'I'll have the rabbit.' 'And the vegetables?' 'They'll have the same as me.'

Oh dear! I promised you all a blog a week and I’ve let you down. Still no one’s perfect although I’m a lot nearer than most. What shall we talk about today? My recent side trip to picturesque Piemonte? How to play golf on a modest mountain? The guilty pleasure of sneaking over the border to sample some French cuisine? No. Today’s menu features the local Italian restaurant scene.

This may prove a little difficult as I’m trying desperately to avoid identifying the village in which we reside. (I’ve already been outed by one reader who made it clear that he knows where I live but chose not to reveal the name. Thank you kind sir, you’ll get your reward in heaven.) Fortunately we are prepared to journey several kilometres to sample the various delights of Ligurian food and wine. Our culinary stops have taken in Dolceaqua, San Remo, Bordighera, Perinaldo, Isolabona, Ventimiglia and more. I should point at this stage in the proceedings that my wife and I take the drink and drive issue very seriously. My wife does all the driving and I do most of the drinking. I did take a driving test once, but as I felt it was much safer to risk hitting a stationary vehicle on my left rather than a moving one on my right, I was failed for spending too much time on the pavement.

We eat well in Liguria and generally experience excellent service and value. I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he tell us about that time at the seafront in Bordighera? OK if you insist. We just wanted a snack at lunchtime. We popped into one of the many establishments lining the promenade. Eventually convincing mine hostess in the (suspiciously empty) restaurant that we didn’t require the full a la carte, we were persuaded to try a little fish. It was very pleasant. The restaurant not only lined the promenade but the bill surely lined the pockets of the hostess for many weeks to come. As we left I’m sure I overheard her ordering a new car as she’d ‘very recently come into a little money’.

One of our favourite dining places is hidden down an ancient alleyway in ..oh what a shame I don’t seem to be able to recall the name. Only open three or four days a week the place is always full and I love the fact that we have only one decision to make - red or white. The food is simple, plainly presented, beautifully cooked and takes in seven courses. The enigmatic, willowy waitress and co-owner then presents a bill so small I almost cry in gratitude and have to force myself not to leave a large gratuity.

I’m now going to throw caution to the winds - look there it goes - and actually name a favourite place and its location. There is a wine bar in Soldano that goes by the name of Sacro e Profano. We stumbled across it one day and have been back several times since. Housed in an ancient building with bare brick walls and ceiling, it is presided over by a shy or possibly taciturn wine lover. We order rich reds like Barbera d’Asti , (prosecco for the ladies), and it is served with wonderful plates of free snacks - cold meats, cheeses, foccaccio (wash your mouth out, Timothy!) The second round of drinks brings more delicious delicacies and we eventually stagger out into the night, wondering whether we really require dinner after all.

One thing that surprises us is the infrequency of finding genuine Ligurian cuisine on the menu. The guide books tell us to savour the many dishes enhanced with pesto, with mushrooms and with truffles or to seek out specific local fish and beef favourites. Where? I ask. No reply, I hear. I exaggerate to make a point. Don’t get me wrong , I love the ubiquitous pizza. Forty years at the shrine of Pizza Express where my record of three and a half pizzas and three bottles of Valpolicella still stands, (shared with a mate you understand) makes me something of a fan. And I am getting a taste for coniglio, partially because our local ‘posh’ restaurant always seemed to serve it as the special of the day. I say seemed rather than seems because, sadly, the German owners have now departed amidst lurid tales of infidelity and toy boys.

On such an intriguing note and recognising that I have barely dipped my ciabatta in the olive oil of our wining and dining experiences, I bid you a fond farewell until the next missive. We’re off to Liguria via Marseille. What’s the French for bouillibaisse?