
The host
Opens the door, carries the bags, knows the best table in town.
Since 1923
A house that has been many things before it was a hotel: a family home, a dye shop, a bakery. We kept what was old and good, and fixed the rest.
The house is built for a family of dyers. The lane still smells of soap on Mondays.
The ground floor becomes a bakery. The oven is still in our kitchen wall.
We buy the house with a leaking roof and a lot of ideas.
Locanda opens with twelve rooms and one rule: keep what is old and good.

Every original door, tile and beam we could save is still in the house, just somewhere new.
Linen from a weaver up the hill, bread from across the lane, wine from the island you can see from the roof.
Breakfast till eleven, check-out at eleven, and nobody knocks before then.
The people

Opens the door, carries the bags, knows the best table in town.

Back from the market by nine, cooking by ten, never writes a menu twice.

Ask about a button, a ferry or a dentist. There is always a cousin.