inexpensive option. (Perhaps they thought we looked cheap!) That a wine made half a mile up the hill in the next village should perfectly partner a dish of fish caught half a mile away in the other direction off the rocks of Amalfi seems completely logical to me.

Villa Maria, Ravello, Costa d'Amalfi

Tel 089 857255

Villa Maria, Ravello

La Pergola, Capri

It was a steep and sweaty climb from hectic Capri harbour to La Pergola restaurant. But it was worth it. We sat outside in the sunny garden – a vine-shaded terrace where rosemary and basil grew untidily beneath an old lemon tree. Far below us, past the tumble of rosy-roofed houses, olive and lemon groves and vines, the sea was smooth and blue, crossed with the white trails of boats arriving silently from the mainland. We could easily see the port of Naples on the horizon and Vesuvius beyond. Even in the shade the air was hot and still. I imagined that the Romans who first colonised this island must have enjoyed days like this.

The tables were laid with crisp linen. Glasses sparkled in the sun. We were, at first, the only diners and, apart from the occasional chink of cutlery on plates from the restaurant as tables were laid for lunch, and the drone of bees relieving the rosemary flowers, we sat in hot and drowsy silence.

A waiter brought us menus and bread, and we ordered. Water arrived, and wine, and the heady aroma of frying garlic wafted through the heavy air. And then the pasta: bowls of fine spaghetti, slicked with golden olive oil and pungent garlic, flecked with specks of dried chilli. And dancing with flavour.

Funny, isn't it, how such simple ingredients can create such powerful memories?

La Pergola, Via Traversa Lo Palazzo, 2, 80073 Capri (Napoli)

Tel 081 8377414

La Pergola, Capri

Santa Maria degli Ancillotti, Sterpeto, Assisi, Umbria

Leave Assisi by the road to the north-west, past fields of sunflowers if it's in summer. Travel on through the one-horse towns of Tordibetto and Palazzo. After about seven kilometers turn sharply right, signposted Sterpeto, and follow a steep track through silver olive groves until you can go no further. You will have reached the gated kingdom of Santa Maria degli Ancillotti, and you will more than likely be greeted by its 'prince', Alessio Villa.

Alessio reigns over this agriturismo with his family. Father Paolo tends the roses and the chickens, and cures his own salumi. Mother Rosanna bakes bread and cakes and takes care of the fresh pasta, sauces and puddings. Wife Innis busies herself in the kitchen so much that you may never see her. The family is completed by dogs Benito, Attila and Jenny.

We spent three nights here in the early summer. On our first evening, invited to join our fellow guests for a barbecue supper, my heart sank at the prospect of an evening in the company of a bunch of complete strangers. In fact, I was wrong. In the early evening our little band of about a dozen of us, a somewhat motley collection of European stock, gathered awkwardly together on the terrace as the sun sank below Monte Subasio. A large table, big enough to seat us all, was simply laid with plates and cutlery, tumblers and candles. Alessio's family sat on the terrace too, but at a separate table.

Bottles of wine were opened and poured, and the barbecue was lit. First came panzanella. Then more wine. Then, as Alessio periodically turned the barbecue grill with theatrical flourish, came the meat – fat sausages packed with herbs and fennel, meaty pork ribs, and finally steaks, cut thin and lean, all accompanied by a conveyor-belt supply of red wine. As darkness fell and the wine took effect, our little party became closer, a happy band together in this outpost in the Umbrian hills. At some point during the proceedings, for reasons which I still can't remember, I arranged with the elderly German guest sitting beside me that we would go swimming at 7.30 next morning. More wine. And there may have been grappa. We ate, drank and talked late into the chilly night.

Next morning broke bright and clear, save for a drift of white mist hanging over the Assisi plain. The dew still clung to the roses and the dogs stretched themselves in readiness for the lazy day ahead when, at precisely 7.30am, the elderly German lady, in swimming hat and towel, padded across the grass to the pool... and was surprised to find that I was already in the water. Well, I couldn't let the British side down, could I?

For the rest of our stay Alessio insisted on plying us with food. Roasted duck one night (his "mother's favourite dish"), roast rabbit the next (his "wife's favourite dish") were delicious and plentiful. But it was Alessio's breakfasts that were the real stars of his food show. Beneath the canopy of the loggia, the morning breeze wafting the fresh flowers on each table, we were offered freshly squeezed juices that were alive with flavour; the brightest, yellowest of eggs from the farm's own hens, scrambled into deliciously soft mounds, or set with mushrooms and herbs into a soft-centred omelette; home-made yogurt whipped to the lightest, airiest of textures. And coffee, deliciously chewy bread and home-made jams and honey.

Alessio was very good at keeping us within the borders of his kingdom, but charming with it.

Santa Maria degli Ancillotti, loc. Sterpeto, 42 06086 - Assisi (Perugia)

Tel 075 8039764

Santa Maria degli Ancillotti

Fortino Napoleonico, Portonovo, Marche

The first glimpse through the trees that line the coast road high above the Baia di Portonovo is breathtaking. A densely wooded hill drops to a sweeping cove where a brilliantly white shoreline curves around an azure bay. It might just as well be the Caribbean as the eastern coast of Italy. Did Napoleon find this view stunning too, or simply strategically important? I wonder, because it is here that in 1811 he built a fort to defend this stretch of the Adriatic coast and to prevent the British from coming ashore to draw fresh water from the lagoon which lies just back from the beach. Crafty chap, Napoleon. But I doubt he'd have imagined that this garrison of six hundred men would one day be a stylish hotel and a fine base for a few nights, or longer, on the part of the Marche coast known as the Riviera del Conero, just a half hour drive from Ancona.

Built in a contrasting mix of terracotta brick and dazzling white stone, plundered from a nearby convent apparently, the single story fort sits solid and squat just a step from the sea, on a small headland dividing two bays. A sense of history pervades the place. The perimeter structure which houses the bedrooms surrounds a sunny courtyard in which breakfast can be taken in fair weather. It's not hard to imagine it once filled with drilling soldiers. The hotel's lofty restaurant was once the officers' quarters. What must once have been a lookout platform is now a blustery al fresco terrace. The same reason that attracted Napoleon – the uninterrupted view – now attracts newlyweds to hold their receptions here.

We splashed out on a suite – cool stone floors, enormous bed, leather sofa, lovely bathroom. Two narrow slits of windows, still with their original lead frames, pierced the two-foot thick walls and squinted over the Adriatic, which lapped at the walls below. At night, the open windows sucked in the sound and smell of the sea.

Portonovo is little more than a sleepy scattering of restaurants and bars strung together by a network of dusty tracks through the trees. Occasionally they emerge into coves of dazzlingly white rock and surf. But the sleepiness is shrugged off on summer weekends and during the Italian holidays, as the beach and the restaurants become packed and the only road in and out is jammed. (A bonus though is the porchetta van that sets out its stall at the top of the cliff!) Come Monday, it's all quiet again.

Service at the hotel was attentive but discreet. Breakfast was plentiful and good. We didn't eat dinner here (though the food is reputedly good), but headed for the fish restaurants strung out along the beach, a stroll away, and weren't disappointed. Wandering back to the hotel one evening in the warm blackness, the woods that line the path to the Fortino sparkled with tiny points of light. At first we thought the hotel had strung fairy lights through the trees.

Then we saw that they moved, and realised that they were fireflies.

Fortino Napoleonico, 60129 Portonovo (AN)

Tel 071 801 450 51

Hotel Fortino Napoleonico

Starting point...

My first trip to Italy was a visit to Pisa on a school trip at the age of 16. My wife's first Italian experience was also as a teenager, on a family holiday in Rimini. Neither were especially salubrious experiences. But when we first travelled to Italy together to celebrate a milestone wedding anniversary, staying in Venice, taking the train to Florence and then touring Umbria, we were captivated.

Since then we've visited this wonderful country many times, usually staying in places of character and tradition and looking for small, more authentic places to eat. Occasionally I've made a solus 'me and my camera' trip. Slow Food's publication 'Osterie e Locande d'Italia' has been a pretty reliable compass on many of our trips, pointing us to some places we wouldn't otherwise have found and helping to guide us through some of the menus. Like any guide, it's not foolproof, and there has been the odd disappointment. But on the whole our travels to this wonderful country have been richly rewarded with beautiful landscapes and architecture, graceful people, warm hospitality and delicious food. I can't think of anything more a traveller could want.

If you stumble across our blog, I hope you find these little anecdotes of our travels helpful. I haven't gone into detail such as how many bedrooms a place has or how far from the town such and such a restaurant is – you can get that from other sites and publications. This is more about our experience of the places. (Please note that the posting date isn't the date we were there, but the day I've posted the write-up: our trips have been over the past couple of years, and I'm working through my notes!) Most of all, I hope you enjoy Italy as much as we do.