Letters from Puglia: A Journey Through Olive Groves, Seaside Towns, and an Unexpected Proposal
From Bari to Alberobello, Savelletri to Locorotondo—discover the best towns, beaches, and food in Puglia, Italy’s sun-soaked heel.
It began, as all good Italian love stories do, with a delay. Not in the proposal—that would come later—but in our luggage. Munich had apparently found our suitcases more charming than Bari. By the time we landed on that blistering Saturday afternoon, the thermometer pointed to 34 degrees, our bodies pointed toward the nearest bed, and our clothes pointed, somewhat rudely, elsewhere.
No matter. We picked up our rental car, or rather, what was supposed to be our rental car. I had my heart set on a Fiat 500, the spiritual accessory of dolce vita road trips. Instead, they handed us its clunkier elder sister, the Fiat 600—a car that tries very hard to be cool but ends up looking like it should be parked outside a suburban supermarket. Still, four wheels are four wheels. We drove south, luggage-less but determined, towards Masseria Parco della Grave, our whitewashed refuge in the middle of 60 hectares of olive groves—twelve rooms of breezy minimalism, shaded by centuries of trees.
By the time we checked in, we were knackered. Six a.m. departures from Antwerp will do that to you, especially when followed by Bavarian layovers and Mediterranean heat. We hid in our room until our appetites demanded otherwise, then slipped out to Osteria del Porto in Savelletri. In this harbour-side restaurant, fishermen and gourmets share the same air. I ordered shrimp with courgette and stracciatella, so divine that it deserved its own papal blessing, followed by seafood pasta that whispered of the Adriatic. I was too lost in the glow of olive oil and garlic to notice.
When we returned to the masseria, weary but content, our luggage was waiting for us. Italians may be famously slow at bureaucracy, but when it comes to reuniting travellers with their toothbrushes, they perform minor miracles.
Day Two: On the Right Knee
Our Sunday morning in Puglia began like any other—until it didn’t. Under the blooming bougainvillaea, he asked me to stand for a photo, a request that raised my suspicions. Then, as the petals framed my face in a cascade of pink, he went down on one knee. I said yes, of course. How could I not? Puglia had already greeted us with sun, seafood, and stracciatella; now it offered me a fiancé. A girl could get used to this.
High on romance, we drove to Alberobello, with its whimsical trulli roofs that look like hobbit dwellings built by particularly ambitious stonemasons. Lunch was at a small trattoria. My crab pasta was perfection; his cold orecchiette salad was less so. But nothing could dim our mood—not even mediocre pasta. We floated back to the masseria, spent the afternoon by the pool in a daze of newfound engagement, and later dined at Il Cortiletto. In this courtyard restaurant, tradition lives on in recipes written long before the advent of Google Docs.
Our dinner at Il Cortiletto was a celebration of Puglian cuisine. From the tomato flan that tasted like my childhood tomato soup to the chef’s special chicken and orecchiette with veal ragù, each dish was a testament to the region's culinary prowess. The meal was a delightful journey through Puglia's food culture.
Days Three & Four: Sea and Smoke
The following day was for the sea. We took our sunburn-prone bodies to Le Palme Beach Club, a blue-and-white parasol paradise. Lunch was pasta alle vongole, perhaps the best I’ve had in years; the clams were so fresh they practically clapped. That evening, we headed inland to Cisternino, my favourite Puglian town. Its labyrinthine streets reminded me of the old cities of Lebanon, stripped of their hills and their crowds. We found Zio Pietro, the local temple of bombette—those little meat parcels stuffed and grilled until the word “snack” feels wholly inadequate.
The next day, we slowed down. He took calls (yes, even on holiday), and I wrote articles. That evening, we wandered next door to Conte Farm. The meal was hearty: T-bone steak with potatoes, and rabbit so succulent it sent me back to my childhood. My father once raised rabbits, and I had promised to cook one for him. He passed before I could, and so the dish became a bittersweet communion—meat as memory.
Days Five & Six: Sea Again, and Markets
uesday lunch was at La Taverna di Umberto in Savelletri: red prawn curd, vongole pasta with bottarga, and a mixed fried seafood plate big enough to feed half the town and their cousins. Afterwards we waddled over to Torre Canne, licked ice cream like guilty children, and discovered the Adriatic’s eccentric rock formations—proof, if you ask me, that the Loch Ness monster takes its holidays in Puglia.
Dinner was at L’Agrumeto, another courtyard oasis where grapevines and citrus trees closed in around us like nosy but benevolent relatives. The revelation of the evening was a pasta twirled with fennel, anchovies, and lemon zest—bright, briny, and frankly to die for. The real shock? Not a trace of garlic. In Italy! It felt like being served a cappuccino without foam, and yet somehow it was perfect—delicate, balanced, a dish that proved the unthinkable: sometimes less is molto more.
Wednesday was market day in Monopoli even if it was a two stall market. My fiancé quickly discovered that letting me loose near produce stalls is a mistake. I emerged with figs as sweet as honey, olives (naturally), and chilli peppers destined for our kitchen back home. Monopoli charmed us with its five monasteries, six churches, and narrow lanes that smelled of sea spray. From there, we drove to Polignano a Mare, whose cliffs induce vertigo and poetry in equal measure. Dinner was a return to Osteria del Porto, where local lobster pasta emptied our wallets but filled our souls.
Day Seven: Oil and Locorotondo
Thursday, I went solo to Masseria Macarone for an olive oil tasting. They manage 20,000 trees and produce 6,000 litres of extra virgin liquid gold each year. And this from someone who comes from an olive-growing family. Sorry, Mum, but their oil is another league entirely. (They ship worldwide, if anyone’s tempted.)
That evening, we drove to Locorotondo, perched elegantly above its olive groves. Dinner included yet another rabbit, as tender and delicious as the last. Some things, it seems, Puglia insists you repeat.
Final Thoughts: If Lebanon Hadn’t Bled
The next morning, we rose early. Six hours of driving lay ahead of us, Tuscany beckoning. But Puglia had left its mark.
It struck me that if Lebanon hadn’t been gutted by the civil war of the ’70s and ’80s, if its villages and towns hadn’t been flattened or hurriedly rebuilt in concrete haste, then much of it might have looked like this: whitewashed towns, olive groves stretching to the horizon, courtyards scented with lemon and oregano. In Puglia, I saw an echo of what my country could have been, and for a moment, I felt at home.
So yes, go to Puglia. Go for the seafood pastas, the rabbit stews, the tomatoes masquerading as flans. Go for Alberobello’s trulli, Monopoli’s markets, and Locorotondo’s sunsets. Go because sometimes life decides to propose to you under a bougainvillaea, and the only reasonable answer is yes.
And if you want the full itinerary, my DM is open.