Hotel Emilia, Portonovo

It was all a bit like a James Bond film set. A glistening white building surrounded by green, green lawns dotted with sunloungers and pine trees and oddly industrial sculptures: all overlooking an Indian-Ocean-white beach and a pigment-blue sea. Crickets sang from the lavender bushes. The reception staff were dressed in white too, loose white linen tunics and trousers: they moved slowly, as if performing Tai Chi, and smiled alot, inscrutably. The hall and sitting room were hung with modern art, some of it very good, and large French doors opened onto a shaded terrace of smooth pale stone. Our rooms were all cream carpets and billowing curtains, cane furniture and dark wood floors. I half expected Ursula Andress to pad across the lawns, dagger strapped to her still-dripping thigh.

But, like a film set, it all looked better from a slight distance. Upon closer inspection the whitewashed building showed signs of wear, the cream carpets bore stains of spillage and the staff chose not to venture out from behind their reception desk, leaving us to haul our own luggage to our rooms. The art, on the other hand, remained as good close up as it was from across the room.

We spent a happy couple of nights here though, lounging in the gardens and around the pool, sipping cold beer beneath a shady arbour. We took dinner one night, outside on the terrace. Earlier in the day, when we asked to see menus, one of the floaty-linen reception staff felt it necessary to point out that the portions were small: an odd way to entice diners. Perhaps she thought we were gluttons. We were served fish that was overcooked and vegetables that were tasteless, so in the event we were grateful for the small portions. And whilst we ate we knew, could even faintly hear, that down the road in the bay people were eating the freshest of seafood, in the most garlicky, fishy liquor or the crispest of batters, looking out over the inkiest of seas.

But you can't have everything. And taking coffee in Emilia's gardens, with the breeze from the Adriatic wafting over the cliff and the sculptures looming vaguely in the darkness, was very pleasant; until it was too chill, and we moved into the living room: in the dimmed light the paintings took on a different quality. The strange filmset feeling returned. I might have ordered a martini, but I worried it might be stirred rather than shaken...

Hotel Emilia, Collina di Portonovo 149/a, 60129 Ancona

Tel 071 801117

Hotel Emilia

La Mulinella, Ponte Naia, Todi

Vitello tonnato is at once a robust yet delicate dish: cold slices of cooked veal smothered in a smooth, light sauce of tuna, capers, eggs and olive oil. A classic if slightly unusual summer plate. I mention it because the version I was served at La Mulinella was so far removed from this description as to be either a regional variation warranting definition as a sub-species in its own right, or a joke.

A few hundred yards steeply downhill to the south of Todi, a large sports ground dominates the scattering of modern houses that makes up the suburb of Ponte Naia. One house has been turned into a restaurant and sits in a carefully tended garden with shaded tables. This is La Mulinella. On the sunny lunchtime we rolled up, a few local diners - workmen and families - had already taken their seats and were smoking and chatting as the waiter brought bread and water. We ate crostini with mushrooms, a rich chicken liver paté and torta al testo with spinach. Then ravioli with butter and sage and lamb scottaditto. This was all very good, made even better by warm sun and chilled wine. But the vitello tonnato... if I didn't know better, I imagine the conversation between waiter and chef may have gone something like:

Waiter: "He wants vitello tonnato."

Chef: "I don't have any tonnato sauce."

Waiter: "He's English."

Chef: "I have a can of tuna."

Waiter: "That will do."

Chef: "Are you sure?"

Waiter: "He's English."

So the plate put before me was simply two slices of veal topped with with mashed tinned tuna. There may have been a few capers sprinkled on top, I can't remember. Sadly neither my Italian nor my culinary expertise were up to questioning the dish, so I ate it. It was okay, but it was a bit odd. I think I detected a faint raise of eyebrows when the waiter collected my empty plate, which I imagine he returned to the incredulous chef and said "I told you so."

I think (though I may be wrong) that Mulinella means little windmill, though there's no evidence of one. Mind you, there was no tonnato sauce either. But, really, don't take this as a reason not to go: it was very good, and I hope you're luckier with the tonnato than I was.

La Mullinella, Vocabolo Ponte Naia, 06059 Todi, Umbria

Tel 075 8944779

No website of their own that I can find. I don't have a picture of little Ponte Naia, so here's one of big sister Todi.

La Locanda del Baio, Loreto Aprutino, Abruzzo

Imagine the scene, if you will. Two English people with little grasp of Italian save for a few words walk into a small ristorante pizzerie in a remote village in Abruzzo. The staff have even less grasp of English, and why would they? Until the recently converted Castello Chiola started attracting British and American tourists to its new hotel rooms, such foreigners were, I imagine, a rare sight in the village. Perhaps even now they are a rare sight at La Locanda del Baio, as the hotel does its best, understandably, to keep hold of you for dinner as well as for bed.

But sometimes the hotel restaurant thing is just too much. They can try too hard, the dining room can be too hushed for comfort, the service too attentive and yet the food mediocre. We didn't eat at Castello Chiola so I may be doing them a great injustice and the food may be spectacular... but that evening we just didn't fancy the rigmarole of smartening ourselves up for dinner. So we found ourselves knocking, in jeans and tee shirts, at La Locanda's door. The welcome we received was beautifully, correctly, indifferent: you're not Italian, you're tourists and we can't understand you, but this is what we serve and this is how we serve it, so what do you want? No fuss. We had a very good meal here, and paid an exceptionally good price for it. The same price, I imagine, as the locals who frequent the place. Most of all we felt completely welcome. And relaxed.

Bruschette and pasta and grilled meats later, we left. And as we did, the entire staff, who had gathered anyway at the end of the evening for a chat, bade us a friendly farewell. I hope that La Locanda has, if it wants it, picked up some more diners staying at the Castello. But I hope too that this tourism doesn't go to its head. If our gum-chewing waitress has anything to do with it, I doubt that it will.

La Locanda del Baio, Via Baio 21, 65014 Loreto Aprutino

Tel 085 829 0674

No website I can find.

Caffe Calce, Ravello

Ravello's Piazza Vescovado is roughly square, and dominated along one side by the duomo of San Pantaleone, patron saint of the town. Directly opposite, the square ends in some iron railings, and the ground drops away into the valley. To the left, a café with outdoor seating and a small shop and, beyond, the Villa Rufolo. To the right, a run of ochre coloured peeling plaster on what was once an elegant building. And up a few steps in the corner, between Via Roma and Viale Richard Wagner, a white building with a wooden bench outside. If you peek through the open door you may see behind the bar a chap with greying-black slicked-back hair and glasses pushed back high onto his forehead. If you do, don't hesitate: walk in and ask him for one of his arancini, for this is Signor Alfonso Calce and his are the best arancini in all Ravello; perhaps the best on the Amalfi coast.

For each night of the week we were here, Caffe Calce was our last stop of the evening, after dinner at the Villa Maria where we were staying. We'd wander into the square and, usually, sit under the stars at one of Signor Calce's outside tables for coffee and limoncello. On a couple of nights, when the weather was cool or when spots of rain blew in on the breeze, we sat inside; sometimes the only customers, apart from an odd drop in for a takeaway or a beer. The television blasted out the football loudly on the wall in the corner while Signor Calce watched and cleaned glasses, and his daughter fed her own baby daughter at a table opposite. We'd often call in in the morning too to pick up arancini for a picnic lunch. We became temporary regulars and nodding acquaintances and on our last evening, when we said goodbye and explained we were going home, Signor Calce gave my wife a gift of a small bottle of limoncello. The contents are gone, but we still have the bottle. When we were last, more recently, in Ravello, he was still there: a little greyer, perhaps, but the glasses remained perched where they always did.

Caffe Calce, Via Roma, 16 - 84100 Ravello, Campania

Tel 089 857 211

Caffe' Florian, Venice

"How much?!" Our indignant son could never quite understand, or even believe, that we had paid that much for morning coffee. I can't remember now how much 'that much' was. But it was a lot. More than I've ever paid anywhere for three cups of coffee, a hot chocolate and a liqueur. I told him that we were seated in Venice's oldest caffe', that they had been serving coffee here since 1720, that some of the most influential creative minds of Europe had partaken here and discussed great things. We were just another moment in its history, I said. He told me we'd been had.

So it depends, I suppose, on your take on life as to whether you appreciate Caffe' Florian or not. It's beautiful inside, certainly, and the staff is impeccable. But coffee can only get so good, and in truth I couldn't discern that much difference from the pot I'd had at breakfast in the hotel that morning. Our daughter's hot chocolate disappeared as quickly as a Starbucks version, and the liqueur was, well, alcoholic. Call me a philistine, but what's all the fuss about?

Well, for a start, how many branches of Starbucks will still be here in 300 years time? Florian is unique, a piece of Venetian history, and of its culture. The fact that tourism has also turned it into something of a theme park experience is hardly the fault of the caffe'. "We even tried increasing our prices to astronomic heights", they might say, "and still the tourists come!"

So, I've been, and I probably wouldn't go again. It's a bit like paying to see an ageing rock star who is unique and you know may never play another concert. You just want to say you were there. And then I noticed on their website that they've opened a branch in Harrods, and another in Dubai. Maybe there are some similarities to Starbucks after all...

Caffe' Florian, Piazza San Marco, Venice

Tel 041 520 5641

Caffe' Florian

Ristorante Etrusco, Turin

On our last night in Turin an Italian friend called us to say he had just arrived from the UK, also to visit the Salone del Gusto, and we arranged to eat together that evening. Taking an Italian for dinner, especially in Italy, has something of the double edged sword about it. It's helpful to have a knowledgeable and fluent companion, of course. But what will they think of our choice of restaurant? If the food's not up to scratch will they say so? What if we think it's really good and they don't? The sword has been honed to a sharp edge when your Italian guest is a chef, and threatens to draw blood at the slightest touch when that chef is a Marchigiano. Good job we know him well.

We chose Etrusco on some recommendation or other which I can't remember now. We were already in the restaurant when our friend arrived, like the whirlwind that he is, ushering in cold air from the crisp November night outside, then much shaking of hands and kissing of cheeks. We toasted each other with a bottle of prosecco and threw ourselves upon his mercy with the menu. He enquired politely of the hostess some things we didn't understand, but with a directness that clearly put her on her guard, which is exactly what our wily friend intended. Instead of the easy evening she was expecting with the two British know-nothings who had booked, she was clearly to be tested to the full by this knowledgeable Italian guardian. Her initially cool approach to us rapidly melted into eager-to-please fawning.

We shared three dishes of pasta: tagliolini with walnuts and speck, tagliatelle ragu and agnolotti. We thought the pasta was fine, but our friend was carefully non-committal. In the meantime our hostess attempted to ingratiate herself by recommening a fine bottle of barbera, which our friend tasted and merely nodded (I thought it was fantastic). Then osso bucco for the three of us, accompanied by roast potatoes. It wasn't outstanding.

The woman breathed a visible sigh of relief when we drained the wine, paid the bill and left, our friend bidding us thanks and farewell in clouds of breath on the night air. Tentatively I asked him if everything had been okay. "Oh, yes," he said, "it was all fine. But you have to keep them on their toes, don't you?"

Ristorante Etrusco, Via Cibrario Luigi, 52, 10144 Torino

Tel 011 480285

Didn't have my camera with me that evening, so here's a picture of the old Fiat building instead. Etrusco has no website of its own. Think they're worried in case our friend might contact them.

Aristocampo, Trastevere, Rome

The slogan on the blackboard outside reads "We are against the war and tourist menus". Well as restaurant slogans go, it's more profound than "I'm lovin' it". They have a point about the tourist menus: why do so many restaurants offer them? Perhaps they think that tourists will be confused by a free choice of dishes, so have to be told what to eat. Maybe tourists are attracted by the security of a set menu and a fixed price. We took a look at the odd menu turistico in Trastevere and found that that they're pretty much all the same: same dishes, same prices. So whatever else they may offer, it's not choice.

Anyway, Aristocampo's little rebellion drew our attention. In the July early evening it was still too warm to eat outside, so we settled into the spartan interior. Woven through the menu was an unexpected common thread: pecorino. We started with pecorino with pears and pecorino di fossa with fig marmelade. We could have gone onto pasta with sardines and pecorino but feared we'd have nightmares, so sidestepped the cheese and ate pasta with clams, and chicken with lemon and milk. And some of those oven-roasted potatoes that are pleasantly burned on the edges. All good.

We thought a quiet stroll by the river would finish the evening off nicely. So did about two thousand others. Crowds thronged both banks of the Tevere, and the bridges, carrying tiny lanterns and waiting expectantly. We joined them and waited too, without knowing what for. From somewhere upriver singing started, like a monastic chant, and through the crowds we glimpsed a boat on the river. The singing swelled and applause rippled through the audience as the boat docked and a wooden statue of the Madonna, adorned with precious clothes and jewels, was lifted onto the bank and carried up the steps by Ponte Garibaldi. The Madonna-bearers disappeared amongst the crowds as they carried the statue back (we later learned) to the church of Sant'Agata, signalling the end of an eight-day local holiday.

We wandered back to our little hotel past brightly lit stalls selling porchetta and sweets and candyfloss; the final fling of the festival. We finished the day against tourist menus, and very much in favour of local festivals.

Ristorante Aristocampo, Via della Lungaretta 75, Trastevere, Rome

Tel 06 583 35530

No website of its own I can find. Try searching for pecorino.

Hotel Berchielli, Florence

The main thing I remember about the Berchielli is the motorbikes. I'll explain. The hotel sits directly on the Lungarno Acciailuoli, a long street that runs alongside the Arno between Ponte Amerigo Vespucci and Ponte alle Grazie. It's a busy road, by Florence standards. (By Naples or Rome standards it would be a quiet backwater, but here it's a pretty well-used thoroughfare.) And the traffic that uses it most seems to be motorbikes, scooters, mopeds... all of which descend in weaving waves of determination as soon as the traffic lights turn green. And sometimes, perhaps, slightly before. And when the Amerigo Vespucci lot's lights are on stop, it's the turn of those who have come across the bridge from Via Maggio, thus ensuring an endless two-wheel tide. A single step out the the Berchielli's front door and you're amongst it all, cheek to cheek with the passing moped rider, toes just inches from the motorbike's tyres, a whiff away from the scooter driver's perfume. The other side of the road becomes seemingly unassailable, yet something to be conquered, like the north face of the Eiger. The first time we attempted to cross the road took us maybe half an hour. We got worried, because we were only in Florence for two days.

Surprisingly, once inside the hotel, no hint of this mayhem pervaded its serene ambience. All was calm. The hotel was efficient and tidy rather than personable and friendly. Our room was pleasant enough, though probably identical to the room next door. Breakfast was okay, from what I remember. There seemed to be no quirk, no personal touch. I do remember though that one of the coffee table books in the lounge displayed paintings of a highly erotic and explicit nature, which came as a bit of a surprise as we thumbed through it over coffee one evening.

So maybe the hotel does have a trick or two up its sleeve, after all.

Thanks, by the way, to the hotel website for this picture.

Hotel Berchielli, Lungarno Acciaiuili, 14, 50123, Firenze

Tel - odd, but they don't seem to want to publish their phone number?

Hotel Berchielli

Locanda Canal, Venice

Venice is, on the whole, a city of gentle sounds, free as it is of the rush of roads and traffic. Market stallholders feel no need to shout. The distant 'hoi!' of a gondolier around the corner of some still backwater, the gentle strains of a string quartet in Piazza San Marco, the metallic ring of footsteps in an empty alley are all evocative, but unobtrusive. Even the throb of boat engines and the horns of the vaporetti on the Canal Grande are somehow subdued. But the sound that all Venetians listen for, can pick out above and through all others, is the city's siren; the warning, the harbinger of high tides, of acqua alta.

One blast of the siren alerts the city to the likelihood of flooding (so stay tuned), then further emissions spell out the expected magnitude (how far up your house the water might come). In a time when most of us are glued to our radios, televisions, computers and phones for the latest news, this simple sonic alert remains a neatly effective way to reach the majority of Venice's populus, wherever they are and whatever they're doing. An efficient, well-rehearsed response quickly kicks into action, as flood boards are installed in front of shops and walking platforms assembled. We saw, and heard, it happen one watery September.

Locanda Canal is a small, tucked away hotel with comfortable if unspectacular rooms. It reminded me vaguely of a David Lynch film. The walls of the corridor were lined with padded silk that subsided disconcertingly to the touch. We were served a modest breakfast each morning in a compact room with wooden floors and beamed ceiling, sitting just that bit closer than comfortable to our fellow guests, while an extremely petite young waitress wearing thin latex gloves wordlessly made the most incredible cappuccino. The hotel entrance gives out onto the Fondamenta del Remedio and stepping out one morning into heavy rain we noticed that the level of the deep green canal was considerably higher than the previous day. Other canals we passed were the same, and by midday the lagoon had spilled over the Riva degli Shiavoni and was lapping at the base of the Leone di San Marco. A buzz of expectation ran amongst the tourists in the Piazza, excited as children at the novelty of a city full of water.

Not so for the Venetians: just resigned frustration perhaps. And a quiet acceptance.

Locanda Canal, Fondamenta del Remedio, Castello 4422/c - 30122 Venezia

Tel 041 523 4538

Locanda Canal

Le Colombe Agriturismo, Assisi, Umbria

Gina Lollobrigida springs to mind when I occasionally recall our stay here. Actually Gina Lollobrigida quite often springs to mind for no reason at all, but I think that must be my age. We'd driven up an improbably steep dusty track, following discreet wooden signs, to be greeted (well more bumped into really) by the agriturismo's owner, who was just leaving on some brief expedition or other. Now if 'owner of a holiday farm' conjures up a rustic character in shirt sleeves and cord trousers, with weatherbeaten features and rough hands, you're in for a pleasant surprise. The woman that skipped down the steps towards us was in her early forties perhaps, tanned and lean, wearing a crisp striped blouse with turned up collar, fastened one button less than might be expected, white trousers and sunglasses pushed back into her auburn hair. As she leaned into the car her heavy necklace fell forward from her chest and a heady waft of scent instantly cooled the hot air. I felt we'd arrived.

From the tiny hamlet of Rocca Sant'Angelo across the valley from the agriturismo, a thin bell rings at intervals. Other than birdsong and the chirping of crickets, this is the only sound to be heard here on a summer's day beside the pool. I visited the hamlet one hot afternoon; a small knot of buildings tightly tied against outsiders. I saw no people, only their evidence: scattered chairs beneath a sort of gazebo; low voices from an open window; the smell of cooking; a bike propped outside a door. And cats. There were a lot of cats.

Le Colombe itself was peaceful perfection. Our hostess presided over breakfast, making poached eggs more exciting than usual. Most of the time we had the place to ourselves, to laze and potter in between excursions for food. In the evening we'd make the ten minute drive into Assisi to eat, returning in the dusk as bats flitted around the roofs, to sit beneath our loggia until the stars appeared.

Nights were completely silent and star-filled. And occasionally scented with a waft of expensive perfume.

Le Colombe Agriturismo, Localita Rocca S. Angelo, 42/43, 06088 Assisi

Tel 075 8098101

Le Colombe Agriturismo