A change of status.

It's not often that I become something else. Changing what you are for the rest of your life makes you feel as if the world has shifted ever so slightly on its axis. And yet, that is exactly where I find myself. My capacity for loving my family had achieved the max ... or so I thought... And then along comes a new person who, despite only weighing 7 and a half pounds, not a walker or a talker yet - not even a smiler, in fact - and he changes everything.

When number 1 asked a few months ago if she and her husband could move into the barn (not a baby Jesus scenario - it is converted into a dwelling of sorts) so that their baby could be born in God's own country rather than in the smelly old metropolis, we could scarcely believe our luck. Not entirely true - I could scarcely believe my luck and my beloved agreed grudgingly to give up his man cave. Clearing, disposing and cleaning has been the order of the day for the last few months and since we have been, for more years than I care to think, a depository for other family members' - living and dead - clutter, this cathartic cleansing has been definitely a good thing.

On arrival, number 1's nesting instinct was at full throttle. Not only was the downstairs of the barn turned into a lovely sitting area as it had always been intended before my beloved's hoarding instinct and our fellow family members' desire to dump their 'I-might-need-it-one-day' stuff on us took over but she felt the need to clear out all sorts of cupboards in the house as well. And 'borrow' various bits of furniture that would 'go' in the barn. There was a sort of tidal swapping of furniture and general clobber between the barn and my office and the good stuff was definitely heading out of the front door and across the yard, whilst the other was heading into my office to be stored, sold, given away, taken to the tip and so on.

Meanwhile, arrangements for the birth of a very small person in Yorkshire rather than London involved registering with doctors, midwives, hospitals and so on. For the second time, I accompanied number 1 to see the midwife (I'd already done this in London) and sat aghast at how times had changed since numbers 3 and 4 had made their appearance. There were definitely moments when I wondered how my four survived their whole childhood and how different was the advice given to prospective parents now. No matter. My role is to do as I'm told and only proffer advice when actually asked for it. (Very difficult to achieve as it turns out).

We scarcely made it back from our holiday in Cyprus and Turkey before things started kicking off. Week 39 and the midwife told number 1 lots of encouraging things about her state of health and concurred that she could train it down to London the following day for an audition. I'm gobsmacked but there's no stopping her. Shall I come with you? No. I'll pay for an Uber so you don't have to get the tube. More no.

But when she didn't feel quite right on the return journey from London, it was straight to Harrogate Hospital for a few checks. Meanwhile, we went to the pub with Four Candles and Boadicea only to discover we'd picked a pub with no mobile phone signal. As we headed home several hours later, we were bombarded with messages to ring now, come home NOW etc etc. The drama had begun...

Well nature took its course in its own sweet time meaning that labour took Friday night, all day Saturday during which I made jars and jars of redcurrant jelly to distract myself from the thought of my child in pain and then Saturday night. Having the self control not to phone and text hourly whilst all this was going on was nearly too much for me. Sunday morning dawned and we'd heard nothing. I went to church to see if God could get things going any quicker to discover that whilst I had been out, my grandson had finally made an appearance.

I'm not going to cry when I go to hospital. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I did. Multiple times. But I make no apology. If you're going to cry about something, isn't this absolutely the best reason in the world? I'm a granny!

Snakes, hostile crossings and a little knowledge is a dangerous thing!

This year's summer holiday for my beloved and me has taken the form of a two-centre (look at me! travel trade lingo!) event starting with a visit to lovely friends Nigel and Sarah in Cyprus. This is my second trip to their beautiful home but the first for my beloved. We were made very welcome by our lovely hosts and we enjoyed a few days of relaxing, catching up, eating, drinking, tennis with the Nomads and ...snakes. 

My children will confirm that I am not keen on reptiles generally. I can handle (though not literally) a small gekko, but anything bigger - and particularly one without actual feet - is a scary prospect. Indeed, when I used to take the children to Regents Park Zoo, I would wait outside while they went in the reptile house. No, reptiles are not for me. 

I know from my previous visits to Cyprus that there are snakes of the poisonous and non-poisonous varieties but until this occasion, I hadn't actually come nose to nose with one. On a walk through the forest, with two sturdy men with sticks, Sarah and I encountered my first black snake, whisking rapidly off the path and into the undergrowth before we got too near. We grabbed each other, shrieked, and looked for support but naturally the sturdy men with sticks were at least 50 yards behind and of no conceivable use. Unscathed but more nervous than before, my beloved and I were then told about the snakes in the pump room UNDER THE HOUSE!!! "We think they're breeding so we don't want to disturb them." Me: "How many babies do they have?" "Over a hundred." Eek! 

Then we actually saw the snaky couple - one about six foot, the daddy nearer eight, attempting to climb up the wall of the house! Now I'm checking under the bed, locking the bedroom door and going nowhere near the ssssnake - sorry - pump room. What may have saved my bacon was the arrival of a big digger in the garden bringing two huge ancient wine jars as garden ornaments. I can only assume that the vibration of the heavy machinery scared the snakes off because we didn't see them or any of their potentially huge family again - phew!  

Our other adventure was accidental gate-crashing. In the spirit of 'go large or go home!' we decided we would go for drinks at the beautiful 5*  Anassa Hotel which is seriously high-end (millionaire  Philip Green had his 50th birthday party there with a gang of supermodels and celebrities). We were warmly greeted by staff in the car park, taken by golf buggy to the front entrance and we made our way through the elegant marble foyer to the terrace. We were offered champagne cocktails which initially we refused but the waiting staff were so persistent that we felt it would be rude to say no. We sat admiring the view, drinking cocktails and politely refusing canapés when we became aware that we were receiving less than friendly glares from a smartly-dressed gentleman who appeared to be hosting a big group. Finishing our drinks, we got up to leave but were detained by a professional photographer who insisted on taking our picture and then kindly took some more on our phones. It was only when we made out way back into the hotel that we glanced behind us to see that we had joined in a private cocktail party. Oh dear! Fun though! 

Our few days with Nigel and Sarah came to an end but the bit of the holiday that I was nervous about (before I knew about the snakes, obviously)  was just beginning. Bit of background required here: Back in the 1970s there was a civil war in Cyprus between the Greek Cypriots (now living in the country we know as Cyprus) and the Turkish Cypriots, resulting in a division of the country which runs through the capital, Nicosia. The hostilities are still so keenly felt by both the Greek and Turkish Cypriots that the border was only opened to Cypriots in 2003, some thirty years after the war. Parts of Turkish Cyprus are still no-go areas, most notably Famagusta which had been regarded as one of the most beautiful beach resorts in the world. Travel between Cyprus and mainland Turkey for the most part does not exist and no airport in Cyprus flies to mainland Turkey. 

So how to get from Cyprus to Kalkan in Turkey? Our lovely hosts offered to drive us across the border in Nicosia to Ercan Airport in Turkish Cyprus from whence we could fly to Antalya in mainland Turkey and drive to Kalkan. We queued at the border in Nicosia watched over by gun-toting Greeks and then gun-toting Turks having driven through the UN peace-keeping zone between the two countries. I know some people do this every day, but for me, it was nerve-wracking. Particularly when they took our passports and Nigel had to go back and get them a few minutes later. 

Our impression of Turkish Cyprus? We were only on the (almost empty) main road to the airport but there is lots of new build, flash car showrooms, impressive university buildings, big statement Turkish flags but precious few people. Our hosts were going on to Kyrenia for the weekend so they will have a better understanding. 

Saying goodbye to our lovely friends, we headed into the airport and all went swimmingly until we went through passport control. I am one of those people who seldom has the appropriate riposte at the right moment and I often wake up in the middle of the night thinking of what I should have said but wasn't quick-witted enough at the time. For once, I managed to avoid dropping myself in it... "Which airport did you fly into?" the uniformed customs official asked, examining my passport. Clearly the answer to this question was not Paphos! "We're flying to Antalya," I answered guilelessly. He stared hard at me - we are so obviously tourists and this is not a tourist route. Eventually - long pause - he said "No matter," and handed me back my passport. Phew! 

So we flew from Ercan to Antalya in a packed plane of Turkish people and one cat, endured the usual car hire shenanigans and managed to get so spectacularly lost in Antalya that we finished up on the hairpin bends of the coast road at two o'clock in the morning. But we made it to number 2 and J Stocko's pad in Kalkan and perhaps we won't try that route again. 

And finally... A little knowledge is a dangerous thing... I have an app on my phone called Find My Friends. It should actually be renamed Find My Children. I use it to track offspring primarily so I know they're safe. I know, I know, I'm a mum, I can't help it. So I was checking whether number 4 was working a night shift at the hospital in London where she is a nurse the other evening about 10.20pm Turkey time. She was, and so whilst I was on the app I checked number 2 who was also still at work. Number 3 won't engage in this - he calls it stalking. Hmmm... But number 1 appeared to be at Harrogate Hospital. And she's 37 weeks pregnant!!!!!! Panic! I ring my son-in-law. "You're at the Hospital!!!! What's going on?????" "It's a secret" he says conspiratorially before telling me that it's only 8.20 in the UK and they are at ante-natal class. I could hear them giggling from 2,000 miles away. I am a fool.  

A change is as good as a ...?

I like change. And I like routine. And the combination of the two is what makes life interesting - the comfort and safety of a schedule of habits and familiar moves broken by unexpected bends in the road. But too much of either can be not necessarily a good thing. Too much routine and life becomes dull and uneventful and the appreciation of the small things in life fades with the tedium. Too much change and stress levels rise and I long for the peaceful repetition of remembered things.

And change has been the order of the day in spades recently - some very good and some definitely less so.

The intrepid granny, known for her adventurous holidays, sporting passions (playing and watching) and her love of gin, decided to move house ... after 52 years. Yes, 52 years ago, she bunked me off school - Lord knows what important skills I may have missed on that day - brain surgery perhaps? - and she and I moved from the great Victorian pile in Leamington Spa to a slightly smaller house with a big garden and a paddock for my pony just outside a village near Warwick. Scroll on through time and my brother and I grew up and left home, my father sadly passed away and the intrepid granny continued to live there alone for nearly thirty years. We encouraged her to move in vain - to God's own country or at least to somewhere in a town - but she was having none of it. And then last year, when we had long given up, she calmly bought a house off-plan in Warwick and put the family home up for sale. 

It's taken a year to build her super doopah new home and just as long to clear out 52 years of clutter. Yes, some of the clutter was lovely and full of memories but lots of it hadn't seen the light of day since I left home over 40 years ago. But finally moving week came and I headed to the Midlands to be Mr Shifter. https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=mr+shifter&&view=detail&mid=623F64BBD5B1FA4D0506623F64BBD5B1FA4D0506&&FORM=VRDGAR

Full of dread that she wouldn't like it (she'd been to look a few weeks prior to moving day and at that point, she definitely didn't!), that she'd hate moving out of her home of so many years, that all manner of moving elements would go wrong, and so on... so this had not been something to anticipate with pleasure. And then, blow me down, none of those things happened and it all went well and she loves her new home and every time we speak (every day!) her voice is so full of excitement for each new day in her new home. Result! 

And through it all, my little dog came too. And when we returned to Yorkshire on the Friday night, she was happy to be home for what turned out to be her last days. On our Sunday morning walk, she died sadly and unexpectedly and now she is buried in the garden with the other late family dogs, Henry and Mollie. Each morning I miss her wagging tail, her insistence on a walk (apart from when raining), her delight at her daily chew, her total refusal to ever get her feet wet, her greeting at the garden gate. RIP Bobbie. Top dog and friend. 

And the biggest change of all is the arrival of number one child, great with child as they say in Biblical circles, and her lovely husband. They have made a home in our barn conversion and are now nesting like mad prior to the arrival of the most important baby in my world since the twins arrived 22 years ago. Number one looks absolutely blooming and this baby will bring so much joy to us all. Happy change! 

"I had this perfect dream..."

"I had this perfect dream..." as it goes in Freddie Mercury's Barcelona and indeed, when I am huddled by the fire in January after two daily dog walks have left me damp and dispirited, my dream is usually not some white sandy beach, turquoise sea and clear blue skies - though I'm not saying that it wouldn't be nice - but a cafe or bar with street-side seating in the warm spring sunshine sipping a cappuccino or even better a glass of something pink and alcoholic in Barcelona.

I know bucket lists are supposed to be full of exotic, undiscovered and distant destinations but my bucket list, which is, like so many things in my life, a work in progress, has an eclectic mix of old and new destinations and the ones that I love, where I have been really happy, are always included for another a visit. I think we've been to Barcelona five times now and each visit shows us another side to this bustling, stylish Catalan city. And this time was no exception. Brilliantly, and by a serendipitous fluke, the Barcelona ATP Tennis Tournament falls fairly and squarely on our wedding anniversary so no surprise that this event is a massive favourite of ours.

But first, easy to get to from Leeds Bradford and an obliging taxi ride from the airport, we opted for an Airbnb centrally located for the four of us because on this trip we were joined by our tennis buds, Nigel and Sarah Mou - a smidgeon of Greek there! Great location near to one of our two favourite tapas bars but four floors up with the sort of lift that would not have been out of place in Thoroughly Modern Millie!
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x54ddfj. Anyway perfect for us and very well fitted out though my beloved would have liked a bigger bed and there was a fair amount of clinging to the edge of the precipice on either side in the middle of the night!

Our two favourite tapas bars are Cerveceria Catalana on Carrer de Mallorca, literally a spit and a bit from our Airbnb - a buzzy mix of suits and tourists and whether you're sitting outside or standing six deep at the bar pointing at the amazing array of tapas, it's all good. And our other favourite is Irati which is an altogether smaller affair, snugly squeezed between tourist shops on a narrow street not far off Las Ramblas. Here you help yourself to cold tapas from the bar and then prepare for the diving hands when the hot tapas emerge from the kitchen at the back - these are the best! Each tapas has a cocktail stick and the bar staff tot up the sticks when you pay the bill. As ever, fab food and a bottle of rather nice red came to 62 euros for the four of us. Can't be beaten...

The tennis in Barcelona is my favourite of the smaller tournaments we've been to. Each has its own character but there is something friendly and welcoming about the Barcelona tournament. We were booked into men's quarter finals so four matches of the best of three sets including a masterclass from Rafa. And when in Barcelona, he gets the kind of welcome from the crowd that Sachin Tendulkar gets from a home crowd in India. Three top 10 players in action and the weather was perfect. Two minutes from the court to a glass of cool beer - it can't be bettered.

No trip to Barcelona is complete without a visit to La Sagrada Familia - the stunning, and constantly evolving Gaudi cathedral. This is my favourite of all modern buildings. I don't have the words to describe the light inside from the many, many stained glass windows or the incredible ceiling which sparkles and glistens above our heads with each carving and image around us perfectly symbolic. That it is still being constructed to Gaudi's specific plan nearly 100 years after his death is surely the greatest mark of respect of the people. And each time we visit, it shows a new treasure. Find somewhere away from the crowds to sit and contemplate. You won't be disappointed. Top tip: book before you go as the queues can be massive.

There were lots of other joyous bits of our long weekend including two very reasonable pairs of shoes for moi and some delicious meals including Tomate/Fan Ho and a lovely if very windy walk down to the Marina. Also new to us was the magnificent Fonta Magica of Montjuic where the fountains nearly match those of the Bellagio in Las Vegas and play to Barcelona by the much-missed Freddie Mercury and Monserrat Caballe. And not forgetting my must-have Cosmopolitan at a rooftop bar - yeah! All that was missing was one more day. We'll be back next April - love it!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0wdxj8-mAU

Thirty Years and counting...

You might think, though you'd be incorrect, that when I write my blog, my thoughts just tumble on to the page (well, laptop really) in the same conversational style as if you and I were just having a chat. Actually, the truth is very different and often the gestation period for a blog runs over many dog walks over a number of weeks. Until at some point, like the midwife saying, "You can push now!" I just have to either write it or forget it.

Anyway, two such blogs have been rattling around in the semi-occupied space up top and chronologically this one has to come first - for reasons that will become apparent later.

A little more than thirty years ago, my beloved took his very large wife (great with child - yes, still me!) down a lane, along a bumpy track and over a rattly cattle grid to a small gamekeeper's cottage surrounded by fields, with a garden the size of a postage stamp and numerous very run-down outbuildings including a straw barn occupied by a major rodent population. More honest estate agent's blurb might have read: no heating and a kitchen circa 1960 which should be demolished with immediate effect. I expect it actually read something like: A unique opportunity to buy a period home in need of some restoration with stunning views across open countryside, blah, blah blah. One day I'll find the particulars but in the meantime, I can tell you that my version is a whole lot more accurate.

Also it isn't true to say that we were 'viewing' the property because my beloved had already shaken hands on the deal and if I had imagined that our forever home (for this is what it was always to be) would be in a pretty village with a proper kitchen, heating and somewhere for the children to play in a safe environment, that ship had already sailed. But I knew that this was indeed my beloved's forever home as it was part of the estate where he had lived as a boy (in the posh house, of course) and he had poached extensively here throughout his youth. And this has been our forever home, a life sentence of the best possible kind - probably a lot longer than any custodial sentence dished out in court.

So already purchased by the time I even saw it for the first time, thirty years ago this month we moved in - that is to say, I moved in with the help of a friend at bang on nine months pregnant with number 2, my beloved arriving at about 4.00pm having been held up at work. Hmmmm.... Anyway all that 'Mr Shifta' stuff failed to dislodge number 2 who wisely chose to stay where she was until the central heating was working properly a couple of weeks later.

Various outbuildings were demolished, straw bales removed and the rodent population took over the garden until one day when I had laid number 2 baby on a rug by the front door in the sunshine only to see a very large rat (my imagination says terrier-sized but I may be exaggerating) approaching. The rodent population was well and truly obliterated with immediate effect thereafter!

We had such grand plans back then but never the capital to do more than a relatively small amount of work at a time and friends (who thought we were mad to move here in the first place) always referred to the house as a work in progress which even now thirty years on would be a correct description. We've built and converted, dug every square inch of garden, fenced and cattle-gridded, planted all the trees apart from the two cypresses which is all that remains of what was there when we arrived. It took eight years to get rid of the dreaded green formica kitchen and I still think of my twenty year old kitchen as 'the new kitchen' even though it is now overdue for replacement.

But this is home in every sense of the word. Three of our children never lived anywhere else until they left school and number 1 won't even remember our previous house (with a proper garden and very nice kitchen!). It's a special place to all of us and even though we haven't done half of what we'd hoped, it is, without doubt, on a sunny day like today the best place on the planet. Though I may of course be a bit biased but this is my blog and I'm allowed!

"We are not amused"... It's Snow Time!

When people come to our home for the first time, they often ask how we manage when we are snowed in. In the early years of living in splendid isolation at the little house on the prairie, heavy snow was an almost annual event but we managed pretty well for a number of reasons. Firstly, we had great neighbours who would bring a tractor down the mile of lane between our cattle grid and the crossroads on the outskirts of the village (not that we don't have great neighbours now - of which, more later...). We also had some very good sledging locations which our children and their friends were well aware of and so parents of the friends would skid and slide their way down to ours in 4x4s packed with kids and sledges for some proper fun. And, most significantly, my beloved would be around to join in, ferry anyone who needed ferrying in his own 4x4 and keep us in fresh veg etc until the roads were cleared.

Then came what I shall describe as the 'Las Vegas Winters'. When our four offspring ranged from 18 down to 8, my beloved started attending the Consumer Electronics Show which took place in Las Vegas in January. Of course, it was necessary for him to get himself down to London to fly out to Vegas and regardless of whether any white stuff lay on the ground or was forecast, he was going and the chosen vehicle was the aforementioned 4x4. He would disappear in early January to somewhere warm and carefree whilst I was in charge of domestic affairs. And without fail, the snow, if it hadn't already, would come down in ... well... alpine proportions.

First task would be to get all children to school, assuming it hadn't been deemed a 'snow day'. Pause here for great celebrations and giddiness if this was the case. Otherwise we achieved our departure by getting my wonderful neighbour to help me get the remaining non-4x4 vehicle up the drive, into the village and parked in the pub car park just about a mile away. Then, each morning, once schools were re-opened, we would en masse trudge up the lane in our wellies so that I could transport them from the pub car park into school before parking in the pub car park and trudging back the mile back down the lane. Then I would do the same in reverse at the end of the day, with food shopping being carried back. I learnt early on that bags of potatoes, tins and dog food were not life's essentials when you've a mile-long march through the snow. I also gained a reputation as a prodigious drinker as my car was always at the pub!

Each year, having moaned a bucketload during our brief conversations between Las Vegas and Yorkshire about the depth of the snow, impracticality of not having a 4x4 etc, as soon as the due date for his return actually arrived, the snow would miraculously disappear and he would arrive back saying: "How can you make such a fuss? There's hardly any snow!"

The last of these memorable Las Vegas Winters was back in 2009 and since then, when folks have asked about being snowed in, we've just told them that with global warming it doesn't seem to happen any more. What fools we were!

So bringing things back to the present day, my beloved now works 2 hours away and only comes home at weekends. He drives to work on a Monday in the only available 4x4 leaving me latterly with my super-doopah John Cooper Works Mini. When the Beast from the East was forecast a couple weeks ago, I suggested that perhaps he might take the Mini and leave me with the Defender. That went down like, well, a lead balloon and off he went on Monday morning in the Land Rover that he loves more than life itself - well, nearly, anyway. Come Wednesday we are under snow and although I can get up the lane on Wednesday, by Thursday morning, nobody is going anywhere.

"Come home!" I say to my beloved but he is resisting big style. "How many at work today?" "Two," he replies and I know that the other bloke lives on site! Anyway, eventually he agrees to return on Thursday afternoon so he can spend the next three days complaining that I am making a fuss about nothing.

Fast forward to Sunday and, almost in the words of Elton John's hit single, "The Beast is Back" or on its way at least. "So can I borrow the Defender this week and you take the Mini?" As ever, it was not well received so come Thursday when the Beast dumped 4 inches of snow on us in literally 3 hours flat, once again, I was snowed in! Of course, it was all gone by lunchtime but I was, in the words of Queen Victoria, in the manner of Dame Judi Dench rather than Jenna Coleman, not amused.

As I write this, rumour has it that the Beast might be back again next week... when I will definitely not be amused - again!

Footnote: Being a very keen cinema-goer, I have, in fact, seen nearly all the films nominated and awards in this year's Oscars so I was unsurprisingly disappointed to see that my film of the year, Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool didn't even get a look-in. Do catch it if you can. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt5711148/

And Sir Elt's version of "The Bitch/Beast is Back!" - enjoy!  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rig3tgyYiAM

Don't Look Now!* Two Days and Two Nights in Venice

The long-awaited 60th birthday present from number 1 daughter (not her fault as dates were set and broken on both sides) was an incredibly beautiful and unforgettable lightning visit to Venice. Planned just a couple of weeks before departure but lovingly researched and booked by the aforementioned number 1, this was a visit to the stunningly atmospheric and eerily romantic city of 118 islands.

One of the many things that strikes you as you head over your first footbridge en route from the people mover which transports you from the coach that transports you from Treviso Airport (not the rather handier but much more pricey Marco Polo) is that there is no sound or smell of traffic. From here it's by foot or boat. The narrow streets and alleyways, which in cities like Marrakech with its equally skinny byways are thronged with scooters and donkeys and inappropriate cars as well as pedestrians, are quiet apart from the sound of your own heels clicking on the stone cobbles. Where these thoroughfares are busy is nearer to the Rialto Bridge or Piazza San Marco for though this is February, it is also Venice Carnival and so, though sometimes damp and cold, the tourists will come - and quite rightly so. But in the darkened and narrow alleyways, especially as dusk falls, only the occasional sound of chatter breaks the sometimes eerie silence and the sounds of the water lapping against the stone.

Our hotel for two nights was the Al Duca di Venezia, a boutique hotel with very helpful staff and ornate, if snug, bedrooms. But the name of the game on such a short visit is to dump our stuff as dusk falls and head into the night for wine and tapas (yes, ok, it's Italy not Spain but tapas gets you a stunning selection of brochetta) before a big bowl of spaghetti alle vongole. No late nights for us because we have just two whole days to make this city our own and experience as much as we can of what it has to offer.

Al Duca serves a good breakfast with a delicious cup of thick hot chocolate which is a meal in itself. Then armed with a map, guide book and our phones we set out to discover the city's secrets. Number 1 has been here once before - and relatively recently. I, on the other hand, have been twice - once on an utterly miserable school trip aged fifteen and then again the year before we were married with dear friends who provided us with an especially memorable moment when we stopped in the Piazza San Marco at Caffe Florian. That day we were sitting outside cafe enjoying the sights and sounds of Venice. There was a string quartet/quintet playing and suddenly our friends vanished and the orchestra moved en masse to our table and played 'our song' - Moon River - as our friends hid behind a pillar giggling and enjoying our embarrassment.

So first it's the Basilica San Marco but not before we've wandered through the fragrant and colourful fish and veg markets. The Basilica is mercifully not too full of tourists to enjoy a quiet moment in its ornate grandeur. Then next door to the Doge's Palace which boasts impressive frescoes and  murals but the most memorably atmospheric moment is crossing the Bridge of Sighs - a last glimpse of freedom - before entering the dank, inhospitable prison. Our plan then is to go to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection - closed, as it turns out, and Ca' Rezzonico, the place where Robert Browning lived and died in Venice - ditto closed. Hmmm... so when in Venice ... it's a very big bowl of pasta and a gondola ride.

This I have never done before but I've checked the gondola stations on our travels and the price is 80 euros everywhere - no haggling. The brightly-dressed gondoliers are in sharp contrast to the black gondolas which number about 400 in the summer. Our gondolier is chatty and informative, keen to take us down the Grand Canal to the 7* hotel where George Clooney got married. He doesn't however understand our amusement when we sail under a washing line of many ladies' knickers and is merely keen for us to know that he doesn't live there!

So our second evening kicks off with a rapid pizza before we head back into the Piazza San Marco to see what Carnival activity is occurring, which, as it turns out, is a disco. But it's the sights, not the sounds that draw us, for everywhere, day and night, the main piazzas and bridges are thronged with masked characters of the seventeenth and eighteenth century. These snappy dressers pose over and over again for snaps from tourists, acknowledging our thanks with an elegant nod of the head.

Our second day begins with a walk to the Jewish Ghetto. In 1516, the Jews of Venice were locked into their ghetto every night as ruled by the Venetian Republic, but though compelled to live an area enclosed by two guarded bridges, the remainder of the time they had the freedom of the city with the other Venetian citizens. The area is dominated by Ghetto Nuovo Square where there is a monument to those who were rounded up to be taken to concentration camps during the Second World War. Of the 243 taken to Auschwitz only 8 returned at the end of the war. A poignant reminder that man's inhumanity to man continues from generation to generation.

Then another brisk walk to catch the boat to Murano, famous for its glass. This is a chilly boat trip to another island dominated by canals and bridges. Every shop sells the famous multi-coloured glass though we are advised by one young shopkeeper, keen to practise her English on a quiet day, that if you can't see the minuscule bubbles in the glass, even here, it is probably imported from China or India. We see an artisan moulding tiny glass elephants, deftly pulling ears and trunks into shape under the pale blue flame. We are advised that glass-blowing demonstrations should be free but the only furnace not breaking for lunch (which apparently starts at 1.00 and ends at 3.00!) expects us to pay so we decide to catch a vaporetto back to San Marco in time for the fancy dress competition of the day.

This is the one for amateurs with prizes of entry to the famous Carnival Ball (a mere 500 euros for a regular punter!). The participants from all over the world claim they have spent literally months creating their costumes and the effect is stunning.

So now there is only time to try to visit Ca' Rezzonico once again but this time we are half an hour too late and are doomed once again to see only the ground floor rooms. "Come back tomorrow!" we are told, but of course, we are now in our last few hours before making our way to the airport. We stop at a pasticceria and enjoy a tea and frittelle (doughnuts) surrounded by young Venetian students from the local university.

We detour en route back to the hotel to pick up our bags, heading through San Marco and over the Rialto Bridge one last time, before the very brisk walk to the people mover. Because we have to wait for it to arrive, we make the coach transfer with less than a couple of minutes to spare. Had we known that our Ryanair (you get what you pay for) flight is delayed by nearly an hour we probably would have panicked less! The net result of the flight delay is a serious dash from Immigration through Stansted to catch the very last train to London. Phew!

A wonderful, sensually-overloaded trip to one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Venice Carnival simply must be done.

*Don't Look Now is a 1970s classy thriller set in Venice starring Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie. The film features a dwarf in a red duffle coat which made number 1's choice of coat a source of constant entertainment to me. Great movie (though probably very dated now) featuring the city at its eerie best. Catch it if you can!