The white ramparts of the centro storico shelter the white arcs of beach that scallop the edges of the Ionan and the Adriatic. There’s a gentle jangle of white fishing boats as they bring in the day’s haul and the whir of a rusted Piaggio Ape.
Espresso trickles slowly into its small, white receptacle in a café opposite the grand, white facade of a Salentine baroque cathedral.
An osteria has white stone walls inside and out and an extensive menu which is meditatively flicked through as a white fan chop chop chops unevenly at the hot air overhead. The succulent flesh of the catch of the day. The fava beans and the potato puree and the juicy seafood inside tempura skin.
The bill, the cobbles under foot, the lemon gelato in hand.
These are the shades of white in Puglia.