Just back: a lesson in safety, Italian-style The sea tempts us all the way but sandy beaches are rare: they abound on the western coast of the heel of Italy, from Santa Maria de Leuca to Taranto. This eastern coast meets the sea as volcanic rock - not dull or drab but a cool, silvery grey. Combined with the clear light, the rocks offset the blue sea, the white and pink oleanders, the green olive groves, in a way that we find more captivating than the trulli, the typical local conical houses. These are now mostly converted and sprouting air-conditioning tanks. Converted by Italians for Italians, but the British are slowly penetrating this last area of unspoilt Italy. Grazie, Ryanair. To see trulli in a theme-park setting, go to Alberobello, where they sprout like mushrooms. To see flamboyant Baroque architecture alongside Roman remains go to Lecce. For peaceful, warm piazzas try Cisternino (where two days previously we came across a string quartet playing outdoors and stayed all day). To see a classical hilltop white town go to Ostuni and be sure to wait for the evening passeggiata (stroll), that wonderful Italian social tradition. But it will always be the colours of the east coast for us. Late in the evening we head back south where the towns are smaller, quieter but full of Puglian character none the less: golden stone that retains heat overnight and locals sitting out in the evenings as they have for generations, calm and relaxed. Until they get behind a wheel, that is. Last year we survived the Amalfi coast, but only just. We know how a steering wheel transforms the average Italian. When we get back to Tricase, the dog is still lying at the crossroads. This time we agree that I have to stop and clear away the cadaver. I indicate and pull over, generating a cacophony of horns. Ignoring shouts and gestures, I run to the dog. It raises its head, yawns and walks off, as car and lorry drivers stop with exaggerated courtesy to let it reach the pavement. I, of course, am stranded and therefore a legitimate target again: more shouts, horns, gestures. Non toccarlo! Leave him alone! I scuttle back to the car, a figure of hate. Next day as we drive to Brindisi airport the dog is back in the middle of the crossroads. Safe, Italian-style. Email your entry of no more than 500 words (with the text in the email itself rather than attached) to justback@telegraph.co.uk by midnight on Wednesday, April 25.