I'm slowly but definitely turning into a solid lump of mozzarella cheese. It's not a pretty sight, especially as I'm developing some kind of tan, as well. By the time we fly home tomorrow night, I'm going to look like . I promise.

The other foodstuff that is impossible to avoid here is the lemon. Everywhere you look, lemons. For someone who grew up in Dunstable, with a single tree in the back garden which dispensed meagre amounts of fairly inedible cherries every 3 years or so, seeing lemons hanging from branches is some kind of wonder of nature. Whole shops are dedicated to vending lemon products, from the highly alcoholic Limoncello to lemon chocolate and lemon perfume – but, strangely, a complete absence of washing up liquid. Last night we sat in a restaurant which is located within a lemon grove, with the ceiling being formed of a lush blanket of lemon tree foliage, and with lemons hanging down scant centimetres from your head. Everywhere you look, lemons. By the end of the night we were desperate for a lemon souvenir; Michael, the Irish journalist on this trip, proceeded to attempt to pick one while I, ever the nervous goody-two-shoes, anxiously looked around for approaching waiters who would no doubt be furious that we, after scoring a free meal with dessert and coffee, were now attempting to steal the ceiling. Michael remained calm. “For god's sake, Rhodri. They're not going to be doing a bloody stock check, now, are they.” This would be a post lower than the guy doing the washing up. “OK Antonio, go out and count the lemons.” “Uh… do I have to?”

Our guide, Romana, who generally appears for the morning and then disappears for the rest of the day, had arranged for us to visit a bar in which her brother worked, and booked a table for 4. We were tired, but felt bound to honour the arrangement, despite the presence of a light jazz ensemble:

So, we sat down and were greeted by Romana's brother, a cheery guy in his late 30s. We were asked what we wanted to drink, and ordered a Sambuca, a Limoncello and 2 Grappas. 4 drinks. Small drinks. 25 minutes later, bludgeoned into submission by lilting major 7th chords and softly enunciated Italian scat singing, we asked for the bill. It came. €60. Sixty Euros. That works out at about 10 quid a drink. Eyebrows were raised, but wallets were produced – after all, we'd been “invited” there – but we all felt like gullible teens who have been fleeced 100 quid for a Diet Coke in some seedy Soho bar. Luckily we were spared the ignimony of being marched to a cashpoint, but I have a feeling there's some kickbacks going on here. We're going to have to mug Romana in an alleyway later on, to make sure that good triumphs over evil.