Azienda Agricola Mandranova

There’s an Italian restaurant near my house that comes with its own ‘Shakey Hand Man’. Few things better symbolise Italian hospitality; his sole job, it seems, is to greet visitors with a warm handshake and a beaming grin. It makes you feel happy. Likewise, as we roll up the drive of Azienda Agricola Mandranova, our hotel in Sicily, a gentleman approaches us with a beckoning grip and the kind of magnanimous smile that provokes almost instant soppiness. We discover he is Giuseppe and I get a sudden urge to ask him to be my uncle.

If I had a pound for every hotel I’ve Googled upon with a guffy line exclaiming ‘home away from home!’, I wouldn’t be a journalist any more. But this Italian retreat nails it. It’s the smiling Giuseppe upon arrival that sets the tone, letting guests know that they matter. Although there are a handful of other cars in the drive, variously hired at Catania or Palermo airports, we can’t see anyone else.

One of the perks of the Mandranova’s semi-isolated location on Sicily’s southern coast is the obligatory adventure en route. Italian motorways are some of the best in the business. While other roads dip and dive tracing the undulation of the land, here they follow a remarkably level course. At various points you find yourself careering into mid-air supported by gargantuan pillars as the parched Sicilian countryside sprawls beneath you. Moments later you are ploughing through mountains, emerging on the verge of dramatic escarpments coated with terraced vineyards. We get rather carried away. The basic directions instruct us to turn left somewhere near the southern coast. Mesmerised, we opt for an hour-long, three-point turn around southwestern Sicily.

And when we arrive… that smile. Giuseppe takes us on a brief tour of this magnificent farmhouse property. Blanketing the hefty acreage are thousands of the olive trees that yield Mandranova’s prize-winning oil. Whereas other corners of this island can seem scorched and lava-scarred, here there is an almost lush richness. The farmhouse is the centrepiece; an imposing white-walled building staggered in height and arranged with a distinct geometric beauty – a softer take, perhaps, on the ancient Parthenon at Agrigento, half an hour to the west of the property.

Our tour ends abruptly when we reach the swimming pool. Perched above the hotel on a hill, it is dug from the rock around it; a natural water storage tank inherited from the Moors. From here we can see the farmhouse poking above the landscaped foliage sprinkled around the pool. Beyond that, cascades of olive groves amble down hillsides in glorious non-uniformity, framed by craggy peaks and soft cambers – the Sicilian countryside has the beautiful ability to roll and jut almost simultaneously. We notice the sun making a break for the horizon, and then notice a couple deckchairs by the pool. Guiseppe, you’ve been great, but we must loaf. We fetch a bottle of fruity Bacca Rossa red from the house, the first of many, and recline with happy grins on our faces.

As the evening arrives, Mandranova’s guests begin to loiter around the stone patio next to the farmhouse. They know what’s coming. Us newbies get involved, and chat gamely with about eight others, lolling around wicker chairs and wrought-iron tables adorned with candlelit lanterns. If you ever need an indication of taste, lighting is the giveaway. This hip hotel has got it. A selection of trees around the terrace are beautifully spotlit from their lower trunks, and golden yellow beams of light soar from the base of the farmhouse, dissolving as they reach the upper storeys.

Giuseppe drifts from table to table, charming pants off. His English has an almost lyrical quality. His favourite word is ‘beautiful’, pronounced ‘bee-yoootiful’ in the manner of a pining sigh. Half a dozen tables are laid out in front of the house, with waitresses dipping in and out of the amber glow of the interior dining room, distributing twinkling goblets on the tables. When the guests settle down for dinner, tables are shuffled together, and it starts to feel like a dinner party. We are with a honeymooning couple and a middle-aged pair who say ‘cool’ a lot.

And then the scoop. Giuseppe might be the face of the operation, but his wife Sylvia is the mastermind, plotting a gastronomic tour de force from the kitchen. First up is perfectly al dente thin penne in pesto. Next is swordfish baked and basted to disintegrate on your tongue. Almost everything is lubricated with the best olive oil I have ever tasted, borne of trees a few hundred yards from our tables. I could drink the stuff neat. Then chocolate cake, subtly spiked with chilli for a gorgeous, light heat. And, of course, lots of wine. Giuseppe and Silvia’s two teenage sons help serve up. Predictably, they are both dreamboats, studying economics in Palermo when not matching Silvia recipe for recipe. Take them home to your mother. The family and guests josh and chat and get drunk. It really does feel like you are having supper at a friend’s rather spectacular house.

Our cups runneth over, and we retire to bed. Like the rest of the hotel, our room isn’t ostentatious, instead it is charming and elegant in a very simple way; buzzspeak would have it as ‘rustic chic’. Old wooden doors open onto restored majolica floors under beamed ceilings. Tiled showers with superb rainfall heads. Crisp stucco walls and cherry-wood beds. That’s the secret formula. A grinning Giuseppe upon arrival, ceramic tiles and exposed wood, tastefully illuminated trees, perfectly al dente pasta. Italian hospitality at its best: simple things done very, very well.