We’re sitting on picnic benches cluttered with carafes, stomachs full of cheese and chicory, cheers-ing with strangers and singing along with two senior gents on guitar: in other words, it’s Tuesday night in the Castelli Romani. Specifically we’re in Frascati, one of the largest of the ‘Roman Castles’, the scattering of towns in the Alban Hills south of the capital where for centuries those who could afford it would retreat to escape the malarial heat of Rome.

The area is studded with their summer villas, many still in private hands and barely glimpsable through locked gates and down long, tree-lined drives. But there’s a more accessible side to the Castelli. The same volcanic hills that made them an ideal summer retreat also made them perfect for growing wine, and Frascati’s light, crisp white of the same name is one of the area’s biggest exports (one of the town’s other specialities is a biscuit in the shape of a woman with three breasts; the third is supposedly for wine).