Matera in Summer: Stone, Granita, and a Dinner of Memory

From the ancient Sassi at noon to a candlelit meal in the centro storico—an immersive summer day in Matera.

View of Matera on a midsummer day

The sun in Matera, on that midsummer day, was relentless and magnificent. It flooded every crevice of the Sassi with gold, illuminating the honey-colored dwellings that tumble down the hillside like a city carved from light. The brightness here felt almost sacred, as though each beam carried the weight of centuries—of shepherds and stonecutters, monks and merchants, of rituals passed down in limestone and silence.

We wandered slowly, letting the heat settle on our shoulders as we traced the maze of ancient homes, staircases, and terraces. The silence of the Sassi was broken only by the occasional cry of a swift overhead, the electric whir of cicadas, and the soft scuff of our shoes on stone. Matera is not a place you simply visit. It’s a place you descend into—physically and emotionally—as though falling into a collective memory.

By mid-afternoon, when the sunlight began to soften, we drifted toward the centro storico. The alleyways narrowed, shaded by churches and overhanging balconies that spilled with geraniums. There was a reverent quiet here too, but it hummed with life—shopkeepers chatting across open doorways, linen snapping on lines, and the distant chime of church bells floating through the still air.

Our destination was Gelateria I Vizi degli Angeli, tucked along Via Ridola and whispered about by every local we met with the same hushed certainty. Inside, the air was cool and fragrant—lemons, berries, vanilla, and cream. We ordered granita, as you must on a southern Italian summer day. One lemon, one bergamot.

What arrived was crystalline and flawless—somewhere between snow and silk. The lemon was bright, almost sharp, but beautifully clean. The bergamot was deeper, floral and faintly bitter, like a memory you can’t place but don’t want to forget. We took it outside and sat on a quiet bench just past the bustle, watching Matera unspool below us in waves of golden stone.

It wasn’t just refreshment—it was punctuation. The kind of sweetness that seals a moment in your memory. We didn’t speak. We just sat, letting the granita melt slowly on our tongues, our faces cooled by each spoonful.

As the evening descended, Matera’s stones began to glow with candlelight and the golden flicker of open windows. We made our way to dinner at Cantuccio, a quiet trattoria just off the main thoroughfare. Our table was nestled beneath a low archway, its stone walls still warm from the sun.

We began with burrata, soft and cloud-like, its creamy center spilling gently onto the plate, crowned with crisp flakes of peperone crusco—sweet dried red peppers from Basilicata, fried until crackling. Their honeyed crunch was a perfect counterpoint to the cheese’s silkiness, conjuring fields and sun in every bite.

Next came bruschetta on thick slices of Pane di Matera. This bread, golden and deeply aromatic, is a point of regional pride—protected by DOP status and crafted using ancient grains like semola rimacinata di grano duro. Its dense crumb and crackling crust are born of slow fermentation and traditional wood-fired ovens. It tasted earthy and primal, like something unearthed rather than baked.

For our mains, we shared orecchiette con ceci e rosmarino—tender ear-shaped pasta with chickpeas and rosemary, creamy and herbaceous, comforting without being heavy. Then came guancia di manzo all’Aglianico, beef cheek slow-braised in the bold, volcanic red wine of Basilicata. Aglianico del Vulture, often dubbed the “Barolo of the South,” brought its smoky, dark fruit and spice to the richness of the meat, marrying strength with softness in a way that lingered long after the last bite.

We left the trattoria walking slowly, as though unwilling to let go of the warmth. The stones beneath our feet still held the day’s heat, and Matera shimmered under a moon that seemed to rise directly from the rock.

That night, as we returned to our guesthouse, the silence of the olive grove welcomed us home. But something of Matera in summer lingered—a scent, a taste, a stillness. The memory of the granita, the bread, the wine, the sun on the stone.

Some days live long in the mind because they are filled with movement. Others, like this one, endure because everything slowed down enough to be felt.