Emanuele, my culinary guide, leans toward me and explains that the only time Italians ate pasta with a spoon was when Mussolini had power. He then picks up a few strands with his fork and rolls them against the side of the dish. I put down my spoon and follow suit, but one piece slips and dangles from my fork.

Dismay crosses Emanuele‘s face and he says discreetly: "A true signora only rolls one or two spaghetti at a time to avoid such embarrassment.” My grandfather would have shaken his head, then handed me a knife. Of all the cultural differences that are made clear during my six-day tour of the region, this is the most important – Italians truly do take their food seriously.

Although Umbria is in the heart of Italy, nestled in the shadow of popular Tuscany, it still remains off the tourist trail. Divided by the Appennine mountains, the region is dotted with olive groves, clear flowing streams and oak woodlands. Within the series of hills and mountains that fold into one another, medieval towns and villages are scattered in valleys and hilltops with Romanesque churches, civic palaces, ancient frescoes and narrow medieval streets that lead to hidden corners. Spoleto has some of Italy’s oldest churches and in Assisi, the birthplace of St. Francis, many of the frescoes in the Basilica di San Francesco were painted by Giotto.

But it is perhaps in the most unassuming towns that you will really get a feel for the region and its people. The best way to discover the intricate details and customs that make a place unique, is to travel with a local. Those of us who don’t have friends in Umbria can sign on with the Italian Connection, a company that specializes in walking and culinary tours in Italy. They will take you into aromatic kitchens, lead you into the hustle and bustle of family-run restaurants and put you in touch with warm, friendly people.

The Italian Connection’s tour is centred around daily hikes, between six to thirteen kilometres long. Walking lets you soak up the countryside with an intimacy you could never get on a bus or train trip. Each morning we are given directions and landmarks to follow and are free to spread out individually to experience the countryside at our own pace. Van shuttles are available at various points along the way to pick up those who are too tired or still too stuffed from the previous night’s feast.

Our group often arranges to meet at midday in a restaurant or occasionally right in a field, where Emanuele prepares fresh ingredients for a picnic when we arrive. At night we gather to eat, sometimes cooking our own meals under the instruction of a local chef.

Each day we explore a different area, climbing through forests where olive groves and old stone houses become landmarks. Along the way we stroll past poppy fields shaking hands with the wind, and down rocky paths where plants seeds tumble like snowflakes. Rolling hills suddenly emerge onto a mountainside lake or a medieval hilltop town in the distance.

When we reach the hilltop towns, we walk under laundry hanging over narrow alleyways, and explore streets that dead end at a set of flower-filled stairs. We wash our hands from running water taps on the side of a stone house and gaze in admiration at fading frescoes on building facades. In front of Todi’s Piazza del Popolo’s cathedral, we watch an incongruously modern display as skateboarders twirl in the air like pasta uncoiling from a fork.

The locals are warm and welcoming. In Spello, on the slopes of Mt. Subasio, we are invited to join a grade school dance celebration while the sun casts its pink glow across the medieval town square. We are given directions by women who call to one another across balconies. And in the tiny town of Montecastello, an 81-year old man leads us through the smallest theatre in the world; built in the 1800s, it still had its original frescoes.

Discovering Italy is as much about food as it is about exploring architecture and museums, and we dive into its culinary side with gusto. After the typical two-hour lunches and three-hour dinners, we realize we are eating for as many hours as we are walking. Here, kitchens are always welcoming and an empty plate is immediately filled with the most wonderful foods.

Umbrian cuisine is simple and hearty as it is in much of central Italy. Each area has its specialties, from truffles, olive oils and tangy mountain cheeses to individual secrets for pasta and sauces. In the countryside outside of Assisi, I watch as slices of thick-crusted bread are toasted over an open flame to prepare a local version of bruschetta. The slices are pulled out on a large wooden paddle, lightly rubbed with a fresh clove of sliced garlic, then drizzled with olive oil and salt.

I learn to make umbricelli all'aglione, a thick hand rolled strand pasta with a rich tomato-garlic sauce while Maria, the chef, looks over my shoulder, coaching me to push harder on the roller. On another evening we make and eat pizza rustico, a delicate crust where the cheese filling is covered with another layer of dough and wine is continuously poured into our glasses throughout the process.

The camaraderie develops in the kitchen as much as it does on the hikes. We cheer each other on as we tackle a pizza recipe. Kneading the dough on a wooden board is almost as demanding as our crossing of Monte Subasio through fog and rain. In a large kitchen we are given turns with a piece of dough and told to have fun as we quaff the local wine. We drop it, pound it, shove it back and forth.

The next stage is so different, it almost requires the same meditative approach as walking to Assisi’s hilltop hermitage. We roll out the pizza dough, slow and delicate. Pouring olive oil on top, we gently place it in the pan, spreading out the dough with our palms as if it were air, then flattening thick spaces with the light touch of a fingertip. The toppings are tossed sparsely with a common onion and fresh rosemary mixture or tomato slices, large basil leaves and mozzarella cubes. The oven-baked result is a crisp texture that melts on your tongue.

Even if there isn’t a cooking class scheduled, we are always free to wander into the kitchens. At Fattoria di Vibio, an agritourismo farm accommodation, I wake up early one morning to make breakfast with the chef. Passing underneath shiny pots, pans and cloves of garlic hanging from the ceiling, I wander toward the warmth of the oven. The chef stands next to it, dusted with flour, removing baked loaves, their crusts shining golden from the heat. He cradles one loaf, taps the bottom, waits for the hollow thud and then smiles. I try, holding the bread to my ear like a shell, wanting to squeeze it into my mouth. The chef lifts pot lids so I can smell simmering tomato sauces with hints of basil, and others with garlic bobbing on the surface. We can’t speak each other’s language but, surrounded by ingredients, he shows me how to make a bread laced with roasted eggplant and peppers.

During our daily walks, I would see little of Emanuele. But he was always the first to appear at suppertime, white hair flowing, shirt freshly pressed, shoes polished. On the last evening, I sit across from him in the restaurant. I gaze at the medieval stone walls, wondering what meals and conversations have taken place in this room, whose hands have touched these stones. I am drawn back to the soft murmur of Italian voices by the candlelit shadows swaying against the wall.

It is then, as I begin to eat my spaghetti, that Emanuele explains I must first separate one or two strands with my fork first and then roll them. As I make another attempt, he leans toward me for emphasis: "The worst is cutting your spaghetti with a knife.” Of course, I don’t dare mention my grandfather. I separate my pasta and twirl two at a time without a hitch.