I hadn’t heard of Pesaro before my ex-flatmate sent me there in summer 2018. I was writing a book at the time, and Giulia reckoned the best place for me to do such work was in her grandad’s old flat, a modest unit in a block put up in 1946, during the short reign of Umberto II. It had lain empty since her nonno – Dottor Spinicci – died of liver failure, having failed to take his own medicine.

The flat’s balcony looked on to a hot and dusty courtyard shared with the local police station. When, on my first morning in the flat, I discovered a faded handwritten recipe for ragù alla bolognese that didn’t involve tomatoes, I was tempted to head down to the cop shop and report it as a thoughtcrime.