THIS time last week, I was wandering through the narrow streets of an attractive but industrial and fairly typical Italian town called Sinalunga.

There were no McDonald's, no Pizza Hut, no Kentucky Fried Chicken. No Gap clothes, no Ikea furniture, no giant supermarkets selling produce that had been flown half-way across the world.

Everything, from the faded grandeur of the old buildings, to the row of Vespa scooters parked in the main square and the strong, wafting smell of espresso coffee was just so distinctively Italian. But it wasn't just Italian, it was Tuscan. Because people are obviously proud, not just of their national, but of their regional identity.

The shops and market sell locally grown beans, tomatoes, grapes and olives, in season, and the wines, hams and cheeses are all from nearby estates. Most restaurants and cafes serve typical Tuscan dishes like bean soup or pici, a thick, hand-rolled spaghetti drizzled with olive oil.

And yet, in the shops, the price tags on everything - from the Moka Express Italian coffee percolators to the leather shoes and handbags made in nearby Florence - included, underneath the price in lire, a little 'e' with a second figure, denoting the price in euros, a currency accepted everywhere.

Whatever else we may think of the euro and the EC, in Italy's case it clearly hasn't resulted in a watering down of Italian culture or loss of national identity, which is what many europhobes tell us will happen in Britain.

We returned to England as hundreds of business leaders launched a new battle to save the pound. Within days, Tory leader William Hague was warning: "Within a decade, many of the things that make our country a country, make our nation a nation, make Britain 'Britain' could have disappeared.''

Perhaps they should all take a trip to the little confidently Italian town of Sinalunga. And wonder why we cannot be more confidently British.

IT IS not a tired old clich, Italy really is extraordinarily child friendly. When I walk into a cafe or shop with four boys in England, people dive for cover, or mutter: "Here comes trouble." Frankly, I don't blame them.

But in Italy, the opposite is true. The baby was constantly having his tummy tickled while being told he was "bello, bello''. Everyone made a fuss, nothing was too much trouble. My four little blond boys were the centre of attention. "Quattro masc?'' I was asked. "Are they all yours?'' I lost count of the times I was patted on the back with the words: "Bravo! Bravo!'' After two weeks, my self-esteem rocketed and, as a mother of four, I felt highly valued. But my delusions were soon shattered at the airport on the way home. An English woman looked at our brood and announced loudly: "Looks like we're on the kindergarten flight.'' I got the usual glares and tuts as the baby screamed on the two-hour flight. "Can't you give that baby a dummy?'' asked one man, only half-jokingly. Is it any wonder he was crying?

DESPITE two weeks in scorching heat, the boys have returned to school looking as if they spent their holidays under a thick blanket in a darkened room. Following current advice, they were rarely allowed out in the midday sun, always wore sunhats and were plastered in thick sunblock every few hours. Yet now I read children are increasingly at risk of developing the crippling bone disorder rickets because they are not getting enough sunshine. Isn't modern science wonderful?

DRAGGING three reluctant boys to an Italian art gallery, I was desperate to inspire. "Have you heard of Leonardo Da Vinci?'' I asked. "No.'' "The Mona Lisa?'' "No.'' "Michelangelo?'' "Yes,'' they all shouted. Great, I said, tell me what you know. "He's the Ninja mutant hero turtle who lives in the sewers, of course. Didn't you know that?'' said the four-year-old.