Northwest

The copper pot is filled with a custard so golden it looks like liquid sunshine. Our waiter carefully ladles the sugary, egg-yolk elixir, zabaglione, into two bowls for dunking warm pansarole doughnuts. Our conversation stops, a silent competition to nab the last one. We are literally living la dolce vita.

This dessert is a tradition in Apricale, a fairytale-like village in Liguria, Italy’s crescent-shaped region that hugs the Mediterranean. It’s a far cry from crowded Cinque Terre and posh Portofino to the east. This western edge, on France’s south-eastern border, feels more authentic and calmer in the winter, with more local people than tourists. Unburdened from competing with others for reservations, you are free to live in the present. Let spontaneity be your guide – or, in my family’s case, our appetites.

I came to Liguria with my twin, her husband, and their 11- and 14-year-old kids, inspired by my sister’s studies in Italy and our shared passion for the country’s comforting, kid-friendly cuisine. Our road trip meandered from the coastal Riviera dei Fiori to a constellation of medieval hilltop villages. In just 30 sq miles, we journeyed back in time.

My Sicilian ex had introduced me to Liguria one January. Though it rained, the Maritime and Ligurian Alps block the wind, creating a microclimate with relatively mild temperatures that average 13C. My family’s December trip was bathed in the most sublime winter light, apt for alfresco meals.

Heading east from Nice, the motorway is punctuated by a series of hair-raising turns and tunnels. Our first stop was a 45-minute drive away, just over the French border. Ventimiglia is divided into two parts: the bustling new town and the historical upper town, città alta, suspended between sea and sky. On Ü Funtanin’s sun-soaked terrace, we tucked into fried calamari paired with Mediterranean views. The kids made like pirates in front of a statue of the Black Corsair, the star of Emilio Salgari’s famous swashbuckling novel.

We entered the winding maze of the old town via the medieval Porta Nizza arch. Laundry hung from pastel facades, their beautiful patina born from centuries of wear. Two churches on Via Giuseppe Garibaldi have intriguing features: the hyperrealistic Cristo Morto (dead Christ) statue at Oratorio dei Neri and the baptistery basin at the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta.

Back in the car, we drove 20 minutes north to the riverside village of Dolceacqua. An impromptu search for “hotels with bathtubs” led us to Talking Stones (doubles from €67.50). Set in the 19th-century Borgo district, its cosy stone rooms are juxtaposed by modern whirlpool baths. The medieval Terra quarter sits across the Nervia river via the picturesque Ponte Vecchio that Claude Monet captured in paintings, as witnessed by his wooden cut-out next to the river.

On Via Castello, my niece and nephew felt “hugged by the stone buildings” that leaned towards each other. We climbed the narrow Ligurian caruggi (alleyways) to the Castello dei Doria. Named for the prominent family of the 12th-17th centuries, Dolceacqua’s grand dame is now an open-air vestige of soaring arches, a history lesson that is ideal for hide and seek.

Back in town for aperitivo at Re Maggiore, every drink came with a free plate of bites – “How it should be,” said my brother-in-law. Our waiter at La Pasta di Ü assured us: “Everything is amazing. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it.” We tucked into local specialties, trofie (short, thin, twisted) pasta with pesto, potatoes and green beans, and barbajuan (chard and ricotta-stuffed fritters). All paired with Rossese di Dolceacqua, an earthy red wine that’s rarely exported due to the steep, terraced vineyard’s small production.

The next day, we motored 15 minutes north-east to one of “the most beautiful villages in Italy”, Apricale. The red-roofed village clings to green hills, seemingly defying gravity. Known as an artists’ town, Apricale’s labyrinthine alleys are lined with murals. We got a private showing, with stray cats the only sign of life on the empty streets.

The central square, Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, is bordered by two pink churches and the restored 10th-century Castello della Lucertola (Lizard Castle), whose dank dungeon transported us to the middle ages. As did the similarly stone-arched dining room at the nearby da Bacì ristorante, where we half expected the waiter to slice our meat with a sword. The home to the aforementioned egg-yolk dessert serves hearty coniglio (local rabbit) and pork stew with polenta and farinata (crispy chickpea fritters). En route back to the hotel, we popped into Perinaldo, another picture-postcard village, for a digestive passeggiata – the traditional Italian leisurely evening stroll.

Back on the coast, Sanremo felt like a bustling metropolis compared with the hilltop hamlets. The city of 53,000 became a tourism hotspot in the 19th century, when elite Europeans, particularly Britons, decamped to the Mediterranean for its curative winter climate. Ornate belle epoque hotels, casinos and villas (including the must-see Alfred Nobel’s former home) are testaments to this era, their faded splendour like a starlet in her twilight years.

The city’s Mercato Annonario was laden with gargantuan parmesan wheels, cured meats, and Liguria’s renowned Taggiasca olive oil. After a snack stop at Cantine Sanremesi for sardenaira (a tomato, olive and anchovy focaccia) we windowshopped along the main drag, Via Giacomo Matteotti. Later, the Pista Ciclabile, a 15-mile (24km) coastal bike path on former train tracks, was a highlight. Atop rented ebikes from NoloBici, we whizzed through tunnels and past the turquoise sea.

About 5 miles away in Arma di Taggia, at Osteria 1808 we feasted on housemade 30-egg-yolk tagliolini pasta, fresh-caught langoustines and fried anchovies, served with professional gusto by the owner, Francesco. He sold us bottles of Taggiasca olive oil to take home. It was the first time the future had crossed our minds. For Liguria is a place to live firmly in the moment.