Mrs Shout's brown eyes are firmly locked with mine.

Our faces nearly touch, as if we are lovers. Or at the very least, close friends.

But we are not. We only met a few minutes ago. And now she is shouting at me in Italian. Not angrily, of course, but the way people do to a persistently stupid person. Maybe that is what she thinks I am.

"Why can't she understand me?" I can almost make out her thoughts above the din, as she earnestly searches my face for a glimmer of comprehension, but finds none. "I'd better repeat myself," I can see her thinking, "LOUDER!"

And she does.

We arrive at this Calabrian B&B more by luck than anything else. Actually it's down to a grainy black and white printout of a website photograph and Gordon's keen eye. Unlike many other places we have had to locate at the end of a long day of sight-seeing, for this we have been given good written directions, albeit in Italian, and have followed them slavishly. We know we are in the vicinity. I am looking out for a sign with the name: Villa B, when Gordon says, "That's it! That's the well." He points to a round structure inside the gates.

It certainly looks similar - the terracotta tiled roof, the potplants - but I'm dubious. Where is the welcoming sign? The badges of accreditation? It looks like a private home.

We hesitate and then, of course, our hosts rush out, Giuseppe importantly opening the gates, showing us where to park, and Signora Grido bellowing a greeting. They are so excited we are here and I gather this business of letting out the spare room is a new venture for them, for they flutter around us as though we are a rare species.

I understand the offer ‘caffè?' and when we nod in thanks, almost immediately two strong pre-sugared espressos arrive. Judging by our highly-wired hostess's energy she must exist on these, I reckon.

As we sip, I roll out my few stock Italian phrases, which just aren't enough. We have planned this trip knowing we have just a little Italian hoping, possibly foolishly, that it will be enough.

Gordon stays mute - he has elected to cop out entirely leaving them to believe I am the spokesperson. Wish I had thought of that! Somehow the signora believes I am keeping up with her and I try to carry on the deception. I nod sagely, understanding about one word in 50 (which Gordon later estimates as about one word a second) , inserting a sincere ‘Sì, sì,' where possible, and it actually works for a while. But inevitably I am caught out.

Excerpt from:

JUST A LITTLE ITALIAN

Paperback | 2006 | New Holland Publishers (Australia) |
ITALY - Description and Travel | ISBN 1 74110 395 9 | $24.95

"There is a real energy to the Mezzogiorno - the south of Italy. The people are as warm as the sunshine and the cuisine is sublime."

Sally Hammond and her husband Gordon were determined to explore the south of Italy, despite warnings that is was dangerous and there was nothing to look at.

But in amongst the palms and pergolas, the generosity, spirit and hospitality of the southerners seduces them as they explore the heel and boot of Italy. They discover a treasure trove of sights, characters and fantastic food.

Just a Little Italian has tales of mouth-watering meals and recipes from sunny courtyards, crazy mountain passes and sublime wines. This is the perfect book for people who want to explore the south of Italy.

For more information on Sally's other titles, please visit her website.