Everything fits into two nights and carry-on luggage. The logistics are straightforward so that nothing gets in the way of the actual point of the trip.

The morning belongs to the spa. There is a massage already booked, which is the correct way to spend the hours before a significant dinner. A light lunch follows at La Loggia — the kind of meal you choose with one eye on what's coming later.

Then, if the afternoon calls for movement: Sant'Agata de' Goti, twenty minutes east. A medieval town built along the spine of a tufa ridge so that from the valley bridge, the houses appear to grow straight from the cliff face — a sight that stops you mid-sentence. Beneath one of those houses, sixteen metres down into the rock, are the Mustilli cellars: the family that quietly rescued Falanghina from near-extinction in the 1970s, now run by two sisters who know more about the grape than almost anyone alive.

Franco Pepe works out of a restored palazzo in a half-empty hill village an hour from anywhere recognisable on a tourist map, and people fly in from other continents for it. There is no mixer, no conveyor, no industrial efficiency of any kind. The dough is made by hand, every day, from grain grown within sight of the building, in a village of a few thousand people who seem entirely unbothered by the fact that this is one of the most talked-about tables in Italy.

The pizza is the product of forty years of obsessive refinement — the crust light and blistered in the right places, the toppings chosen the way a painter chooses colours. It is the kind of meal that recalibrates your expectations of a category you thought you already understood.