Off The Beaten Track Italy

There are cities that welcome you, cities that impress you, and then there is Matera, which looks you straight in the soul and says, sit down, have a glass of wine, and try not to faint at how beautiful I am. My journey began, as all good Italian adventures do, with a slightly chaotic arrival, a suitcase that refused to glide on cobblestones, and the faint but immediate suspicion that I had stepped into a film set. Matera does that. It tricks you into thinking you are important enough to have a cinematic moment.

I arrived in the early evening, checked in at my accommodation, and headed to dinner. The air already had that delicious Matera scent, a blend of stone, history, and the quiet confidence of a city that has been around since the Paleolithic era and knows it. Dinner at La Lopa did nothing to calm me. I was already in love. Then we walked the Sassi by night, and that sealed the deal. The stone houses glowed in soft gold, the alleys curled around the cliffs like whispered secrets, and I realised this was not a city. This was a mood.

The next morning, after breakfast, we set off on a guided tour through the Sassi. If you have never walked through Matera’s cave dwellings, imagine a city that grew vertically rather than horizontally, carved step by step into the rock like a love letter from humanity to geology. Every corner produced a gasp. Every alley produced a photo. I quickly discovered that Matera demands two things from its visitors: curiosity and good shoes.

By midday we moved on to Grottole, a village that seems to exist in its own time zone, one where life moves at the pace of a gentle sigh. We had lunch at a trattoria where the pasta tasted so homemade it practically argued with you. Then we visited the Ceramics Museum, where artisans shaped clay with the sort of ease that made me suspect magic. The “Chiesa Diruta,” an unfinished church open to the sky, looked like a collaboration between medieval builders and an overly poetic breeze. Nearby, the Sichinulfo Castle reminded me that Basilicata’s speciality is scenery so dramatic that you begin to narrate your own life in the third person.

But nothing prepared me for Castelmezzano. Arriving in the late afternoon, the village appeared wedged into the Lucanian Dolomites like a shy gem. The houses clung to the cliffs as if holding hands, and the entire scene felt like a nativity set designed by someone with a flair for theatrics. We wandered the narrow alleys and looked out over a valley that seemed to be posing for a Renaissance painter. Dinner at Al Becco della Civetta was warm, hearty, and cheerfully carb-heavy, which is how all dinners should be when mountains are involved.

The following morning began with breakfast and the kind of adrenaline-filled idea that sounds completely reasonable when said in Italy: let us fly like angels. The Volo dell’Angelo, a zipline between two mountaintop villages, made me question every life choice and then celebrate all of them. One moment I was standing on a platform, thinking, I should have written a will. The next, I was gliding over the valley, screaming with joy, and deciding that flying should be worked into my weekly schedule. Afterwards we tried the Slittovia, a mountain sled ride that made me laugh so loudly I startled a goat. Italy will do that to you.

After my near angelic transformation, we travelled to Muro Lucano. If Matera is a film set, Muro Lucano is a dramatic painting, all stone houses and impossible heights. We had lunch at Il Casereccio, a place that proved yet again that Basilicata refuses to serve a mediocre meal. A tour of the historic centre followed, winding through alleys where time slows down and stories cling to the walls. At the Murolat dairy, I learned more about cheese than I ever expected to know in a lifetime. I left feeling both educated and slightly hungry again.

We ended in Potenza, the region’s lively capital. After dinner at Al Duomo and an evening stroll, I found myself reflecting on the journey. Matera had been the spark, the first whisper of wonder, but the entire region unfolded like a beautifully paced novel. Clay workshops, hilltop villages, flying angels, ancient stones, comforting meals, and the constant warmth of people who truly love where they live.

That is the thing about Basilicata. It is not interested in impressing you quickly. It charms you slowly, confidently, like a storyteller who knows the ending is worth the wait.

As I packed my bags in Potenza, ready to leave for Naples, I promised myself I would return. Italy has taught me many lessons, but Basilicata taught me this: beauty is not always loud. Sometimes it is carved in stone, hidden in a village doorway, or gliding above a valley at 120 kilometres per hour.

And somehow, it always stays with you.