It was one of those classic spring days in Cilento. The weather was erratic, with half an hour of scorching sunshine followed by torrential rain. The clouds had gathered on top of the ridge of hills, before creeping down into the expanse of farmland and rolling swiftly across the patchwork of green fields towards the sea.
“Degustazione prodotti tipici, pizza con mozzarella di bufala,” the faded and somewhat overgrown sign on the roadside informed us. “Mozzarella di Bufala Campana,” read another. “Benvenuti a Paestum,” was written on a third.
