A Two-Week Puglia Road Trip

By the time I turn into the driveway of Masseria Prosperi, I can feel my shoulders drop. After weeks of spluttering around Spain speaking Spang-itang-lish, there’s something reassuring about being back, where at least a few words come easily. I’ve rented myself a little car, and today marks the start of my two-week solo road trip through the southern part of the boot. As someone who, until recently, described herself as a Northern Italy devotee, this is my fourth time visiting Puglia in as many years. The food, the seaside, the slower pace of life, with a light that falls like no other, have brought me back to deepen my connection to this region and its legendary hospitality.

I arrive tired and hungry, and though lunch is technically over, the beautiful ragazza who greets me smiles: “I can pull something together… Would you like a rosé?” Moments later, I’m sitting beneath a creeping vine at a table laid with monogrammed napkins and a plate of burrata and tomatoes—ripe, juicy, red, doused in salt and olive oil.

Out on the lawn, a big bronzed horse grazes lazily. Mercedes, the donna of the casa, tells me he has trouble with his legs, her eyes soft. The animals here are loved like family—seven dogs, fourteen cats, chickens, geese, donkeys, and one solitary goat who apparently thinks he runs the place. They all live together in a kind of rural United Nations, where the cats ignore the chickens and the rooster crows indiscriminately, day and night. It’s part of Prosperi’s charm.

When I’m not drifting between the pool and my suite, I drive to Grotta della Poesia, where locals plunge from limestone ledges into turquoise water. I myself don’t make the leap, but those of us who watch on laugh collectively when a little boy counts down to a jump with his father, only to pull out at the last second and giggle as his papa realises a second too late that he’s jumping alone. 

I join the Palombara family for dinner on my first night, an Italian gesture of hospitality that they will repeat every night during my stay, and my Italian flows easily. These are the kinds of meals that demand to be eaten slowly, with wine, sun-warmed skin and nowhere else to be.

From here, I wind inland to Nardò and Palazzo Tafuri, an elegant boutique hotel that I stay at every time I’m in town—one that feels less like checking in and more like quietly joining an old-world secret. Davide greets me against the terracotta-and-powder-blue façade with a prosecco in hand. Inside: soaring ceilings, 17th-century frescoes, and a spa that feels stolen from the pages of a design magazine. Though there are just 16 suites—small enough that it still feels like your own—there are always interesting people milling at the bar or in the open-air seating area. Whenever you sit yourself on their luxurious couches in the reception area for a drink, passersby stick their heads in or look against the windows to peek inside. It’s the place to be… and to be seen. The little town of Nardo is akin to the set of a Fellini film. Locals and tourists swell and contract across the seasons, coming to visit the seaside as well as learn about the history of the area’s Byzantine era… but mostly, to revel in the authentic slower pace of a proper little Italian città.

I spend a day venturing further along the coast. In nearby Santa Caterina and Santa Maria al Bagno, I swim until my hair smells of salt and sunscreen, then wander the cliff walk that threads between the two like a private invitation. One afternoon, feeling adventurous, I kayak into the national park. The locals have a little spot in a particular alcove here where, I’m told, a 10-second dunk will shave ten years off your appearance. There’s clearly a little spring here that feeds icy cold water into the ocean, so the ten seconds feel a lot longer. I lower my body into the small cove and brace (and count). At the very last second, I dunk my face under… just in case it all works. But you’ll have to ask a local for directions when you pull your kayak into the cove—I was sworn to locational secrecy. We can’t all be looking that young!

At sunset on the little coastal spot of Santa Maria al Bagno, I claim a table upstairs on the rooftop at Matam, order a spritz, and watch the horizon turn molten gold while the fishing boats bob home. It’s fancy but unpretentious—my favourite kind of spot. For dinner, I’m treated to L’Art Nouveau, the kind of beautifully classic French-Italian fusion that practically hums with candlelight.

Back in Nardò, I walk the streets to Piazza Salandro and people-watch, my favorite past-time whenever I’m in town. Children on bicycles, old nonnas sipping prosecco and the older gentlemen who gather for their nightly words of wisdom with one another over on the benches that border the piazza. In this area, I make a habit of drinking aperitivos solo, buying ‘70s-style postcards for 20 cents apiece, and eating panini stuffed with stracciatella, mortadella, and pistachios—my kryptonite—for €7 at Rendezvous; a little hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a church-turned-artist’s showroom. Between bites, I flirt with the rental and sale signs posted on palazzos. How much for a little bolthole? Could I do it?

For something smaller and more affordable, I sometimes stay at Area 8 Rooms, a charming little rental tucked just off Nardò’s main square. Up a short, steep flight of stone steps, it opens to a sunlit terrace that overlooks the chapel’s chiming bells and terracotta rooftops. The interiors are pared back yet beautifully designed—think crisp white walls, linen curtains, and just enough rustic character to feel authentic. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel momentarily local: close enough to the piazza to hear the evening chatter, yet quietly your own.

For my final evening in Nardò, I perch in my favourite seat at the bar for a Negroni before dinner. The new chef’s menu begins with sea urchin and foie gras, both revelations. We joke about “just one ultimate glass of wine,” but the night—like most nights in Puglia—refuses to end neatly. Later, I snap a Polaroid from the balcony, and for once, the exposure is perfect. A tiny artifact of this little city I keep falling for.

Further south, I reach Palazzo Daniele in Gagliano del Capo, home of “the perfect” shower—a shower so good it’s practically famous. Behind a tall blue door, I’m greeted by a neon sign that reads “Questa casa non è un albergo”—this is a home, not a hotel—and I believe it instantly. This is a hotel I’ve wanted to visit for years, and the audible gasp I make walking in is indicative of all one needs to know of this haven.

Gabriele Salini, the creator of the hotel, leads me through the palazzo. He is engaging, familiar and with an authentic enthusiasm about the design that feels infectious. But only after a Café Salentino and homemade almond biscuit in the kitchen. You can smell it before you see it: bright produce piled high, fresh bread in the oven, laughter spilling out of the door. The palazzo is full of quiet wonders: an altar by my room devoted to the sea—shells, coral, sacred hearts—and an honesty bar called “Holy Spirits,” glowing crimson in the corner like a private joke. Oversized arches, perfectly undulating pavers and dripping green vines add an atmosphere to the Palazzo that feels grand but not overbearing. It feels intimate for such splendour.

In Room 10, I find shelves of books and perfectly crinkled linen. And then there’s the shower—water cascading from the ceiling like a private ceremony. Under its warm stream, I take my time. I dry slowly, massage oil into my skin, and catch my own gaze in the mirror like I’ve been let in on a secret. That night, I sip Negronis with Gabri and Sarah, the creative director, beneath the carrube trees, snacking on anchovies so good I have to close my eyes for a second.

Between naps, coffees and private yoga sessions, I make the most of having a set of wheels and take myself off on mini road-trips to Punta Prosciutto Beach, where the sand is pale and the water impossibly clear, then on to Grotta Verde, where the sea glows emerald inside the rock. This corner of Puglia feels like a postcard you can swim in. 

But Puglia is never just one kind of place. A couple of hours north again, in Polignano a Mare, I lunch at Il Quadrifoglio—a pizzeria so good it has ruined me for every other gluten-free pizza in Italy. Afterward, I walk down to Cala Monachile Beach, where the crowds and cliffs feel equally theatrical. If you’re not carrying a camera, you’ll wish you were. Don’t let instagram fool you—bring rock shoes or risk looking remarkably unphotogenic. 

After visiting the hive of activity of Polignano, I head towards Fasano to Borgo Egnazia; that white-stone dream near Savelletri that perhaps shouldn’t entice me so much because of its sheer grandeur, but somehow does. It’s one of those rare “created” places that feels seamless, where staff greet you by name and every little lane seems designed for getting lost. Designed and built from the ground up in more recent times than the much older masserias of the region, the team have done an excellent job of keeping in touch with the legend of the landscape here. One evening, a sunset turns the entire sky into pink and violet fire, and everyone—staff, guests, even the usually unimpressed children—just stop, mouths open. The bike ride activity offered through the olive groves, ending with cheese still warm from the farm, should be prescribed as medicine. There’s something about these old, old olive trees that remind me of bodies winding towards one another. Equipped with multiple swimming pools, its own beach club and golf course, wellness area and fitness classes, Borgo Egnazia has everything to help you relax or keep you busy, depending on what you’re looking for (or who you’re traveling with).

By contrast, Borgo Silentio is the antidote to having been on the move with a suitcase in tow. A scattering of trulli tucked deep into farmland, the kind of place that feels like it exists outside of time. Privately owned by a local family, this Borgo gives you the chance to live like a local, having the house and surrounds all to yourself. I spend a few days here barefoot, plucking warm cherry tomatoes straight off the vine in typical Puglian teal green and deep blue bowls, working at a sunlit table, and hanging laundry that dries in minutes. My husband had been watching my Instagram stories and decides he can’t let me have all the fun. He meets me here from Barcelona and one afternoon we do very little but swim, drink rosé, and write until the sun drops. Peace can be startling when it actually arrives. It’s also startling when you realize how easily one can drink a bottle of rosé in one sitting with Italian chips straight from the bag. We use the kitchen in the evenings and it’s heavenly to be cooking pasta with local ingredients. 

Finally, I retreat slightly more inland to Masseria Palombara, the stay with the most familiar feeling of being hosted at home. My room isn’t really a room—it’s an apartment I’d happily move into. Domed ceilings, soft sheets, the perfect Apulian whitewashed walls that bounce light. A private hammam, a deep-set bathtub, a plunge pool on the terrace. There’s even a desk settled outside on the terrace, sunlit and waiting, the kind of place you could write a memoir if armed with enough espresso and resolve. 

Days here pass in the most delicious repetition: long sleeps, deep swims, and kitchen cuisine that is as excessive as it is exquisite. The Puglians don’t want you to eat less so you can enjoy more later—they want you to eat more now and more later. Più, più, più.

I photograph the seemingly endless property, kiss Blu the resident dog more than should be allowed, and wander past flowering artichokes. In the garage, a rusting old Fiat makes me fantasize about becoming the kind of woman who could coax it back to life—rather than the one who has never changed a tire. My book stays closed; I’m too busy living the story outside. 

One afternoon, I surrender to the hammam and the hands of a masseuse who somehow finds every knot. She massages my jaw (turns out I’ve been clenching), works the tender spot beneath my “wing,” and smooths oil through my hair until I almost laugh with relief. At some point, I drift off to sleep on the table—a first for me—and wake only at the soft swoosh down my feet, her quiet benediction.

When I stumble out, Francesca (the hotel manager and my newfound amiga) meets me in the corridor, takes one look at my dazed smile, and says simply: “Don’t speak yet. I’ll ask you later.” And for once, I don’t.

Because in Puglia, there’s no need for words.

In my final stop before heading north for Firenze, I stop in Lecce, at La Fiermontina Collection. I stay in a room graced with works by Yoko Ono—an old family friend of the owners—and am lucky enough to experience a guided tour of the family’s art collection. With three properties across a small area of town, one is spoiled for choice as to what they are looking to experience in this beautiful haven of sandstone. Behind the large doors and old walls of this Lecce establishment, the palazzo is grand and stately. Oversized sculptures don the entranceways and grand staircases sweep up to the first floor where you find a beautifully palatial games and sitting room. It’s warm enough to make you feel like you’re at home, if you’re home were a Salentino dream from the pages of Architectural Digest. I don’t have long in Lecce, but there’s just enough time for a rooftop martini, a swim, and a sleep so deep it feels medicinal. 

Look, if I’m being honest…in the end, Puglia isn’t about where you stay or what you see—it’s about how it rearranges your pace, meal by meal, swim by swim. My best advice? Leave room for one more glass of wine, one more dip in the sea, and one more reason to come back. Because you will.