Unfamiliar Kitchens

Eating out is one of the great joys of travel. I love food and I love trying as broad a range of things as possible, while away - ideally local and ideally seasonal. We spend a lot of time planning what and where to eat on our trips to make sure we experience the best and most authentic food a place has to offer.

Sometimes, though, it is nice to make use of the kitchen where you are staying and have a night in. A visit to the local market is always a must. It is one of the quickest ways to understand a place, its rhythms, its people, its priorities.

Then comes the kitchen itself.

A country kitchen at an Air BnB near Ragusa, Sicily.

Unfamiliar kitchens come with inevitable compromises. The blunt knife. The awful plastic chopping board, or worse, a glass one (which explains the blunt knife). An induction hob paired with a collection of pans that do not work on induction. Leftover salt and olive oil from previous guests. And, lurking at the back of the cupboard, the true heathen: balsamic glaze.

Cooking at home is an intuitive dance. Fridge to chopping board, to bin, to stove, back to the chopping board, then oven, sink, fridge again. A solid nine on Strictly. In an unfamiliar kitchen, this becomes the uncoordinated movement of a drunk uncle at a wedding. Where are the pans? Where did I put the garlic? Is this really the only knife they own?

Impatiently attempting to cook Swordfish an old outdoor grill

The fumbling intensifies if you decide to cook outside, or attempt to use an ancient wood oven. Spoilt by modern conveniences but instinctively drawn, like most men, to the primal appeal of cooking over open flames, you cannot resist. Hours are spent coaxing heat from wood and embers, trying to judge timings so that dinner does not quietly drift into midnight.

Serving presents its own challenges. No kitchen tongs. No proper serving spoon. Plates in questionable colour pallettes. Wine poured into a glass clearly designed for fizzy pop. It all pulls you out of your comfort zone, and somehow that is part of the appeal.

Once the frustration fades, you realise none of it really matters. A first-world problem, as they say. But it is a small and welcome reminder that travel is not all glamour and carefully curated feeds. Sometimes it is blunt knives, bad pans, and wine in the wrong glass. And somehow, that makes the experience richer, not poorer.

From an unfamiliar kitchen - nice ceramics and even some wine glasses, but a challenging cooking set-up

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The Pink of Passeggiare

If you’ve been wondering about the splash of pink across Passeggiare, here’s the story.

The inspiration comes straight from Italy’s most iconic newspaper: La Gazzetta dello Sport. I didn’t want this to look like just another blog — the choice of pink was deliberate, a nod to something uniquely, unmistakably Italian.

My first memories of La Gazzetta go back to childhood, catching Football Italia on Channel 4. For many of us of a certain age in the UK, it was a cult show — Saturday mornings meant James Richardson in some sunlit piazza, tiny espresso at his side, holding up the latest Gazzetta to the camera. He’d translate the bold headline, sprinkle in some humour, and suddenly Italian football felt exotic, witty, and a little bit glamorous.

It was also my first memory of watching football outside of the UK — a window onto a different style, a different culture. In fact, Football Italia was probably my first real introduction to Italy (unless spag bol counts!). That early spark grew into an obsession in adulthood, and one of the gateways to why I’m even writing Passeggiare today. It helped form a curiosity that isn’t just about places, but about the finer details of life that reveal something deeper (such as knowing which tifosi and curve make up the boot).

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James Richardson, doing his thing

Since then, whenever I’ve gone to Italy on holiday, it’s become a ritual: pick up a copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport, find a good piazza, and strike a James Richardson–style pose. A silly little tradition, maybe, but one that makes me smile every time. These days, after years of Italian lessons, I can actually read chunks of the paper — though I’ll admit, it’s still more prop than page-turner.

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One of many photos of your author reliving the Football Italia dream

So yes, the pink of Passeggiare isn’t random. It’s a small tribute to those early memories, and to the quirks that drew me toward Italy and made me realise there’s a bigger, more colourful, more interesting world beyond these shores. And if it also gives me an excuse to keep striking the odd James Richardson–style piazza pose, well… I’ll happily take it.

Point & Shoot

As a child, family holidays were punctuated with a questioning of why my mum was taking a long time trying to take a photograph of a Greek Orthodox priest walking down some stairs, or waiting for the right moment, with no people in frame, to photograph a sweeping white sandy beach. 

But, as I got older, I began to appreciate the art of photography and the process of being creative. Good quality camera phones came along during my early 20s, along with Instagram and it suddenly became a social necessity to take a photo of your dinner, or that visit to the pub, just to fit in amongst your peers. Around this time, I bought myself an entry-level Canon DSLR camera, to try and capture more ‘professional’ looking shots, but never really fully got into it, thanks to the convenience of having an iPhone. The bulky, heavy DSLR that prevented those moments of instant gratitude wasn’t usually an attractive proposition and so, I ultimately ended up selling it.

I hit 30, just a few weeks after lockdown and the unusual 12-18 months which followed for all, provided a time to reflect and see the world differently, despite all the negative downsides of having to exist this way. 

During this period of time, I saw many others shifting to film photography and in particular, cheap point-and-shoot cameras became popular and cool. 

Once lockdown was over, I asked my mum if she had any old cameras I could use, as I was keen to try out this relatively spartan way of photographing and being a fan of the inconsistent and retro aesthetic that it could produce.

I took a Ricoh camera that my mum had given me to my first post-lockdown holiday abroad with my now wife, in Puglia, Italy. The results were mixed, but the thrill was and is, a constant. 

My first foray using a point-and-shoot. Bari Vecchia, September 2021

Firstly and most obviously, being handicapped by not knowing what the photograph would turn out like for days/weeks to come, provided a fresh contrast from digital. Furthermore, working with a point and shoot meant I could only influence the outcome of the photo by my eye; for how it should be composed, understanding of light and how these all interacted with whichever film I chose to use in the camera. 

All three are things I am still trying to understand and master. Personally, this is where the pleasure lies with using a point-and-shoot. It’s not really something that you can ever master, given its limitations, but it’s these limitations which add character, life and a uniqueness that would be hard to find with a more elaborate film camera, or a with digital. 

I enjoy the battle, often accompanied by much frustrations of trying to make a picture work with a point-and-shoot. But the thrill of receiving scans back is unrivalled, especially when there’s something which has turned out even better than expected.

I Raggazi, living ‘la dolce vita’, Ceglie Messapica, Puglia, Sept 2023

It is sadly a hobby with a certain degree of privilege now, thanks to the costs involved, but it’s one which I wish to continue with, alongside those quick shots taken on an iPhone in day-to-day life and alongside the new mirrorless Canon camera we recently purchased. There’s a place and a time for each and they all have their benefits. 

I have in recent years upgraded my point and shoot from the ones my mum gave me (I still posses them), purchasing a Leica Minizoom. Perhaps the boujeist point-and-shoot you could find, but by no means without its faults. 

The process is a reminder of the simple pleasures, of patience and that moments in life don’t have to be perfect to be thoroughly enjoyable and appreciated.

Children playing in a fountain in Warsaw, on a hot July afternoon. 2023

A Welcome

“Passeggiare”. A perfect analogy, for why I’ve decided to do this blog.

The Italian verb “to walk”, but with no real purpose. A meander, if you will and a perfect summary for what this blog is. A need for exercising. In this case; creativity, expression and an offloading of the internal thoughts. Mainly of places visited and food eaten. But, following the intent of a passeggiata (noun), there’s no ultimate end goal, other than to enjoy the process and take each instance at face value. 

Whilst it’s an Italian word and whilst anyone who knows me will know that I am bordering on obsessed with Italy, it won’t be an Italian blog.

Nor is the intent of this blog to be a travel, or a food guide. Other things shall be written of (football, music and being in the outdoors). Other people and places do a far more concise job than I’d manage. I hope to share my thoughts, views and ideas on a broad spectrum of topics that I know and live. 

It’s a place of open and honest thoughts. Of expression. And sticking to the theme of honesty, an outlet for personal creativity, which may just be an oblique way of saying it’s a personal folly. However, even if a handful of people enjoy it from time-to-time, it shall be worth it.

For now, goodbye!

The omnipresent ‘passeggiata’ of Italian towns, in motion.