Our two-month stay in Greece is not yet digested, and we’re already swapping Greek salads for tomato-mozza after a pit stop in Bova Marina, in the far south of Italy, on our way to Sicily.

The city is decidedly lacking in charm, but it’s precisely this lack of appeal that makes its charm. It’s less demagogic than the idyllic Greek islands, with their small villages tended with toothpicks and designed to please the tourist. There’s nothing but locals here, no organised beach (apart from a few square metres in front of the Girasol hotel, which didn’t seem to be a great success), no pedestrianised seafront with souvenir shops, but laurel bushes, bougainvillea and loud reggaeton. It’s all concrete, with a row of architecturally insipid terraced houses overlooking the beach and hiding the main street from view. The large pebble beach is littered with dilapidated boats, to which Indonesian craft have nothing to envy, and small piles of accessories (inflatable mattresses and unicorns, rackets and other beach games) that the locals leave at night at the foot of their folded umbrella, ready to find them there the next day. During the hottest part of the day, everyone hides away at home out of the sun, or ventures onto the beach, but always in the shade (we’ve had the unfortunate experience of not lasting more than two minutes in the sun), to play cards (an activity that seems to be exclusively male), update their Instagram accounts, or read a book, with the occasional refreshing dip in the crystal-clear water or shower.

And despite this working-class, or even vulgar, atmosphere, we were clearly bathed in happiness during our short day’s stopover here. A feeling of family fulfilment enveloped us, greater than we’d ever felt before. A sense of peace, of having arrived in the land not only of countless culinary specialities such as lasagna, pizzas, gelatos, limoncello and tiramisu, but also that of my forefathers, and above all the last country separating us from France, and in the same time zone too. We did it! Our wish to sail back to France from New Zealand has almost come true. Penultimate leg validated!

The decision to stop was taken at the last minute, given the shortage of breeze and the absurdity of forcing the pace with the engine when we could simply settle down, discover this remote part of Italy and enjoy its gastronomy more quickly. So, in the middle of the afternoon, we disembarked in search of an ice cream parlour. It was a fatal error, as we couldn’t take more than a few steps forward without feeling ourselves drying on the spot and begging for a little spot of shade. We ended up taking up residence on a bench made of pallets, under a large eucalyptus tree on the edge of the beach. We left our things there and took a dip until the air cooled down a little around five o’clock.

To get to the main street, we had to take a six-foot-high underpass, which posed no difficulty for little old ladies or children, but was a bit tight for Thomas and me. On the other side, we wandered up and down the street, trusting our instincts and our sense of smell, before calling Google Maps to the rescue, as we had only been able to identify a small local supermarket, a chemist’s and a tobacconist’s. The first establishment indicated by Google was a stone’s throw away, and we entered what at first sight looked like a bar with some scepticism, unconvinced that we’d find what we were looking for – and yet! It was a bar-café-pâtisserie-glacier-loto, a fairly common concept in the area if the other similar businesses on the map are anything to go by. The owner served us the biggest single scoop of ice cream we’d ever seen, and even offered Azur a second cone to manage his tiramisu ice cream, which was trying to get out of hand. Zéphyr chose salted butter caramel, and Thomas an unknown flavour with a name I didn’t remember, like Stevetilla, which was a killer, a mixture of vanilla, dark chocolate, waffle and chocolate coulis. Given the generosity of the portions, I abstained, contenting myself with taxing each person once we were seated at a table, the only customers in this otherwise deserted establishment.

To round off the day’s tasting, we headed off to the Platia Niki pizzeria, which I’d spotted as being close to our anchorage, saving us too long a walk once we’d had our fill. The pizzeria had just opened when we arrived, with waiters setting up chairs and garden tables under the trees in the cobbled square that served as the terrace. Some of the peeps were playing cards, some of the ladies had dressed up for a birthday party, as we were told by a heavily made-up brunette in a bright red evening dress who had the corner shop open just for us when she saw us ogling the display case of home-made pasta of all shapes and sizes.

The choice of pizzas was spread over three pages of the menu and without understanding all the ingredients in Italian, we managed to get away with a Margherita, a Calabrese with picante salami, a Quatro Staggione with ham, mushrooms and artichokes, and a Delicante with cream, cherry tomatoes, courgettes and salmon that appeared within a minute. We had trouble wolfing it all down, but Zephyr, on the verge of dethroning his father in the role of table trash, cleaned up once everyone had settled down in front of their respective plates. For the children, the digestive stroll included an evening swim against a backdrop of smoking Etna, after increasingly impressive ricochets by Zephyr, who, although he can’t master the wind yet, did tame the pebbles. On the way back to the boat, knowing that our stomachs needed a little more respite before letting us sleep, we grabbed the ukuleles to sing Lilicub’s aptly-named Voyage En Italie.

And as the evening wore on, Azur suggested we adopt Mediterranean customs and become nocturnal ourselves. Let’s hope that this feeling of plenitude lasts forever too, and not just because of the pizzas that fill our stomachs.