When I arrived in Puglia, in Southern Italy, I felt as if the whole scene had changed at once. London was far behind me. In front of me were white houses, cactus plants, bright sunshine, and the deep blue sea. I stayed first in Monopoli, in a simple Airbnb with a real kitchen, the kind of place that feels more like living than travelling.

What stayed with me most was not a famous restaurant or a special sightseeing spot. It was the rhythm of life.

In the mornings, I would walk through the old town. The streets were quiet, the buildings were pale and sun-washed, and everything seemed to move more slowly. Later in the day, I would go swimming. Puglia gave me my first real experience of a rocky beach. Before that, I had always thought a beach should mean soft sand and beach clubs. But in Puglia, I stepped into a shop and asked, “Where do people go swimming?” The local people looked at me almost with surprise and said, “Everywhere.” That answer stayed with me. Swimming there was not an activity that needed planning. It was simply part of daily life.

The sea was incredibly clear. In some places, when I swam out, I could see fish moving below me. In the evening, from beaches near the town, I could look back and see the lights of Monopoli beginning to glow. Sometimes the sky held both the sun and the moon at once. It was one of those quiet moments that makes you feel how far away city life really is.

Food was part of that feeling too. I was lucky that the fish shop was right across from my Airbnb. I bought fresh swordfish and scampi and cooked simple meals at home. Travel and cooking together can be tiring, yes, but there was also a kind of freedom in it. I did not have to think about restaurant opening hours, busy dining rooms, or whether a meal would be worth the price. I could see the freshest ingredients with my own eyes, bring them home, and eat well in my own time.

And then there was the focaccia.

That was when I realised something about my own taste. I am not actually a big pizza person. But Puglian focaccia was different. It was soft, rich with olive oil, and full of fragrance. Even the next day, it still tasted wonderful. Because of the oil, it seemed to hold its moisture and softness so well. Roman pizza, especially the thinner kind, changes much more by the next day. But focaccia kept its charm. I understood then that what I really loved was not crispness, but softness, warmth, and generosity.

Puglia taught me that good food does not always need a restaurant. Sometimes a few slices of focaccia, some fresh seafood, a small kitchen, and a swim in the sea are enough. More than a destination, it gave me a way of living: slow, simple, nourishing, and close to the body.

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