It was September, the perfect month to visit a less-crowded Italy, and the less-traveled province of Puglia. Formerly known as Apulia, Puglia (POO-lya) forms the heel of Italy's boot and extends north along the Adriatic. After you have visited major cities with their artistic sites, cathedrals and major cultural, archaeological and architectural centers, picturesque Puglia offers pleasant surprises, especially warm and friendly people, small less-touristy towns, and some of the best food Italians put on the table.

For me, Puglia was a place to escape the sprawling cities in my Smart car, which I picked up at the small Palese-Bari Airport. I headed immediately toward Castellana-Grotte, a small town surrounded by olive groves, vineyards with bunches of grapes awaiting harvest, fig trees and almond orchards.

But my real destination was even smaller than Castellana-Grotte. Once I passed through the town, I headed to the countryside for a three-day respite at an agriturismo called Serragambetta. As you suspect, the Italian word agriturismo is a combination of the words for agriculture and tourism. The concept of an agriturismo was instituted in Italy in 1985. It is becoming popular there, as it has in Europe in general, and its focus is rural lodging on farms or in vineyards or orchards, with meals composed of typical local foods prepared with products from the farm and the local region. Some offer opportunities to work on the farm. Some are rustic. Some are luxurious. For me, rustic and a little farm work was the plan.

I selected Serragambetta for other reasons as well: I am an organic farmer on Maui (Noho'ana Farm) growing taro, native Hawaiian bananas, citrus, breadfruit and a wide variety of vegetables and herbs. As with an agriturismo, we use our products to prepare our own meals. And I wanted to compare our farm to one in Italy. Certainly not my last or least reason is that my mother's parents emigrated from Puglia to America in the late 19th century, and my Italian ancestors from Troia and Roseto Valfortore in Puglia date back 12 generations, to 1682. For me, it was a way of going "home."

I arrived at Serragambetta in the early afternoon and was greeted by "Aunt Nina," whom I was to learn everyone loves instantly. I know I did. "Call me Zia (Aunt) Nina," she said. Already, I felt at home. It was like Maui, where everyone is either an auntie or uncle, even though no blood relationship exists.

Zia Nina motioned to me to follow her around the side of a two-story, washed-rose-colored building. Originally a villa, built in 1880 by the Lanera family, it now houses guests. Zia Nina's son, Domenico Lanera, heads up the farm and agriturismo. I would meet him later at dinner.

Zia Nina led me up the stairs to the second floor when I was surprised by the large bedroom, with windows overlooking the open countryside of olive and almond groves. The room was simply and uniquely decorated and furnished — a dresser, large wardrobe, two desks and two chairs, bookcase and best of all, a double bed with a hard mattress covered with tightly fitted, gleaming white sheets that seem to have been starched and ironed.

In one corner was a sink and shower-toilet combination, not uncommon in Italian countryside homes. (They'll explain its use to you, and it's much more sanitary than it sounds.)

I go to Italy for the food, and, happily, the food at Serragambetta is organically grown; each day, fresh vegetables and fruits are harvested for the table. When my three days at Serragambetta ended, I left realizing that everything was well worth the extra charge for dinner (breakfast is included in the base charge).

Dinner was always at 8 p.m. If you have not been to Italy, prepare yourself for late dinners and enough food to cause a heart attack if you should decide to go to sleep soon afterward. A long passeggiata (leisurely walk) is a better choice before retiring. I balanced my heavier evening meals with light breakfasts and a dish of pasta or slice or two of pizza for lunches.

The nightly meal was prepared by Angela, whose gentle smile and generous portions went hand in hand. We sat at a wooden table, lingering for two and sometimes almost three hours as Angela whisked to and from the kitchen with large bowls and platters of pasta, soups, meats, vegetables, large loaves of freshly baked bread and focaccia, plus bottles of water, red wine, desserts, liqueurs, and espresso. One of the best desserts was a simple almond cookie, which we dipped in wine.

Fruit, herbs and vegetables came from a garden nearby, where they grow myriad things. Daily, Angela would harvest baskets and handfuls of tomatoes, basil, fennel, parsley, onions, eggplant, arugula, dandelions, squash and more. One afternoon, I watched her churn extra-virgin olive oil, fresh garlic, basil, pine nuts and grated cheese into a pesto for one of the evening's many courses. Guests are always welcome in the kitchen.

Another wonderful part of the evening dinners at Serragambetta was meeting and chatting with other guests. Summertime brings more guests who sit in a larger room across from the patio. I liked eating with just a small group and next to the kitchen, however. Guests included Italians, Germans, French, Dutch, Swiss and Iranians. The melody of many languages was an unusual experience, some guests speaking three or even four different languages. My Italian, still not fluent, helped me communicate fairly well, but not well enough. Many Europeans also have a good command of English, fortunate for monolingual Americans.

Introductions and the typically common questions about our origins, travels or family began first, but at each breakfast and dinner thereafter, deeper conversations and friendships developed, often with the exchanging of addresses and invitations to visit each other. When guests would leave, we'd be snapping digital photos of each other, adding to the camaraderie. We all hoped to meet again someday.

The owner of Serragambetta, ponytailed Domenico Lanera, joined us for dinner each evening. He enjoys each guest, asking questions and exchanging stories with gusto and laughter, often switching from one language to another. He made everyone feel comfortable and gave us all a sense of belonging to a family. His manner was consistently friendly.

Domenico also baked the pizza, bread (pane Pugliese), and focaccia for our dinners, using a large outdoor oven. After lighting the fire with grapevine cuttings, he banked the coals and then slid the shaped dough inside with a wooden paddle — shining white loaves of soon-to-be crusty bread, pizza and focaccia.

"You have to know the right temperature and the right time for each," he explained, as he tested the oven floor with a piece of newspaper. I could tell that Domenico used more than this scientific method. I think it was a combination of the appearance of the coals, the heat that emanated from them, and his wealth of experience baking in an outdoor oven that worked best for him.

"You can't bake pizza or focaccia (along) with dough for bread," he said. "It's too hot. Later, they will go in." He smiled as he spoke. I could tell that he took pride in his baking, and that he relished explaining the process. I think he also thrived on seeing his guests enjoying the fruit of his efforts during evening meals.

One of the highlights at Serragambetta was joining longtime farm manager Angelo and Karel, a 25-year-old from Holland, in working around the farm. Angelo does a variety of jobs, from tilling to harvesting to maintaining and repairing farm tools and machines, including the tractor. Karel works on organic farms in Italy in exchange for lodging and meals. He also, of course, gets to meet people from around the world, expand his language skills, and gain firsthand experience about farming, such as irrigation, planting, and harvesting the farm's grapes, cherries, figs, almonds and olives.

It was harvesting time at Serragambetta on the second day after my arrival. Early in the morning, we packed large rolled tarps, large fiber bags and 20- to 25-foot-long wooden poles, one each for Angelo, Karel and me.

"Today we're going to beat the almond trees," Karel explained to me, the corners of his lips upturned; he knew the concept of "beating" trees often mystifies guests. But I caught on right away.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," I replied, wanting to get started. "But then, Karel, won't we be damaging the trees?," I asked, concerned about the process.

"Don't worry," Karel replied, holding back a large belly laugh to get in his next line. "The Italians have been harvesting almonds this way for centuries. The trees are used to receiving a beating every year. I even think they look forward to it!" We both laughed. Angelo, who spoke almost no English, looked at us quizzically, yet I think he knew well what we were laughing about.

Next, we headed to the area of the farm where the almond trees were awaiting they annual autumnal pummeling. Angelo, Karel and I spread two or three tarps beneath each tree to be harvested. Then the beating began. We whacked the branches with our long wooden poles, loosening the almonds from their hold. The nuts, in their shells, rained down onto the tarps, where we gathered them and loaded them into large bags. Angleo always surveyed each tree before moving to the next, ensuring that no almonds were left. Once we completed harvesting one tree, we moved to the next one, working until 1:30 in the afternoon. We filled four large bags, each weighing up to 100 pounds.

Between beating and gathering, Angelo provided treats. Cracking almond shells with a stone, he gave me one after another, taking one or two for himself and for Karel. I could tell he relished the fruit of his labor. He also gathered figs and red cactus fruit for us. He told Karel, who translated for me, "We don't go hungry when we work."

We returned to Serragambetta, sweaty and with browned shirts and boots from the almonds and the dusty earth in the groves. Domenico knew we would be famished, so he had prepared a hearty lunch — more like a dinner — of pasta, meatballs, focaccia, bread, fresh melon and grapes and bottles of water, beer and wine to quench our thirst.

The final day at Serragambetta came too soon. I left with Domenico's bottles of extra-virgin organic olive oil and homemade almond liqueur. But most of all, I left with a good feeling, for I had met new friends, enjoyed a new farm experience and relished the notion that I had eaten better than I had in Rome or Venice a few years before. I also wasn't unhappy about leaving, because I knew that someday I would return to Serragambetta.

As Robert Frost so aptly put it in "The Road Not Taken": "I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference."

Maui-based writer Victor C. Pellegrino is a Maui Community College professor emeritus and author of nine books (www.booksmaui.com). He and his wife, Wallette (Garcia), own Noho'ana Farm in Waikapu. He loves to cook, and is writing a book about the restoration of the family taro farm.