I Went Back to Puglia After 25 Years — And Found the Dream Was Real

There’s a dream I’ve had for twenty years.

Not just any dream — one of those vivid ones that sticks with you. A dusty Italian plain. A banged-up car. A red-haired friend. And then, suddenly: palms… golden sand… boats drifting in turquoise water… a man on a jetty with crates of shrimp.

For years, I’ve woken up asking myself, “Was that real? Did it ever actually happen?”

Turns out, it did.

I just had to go back to Puglia to find it again.

The Italy That Lived in My Mind

Half a lifetime ago, I lived in southern Italy. Back when Puglia wasn’t a hashtag, trulli were crumbling farm buildings, and you could rent a flat above a bakery for the cost of a London coffee tab.

Weekends were for aimless wandering in a rusty Lancia, hunting for food with names I couldn’t pronounce, and beaches I could never quite find again. It was raw, sunbaked, and dirt cheap. But it was magic.

Twenty-five years later, I returned. This time with a wife, a son, and a silent hope that the Puglia in my head hadn’t been paved over.

A Place That Grew Without Losing Its Soul

Here’s the thing: yes, it’s changed.

The trulli? They’ve been reborn as boutique villas, complete with air-conditioning and infinity pools. The dirt roads now point to Instagram-famous towns with open-air restaurants and curated gelato spots.

But it hasn’t lost that feeling.

That quiet thrill of discovering something… simple, beautiful, unpolished. The charm is still there — just dressed up a bit.

On our first night, we headed to Polignano a Mare. Teenagers dove off cliffs into the Adriatic. Locals strolled arm in arm. We found a pizza joint called Il Quadrifoglio, where the dough puffed like clouds and mozzarella came in oversized pearls.

My son took one bite and said, “This isn’t like Domino’s.”
I smiled.
Now you get it, kid.

Where Time Slows Down — and Meals Matter

We wandered through Ostuni, perched like a dream on a hill above the olive groves. Ate deep-fried panzerotti stuffed with turnip tops and sausage for less than five quid. Cooled off in Ostuni a Mare, even if the water was “more wavy and not as blue” as promised.

In the villa’s outdoor kitchen, a local chef named Lucrezia taught us how to make orecchiette by hand. We rolled dough, fried sun-dried tomato fritters, and sipped rosé while the sauce simmered in the background.

She talked. We listened.
It wasn’t just a meal. It was therapy.

Hidden Beaches, Loud Families, and the Joy of Chaos

If you want stillness, don’t go to an Italian beach.

Go for the opposite: life, loud and unfiltered. Families bring everything but the fridge. Arguments, laughter, entire picnics, full-on soap operas unfold right next to your towel. You’ll need to translate — or just make it up, like I did for my wife.

In Porto Cesareo, a sleepy fishing village with bath-warm waters, we let the fish nibble our toes and watched old men unload mussels the size of your palm. “Mamma, che cozze!” read one sign. No translation needed.

But it still wasn’t the beach.

And Then… We Found It

We drove down, past Matera — the breathtaking cliffside city that went from forgotten backwater to UNESCO wonder and James Bond backdrop.

And then, south of Taranto, a little sign caught our eye: Lido Gandoli.

Down a concrete path, past a boatyard, palms swaying in the sun.

And there it was.

The cove.
The boats.
The crystal water.
The dream.

“This is it,” I told my son.
And this time, I knew I was awake.

What Does This Mean for You?

Maybe you’ve never been to Puglia. Maybe you’ve only seen it in reels or read about it in glossy travel guides.

But I’ll say this: it’s not just hype. And it’s not just for the ultra-wealthy or the over-touristed.

There’s still a version of Puglia where time slows down. Where the food is real. The towns are alive. The prices haven’t gone mad.

And if you look hard enough…
You might even find your dream.

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And if you've ever had that place in your memory… maybe it’s time to go back.