We are well and truly back from Italy. Arrived on Saturday night to a brisk gale that made the low temperature seem even lower, and plenty of rain too. Yes, it was an English midsummer. The journey had not been the smoothest. We left our rented villa at Lamole, in Chianti, about 9.45am (8.45 UK time), and arrived back in Norwich shortly before 9.30pm, so the whole journey took more than 12 hours. We have done Toronto-Norwich more quickly.

After a smart piece of navigation we managed to enter Florence on the right side (or left, going up), and although we went slightly astray, we ended up pretty soon at the car rental place. It was raining, and the usual suspects were all selling umbrellas instead of handbags. We dragged our luggage to the station, where we dithered about what to do. It soon transpired there was nothing worth doing because the station was overcrowded and underprovided, and so we thought we might as well get to the airport while Roger and Barbara waited for the Rome train. We got a taxi to the airport, where we arrived around noon. This in itself was a bit of a relief, as the usual Italian penchant for sloppy naming and signposting meant that I had thought there were two airports when there was only one. If you’re going to Florence, don’t be confused. Florence Airport, Amerigo Vespucci, Peretola or indeed Aeroporto di Firenze are all the same thing. Only one of them is a translation of another. No prizes. This did not increase my love of Florence, which was pretty low anyway following a 90-minute wait for our rental car when we arrived the previous Saturday.

At the airport we faced a two-hour wait before we could even check in. The Italians had apparently thought this could never happen, because there were practically no facilities until you had checked in – not even seats. We did eventually locate one row of seats upstairs and grabbed two, plus a bite to eat at the very small cafe. Just after 2pm I thought I would see if we could check in and found that we could. I also found that our flight had been delayed for nearly three hours because the aircraft would not get there until then. This is an example of what has been described as Italian time. It bears almost no relation to any other time. We attempted to check in anyway, but were told that we had to go the ticket office because we would miss our connection. This meant another queue, but with an unexpected bonus at the end. The excellent ticket office guy found a way to get us to Amsterdam in time.

We had to board a flight to Paris almost immediately (sitting separately), then at Charles de Gaulle airport find a new terminal for the flight to Amsterdam. All airports contrive to make transfers ridiculously difficult with poor signposting and the pointless requirement to go through security again, but we eventually made it to the boarding gate, and Dot was delighted because our names were called. We had to show them our paperwork from Florence. At this point Dot began to get very impressed. This time we did sit together – the plane was not full – but further concern materialised because the flight left nearly half an hour late. Somehow it caught up, and we were only about ten minutes late when we arrived at an almost deserted Schiphol. Again difficult to find where to go, but we asked a customs official and eventually found the KLM desk, who were extremely helpful, and we reached the boarding gate with enough time for Dot to buy a coffee, but not to drink it. This time the plane was more than half empty, and we again had a row of three seats to ourselves. Sheer joy. What could go wrong now?  Nothing. Phil, alerted by my phone call, picked us up and transported us home, and we were so tired, we didn’t unpack at all. I trotted down to Budgens to get bread and milk, passing through the nightclub girls shivering in their all-season miniskirts, and after a fried egg or two I went to bed. So did Dot, but without the eggs.

Having failed completely to narrate clearly and chronologically, I guess I should return to the beginning, but in rather less detail. We left home by taxi at 8.20am on the 10th and had no trouble reaching Amsterdam via Norwich Airport, putting our watches an hour forward in the process. Found a delightful Cafe Chocolat at Schiphol and indulged a little, then took off for Venice at 3pm. Barb had recklessly booked a restaurant for 7pm, so we were under pressure after landing at 5pm. If I’d known how far the airport was from our hotel, I would have been even more worried. Our bags took a while; when they arrived we braved the heat to walk to the Alligula boats about 500-600 yards away. Fortunately we made the right choice, taking the more expensive (£25 each) fast gold boat which gave us time to reach our hotel – following a pretty tricky piece of map-reading – by about 6.30pm. This gave us just about time to get to the restaurant (after a rendezvous with the Murrays), and the meal was excellent – probably the second-best of the entire trip, but very expensive, as are most things in Venice. Afterwards we took a circuitous route home via the waterfront.

The next day was epic. According to my pedometer, which is pretty accurate, we walked over ten miles, covering some key sites in Venice, including the Ca d’Oro, the Rialto Bridge, the Accademia Bridge and St Mark’s Square, as well as numerous lesser known alleys and open spaces. Venice was not really as I expected: a real warren of streets and narrow canals. At one point we got separated. I was a few steps ahead, looked round, and the other three had vanished. I waited and nothing happened. I went back to where I had last seen them (only a few steps): nothing. I waited again, then was forced to assume they had taken an alternative route. Fortunately I had a map and knew where we were going: the Accademia Bridge. So I went there and waited – for over half an hour. Eventually, as I was trying to get through on the mobile, they turned up. Apparently they had paused to look in a shop window, then bizarrely crossed the Rialto bridge instead of of going straight past it to where I was waiting. Then they waited on the wrong side of the river. Once Roger twigged they were on the wrong side of the river, Dot persuaded them to head for the Accademia Bridge, because she knew what I’d do. With the help of a Venetian lady who spoke no English, they eventually made it.

I got to know the Accademia Bridge quite well, and after lunch nearby we booked for a concert in the evening, in a church right by the bridge. We then went back to our hotel, which was a delightful building with very pleasant staff. It was called the Liassidi Palace Hotel, and it would have been perfect, except that the air conditioning in our room wasn’t working, and then one of the strip lights started flickering and making a noise, even when it was turned off. The staff did their best to sort this, but it wasn’t ideal, though we slept better the second night.

But we are not up to the second night yet. After a rest in the hotel we went on another walk organised by Barbara, ending with an elaborate ice cream each. Then back to the hotel for a Bellini, followed by a return to the church (San Vitale) near the Accademia Bridge for the concert, by the all-male Interpreti Veneziani, a brilliant string group (about ten of them) who majored on Vivaldi but did a superb version of Bartok’s Danze Rumene. Really compelling stuff. And still the day wasn’t over: our way back went through St Mark’s Square, which was flooded! We could have taken our shoes off, but Dot had a bad blister which had burst, and I didn’t want to risk it, so we looked for another way, which was surprisingly difficult to find. It was literally like a maze, with many dead ends, but we eventually got to an area we knew and reached the hotel safely just after 11pm.