Across choppy waters glistening like hammered copper, the sun begins its slow descent behind the volcanic island of Stromboli, which seems to float on the horizon beyond the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Twice a year from this charming terrace at Capovaticano Resort, guests can watch a ‘Ulysses’ sunset’ – the moment the sun drops precisely into the often-smouldering crater of the active volcano. 

Legend goes that the spectacle was such a thing of beauty that Ulysses – or Odysseus – was inspired to change course in Homer’s epic poem to head for the Aeolian Islands, where Stromboli is found.

Alas, my timing is off. I’ve missed it by weeks. No matter. The sky still blushes peach, deepens to rose and fades to dusky violet – the colours, for a moment or two, echoing the amber-red hues of my bittersweet negroni cocktail.

Almost as striking as the view is the lack of fuss around it. Conversation stays low, glasses chink, and behind me someone slurps a bowlful of pasta.

If this view were in Santorini or on the Amalfi Coast, I would be elbowing for a spot by the rail, phone aloft. But this is Calabria, the ‘toe’ of Italy’s boot.

It is, geographically, Cornwall d’Italia: a long, rugged peninsula at the far end of the line. There the likeness ends.

Each summer the Cornish grumble about ‘emmets’ – their word for ants – as the visitors swarm across the Tamar. Calabria would happily take a few... and the region certainly deserves more. 

While Italy has never been more popular – with a staggering 185 million international arrivals last year – Calabria rarely makes typical itineraries of British holidaymakers. A mere 22,600 of us went in 2025.

Perhaps that is understandable. Flights aren’t as abundant as those to other regions. 

Meanwhile, it has not enjoyed a mainstream lift in the way, for example, Sicily has with its inclusion in The White Lotus TV series, or been boosted by the opening of a raft of luxury hotels.

Then there’s nearby Puglia, which has in recent years shed its image as a quiet domestic holiday haunt – helped by better flight connections – to become one of Europe’s most coveted summer escapes.

Yet Calabria is every bit as compelling as these Italian hotspots drawing the crowds. The irony is that, historically, it has been a hive of activity.

The southern-most tip of the Italian peninsula, with its 500 miles of coastline, has been crossed by Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Normans, Arabs and Bourbons, each leaving a layer behind. There are still mountain villages where Grecanico is spoken, a variety of Greek that has outlasted the many empires that have ruled here.

When the English artist and poet Edward Lear tramped through the region in 1847, he considered it one of Europe’s least-known corners. Nearly 180 years later, his observation still carries a ring of truth.

But this loose sense of ‘undiscovered’ feels like one of the rarest luxuries in travel. ‘It’s no lie to say Calabria is what Puglia was 20 years ago,’ says a hotelier I meet. ‘I say to go now while you can still find space on a beach and Italians still think it’s worth it. Go now. Only once can you discover somewhere as new.’

Heading south from Lamezia Terme International Airport, which Ryanair flies to year-round from London Stansted, the road moves from coast to inland and out again, past citrus groves and low-rise beach resorts that hug the Gulf of Saint Euphemia.

Hairpin bends tighten, and the sea comes in snatches between railway arches. Just north of Pizzo, a town of ochre houses piled on a tufa cliff, I inexplicably think of Cornwall once more. The shore is a sweep of pale sand between dark headlands – Sennen Cove, on Cornwall’s north coast, transplanted to the Tyrrhenian.

If you’ve heard of Calabria at all, it is probably because of ’nduja. The soft, fiery pork salami has endeared itself to Britons. You will find it smeared over sourdough, melted into pasta sauces, dolloped on pizzas.

It’s permeated so thoroughly into our lives that it even makes an appearance on Wetherspoons’ pizzas. I bet far fewer people know where it comes from.

In Spilinga, a village of fewer than 2,000 people and the birthplace of ’nduja, I tour the Salumificio Livasi factory. The Porcelli family has made cured meat here for three generations, and formally established the business in 2012.

In the production room, staff grind pork rich in fat (the reason ’nduja spreads instead of slicing) with Calabrian chillies. It’s these chillies that give the mixture its deep, brick-red colour and provide its heat.

The paste is packed in its casing, pressed free of air, tied, then smoked and hung for at least 30 days but often for many months.

Giuseppe Porcelli, whose family runs the firm, tells me that ’nduja, like much of Calabrian cooking, grew out of cucina povera, or ‘poor kitchen’, Italy’s peasant tradition of wasting nothing. Hence, the leftover fatty scraps for the spreadable salami. 

Humble origins have not kept Calabrian cooking from going upmarket. A long, unhurried meal at De’ Minimi, the restaurant at boutique hotel Villa Paola, delivers local cuisine at its most refined.

Its five-course tasting menu ‘Miserie e Nobiltà’ (‘Poverty and Nobility’, £80pp) sources much from the gardens of a 16th-century former convent.

The kitchen takes simple ingredients (turnip tops, red onions, white fish) and gives them a jolt of fine-dining treatment – pasta made with 42 egg yolks arrives in a deeply savoury sauce of ‘cryo-extracted’ red onion, its juice drawn out by freezing. Delicious dry-aged beef is met with a tang of fermented blueberry spread – but save room for local cheeses.

The restaurant is outside Tropea, a medieval town built on a sandstone cliff, which has the edgy charm of southern Italian towns and a tangle of lanes.

The Byzantine-style church and monastery of Santa Maria dell’Isola sits on a rocky promontory just offshore, while a Norman cathedral in the historic centre is home to unexploded Second World War bombs.

Walking through the town, I find local wine for about £2.50 a bottle, and jars of chilli with such heat that locals jokingly call it ‘poor man’s Viagra’.

Many such Calabrian towns are unassuming but pleasantly untouched by tourist traps. 

Among the prettiest is Scilla, where in its old fisherman’s quarter Chianalea, a long, low line of houses, stands on the rocks with doors opening straight on to the sea.

The biggest town at Italy’s toe is Reggio Calabria, where you can spend slow afternoons along the seafront (a ferry to Messina, Sicily, from here takes 40 minutes) or with the ancient Riace Bronzes in the museum.

With overtourism an enduring conversation in Europe, regions such as Calabria are exactly the antidote.

On my final night, I hope again for the ‘Ulysses’ sunset’ at Capovaticano. Of course, I’m out of luck. Then again, I don’t need to glimpse this phenomenon to convince me to chart a course back here.