I had my doubts, I must admit, after being kicked off my first train to Venice for not having paid the correct fare supplement. For once in my life, it was an honest fare evasion mistake. I had to wait in some middle-of-nowhere darkness between Milan and Verona for my correct train – yes, the “slow” train. This was somewhere in the sixth hour after leaving Paris, and I cursed myself with 20/20 hindsight for having bought a plane ticket to Milan, and not just straight to Venice.

Plans fall through, and new opportunities presented themselves. Venice it was.

The chaos of Milan’s central train station reminded me something of China or Russia, but I think this impression was enhanced by hoards of cigarette smokers framed by fascist era architecture.

Never before have fatigue and a bad mood so quickly dissipated as when I stepped out of Venice’s Santa Lucia station to behold the Grand Canal. It was all worth it. Venice is something amazing for me, and I don’t just say that because I’m a sentimental sucker. I first laid eyes on the jewel of La Serenissima (the Serene Republic) at eight years old, and bedazzled by the glitter of masks, I was captivated. It was the same on my return at eighteen years old, despite some very cynical travelling companions. The magic captured in childhood is still there – and not even diminished by the fact I had inconveniently chosen the busiest long weekend (All Saints’ Day) before the cold, damp of the low season.

Here was a city that devoted the spoils of a thousand years of mercantilism to the beautification of their surrounds – in grand style. Venice today is an archipelago of 117 islands, with 150 canals traversed by 400 bridges, and the echoes of Othello, Desdemona and Shylock throughout the sestieri (districts).