You’ll walk through working stables on an old Apulian farm, watch mozzarella and burrata being made right in front of you, then sit down for a farmhouse lunch with fresh cheeses, local wine, and homemade dessert. Expect laughter with your hosts—and maybe a little cheese on your fingers when you leave.
Your visit includes a guided walk through both stable and dairy areas at Masseria Seppunisi with fresh mozzarella and burrata making demonstrations, plus a farmhouse lunch featuring cheeses produced onsite along with cured meats, focaccia bread, taralli crackers, local wine and homemade yogurt for dessert—bottled water provided throughout your stay.
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Puglia: Masseria Seppunisi Mozzarella & Burrata Farm TourYou are here★ 4.83 (83)2h 30m€ 45
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Taranto: Orecchiette Pasta Class & 3-Course LunchLearn to make orecchiette by hand in a traditional Trullo house near Taranto, Puglia. Includes 4.5-hour class, 3-course lunch with wine, and garden herbs.★ 4.80 (260)4h 30m€ 65View › The first thing I noticed at Masseria Seppunisi wasn’t the cheese—it was the sound. Cows shifting in their stalls, a soft clatter of buckets, and somewhere in the back, laughter from the dairy. We’d barely stepped out of the car (the drive from Martina Franca is all olive groves and that sleepy Apulian light) before our guide, Anna, waved us over. She handed us little blue shoe covers—practical but honestly kind of funny looking—and led us straight into the stables. The cows looked at us like they were used to tourists poking around. Maybe they are.
I thought we’d just peek at the animals, but Anna started explaining how each cow’s milk is tracked daily—she even knew some by name. The air smelled sweet-sour, earthy but not unpleasant. Then it was into the dairy itself: white tiles, stainless steel vats steaming gently. Two cheesemakers were elbow-deep in curds, stretching mozzarella so fast their hands blurred. One of them grinned at my wide-eyed stare and motioned for me to try twisting a knot myself—I failed spectacularly (and got teased for it). Watching burrata come together right there felt weirdly hypnotic; you see how simple things can be when done by practiced hands.
Afterwards came the best bit—a long table set under a vine trellis outside. Cheeses still warm from the vat, salty cured meats, focaccia that crumbled just so, taralli with that strange crunch I’ve never found outside Puglia. Someone poured local wine (I missed what kind—I was too busy eating), and Anna brought out their own yogurt for dessert. I probably ate too much but didn’t care; everything tasted like it belonged to this place and nowhere else.
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