The Certosa di Pavia rewards efforts to get off the beaten track in crowded Italy

The Certosa di Pavia is a perfect reminder that it’s still possible to see marvels in Italy without having to elbow your way through a crowd. You just need a bit of fortitude—and a willingness to stray from the usual tourist path. 

In central Milan, tickets to see Leonardo’s Last Supper sell out within 24 hours of coming online. The Duomo’s rooftop is impossible to access without booking well in advance, and the Castello Sforzesco is a magnet for dense, slow-moving tourist clusters. But just 25 miles south of the city centre lies the astonishing Certosa di Pavia. It’s every bit the masterpiece as those headliners in town, yet you’ll stroll right in—and likely have the place almost to yourself. It’s even free. Though good form suggests buying something from the monks’ shop, and a guided tour warrants a donation at the end.

“Certosa” is Italian for “Charterhouse,” the name used for Carthusian monasteries. This one was funded by the ruling Visconti family, dukes of Milan. When the last Visconti married into the Sforza line, the new dynasty took over the dukedom—and continued the sponsorship. The same people commissioning the blockbuster masterpieces of Renaissance Milan sent artists down here to decorate their private entry ticket to heaven. They spared no expense.

(Carthusians, by the way, have a long history of hosting lavish aristocratic patronage. Miraflores in northern Spain—with its royal tombs and perfume-making monks—is one of my favourite sites in that country.)

The complex, strategically located between Milan and Pavia—the first and second cities of the old Visconti-Sforza dukedom—is anchored by a glorious church. Its facade is encrusted with inlaid marble, detailed carvings, and Gothic pinnacles to rival any cathedral in Italy. Its architecture sits right at the junction of Gothic and Renaissance, managing to capture the best of both. A sequence of courtyards and cloisters surrounds the church. Some are open to the public; others can only be accessed on a monk-led tour. 

You know you’re in for something special from the moment you enter the gatehouse. Look up: frescoed Renaissance grotesques twirl overhead. Then emerge into a long rectangular courtyard, neoclassical façades embracing you, with the glittering jewel box of the church gleaming at the far end.

The church interior—and in fact the whole complex—has been much restored. It was shut down by Napoleon in 1796 and left mostly empty until the Italian government designated it a national monument 70 years later. You’d never know it had fallen into disrepair. Cross from the sunlit courtyard into the dusky interior and the first thing to catch your eye is the ceiling: alternating vaults painted in cerulean blue with golden stars and bold geometric patterns. The large, rectangular nave is spare, but the chapels along either side are brimming with masterpieces.

The floor plan is cruciform, but you’ll only get as far as the base of the cross before a towering wrought-iron screen blocks your way. The Carthusians were a cloistered order; they didn’t speak or interact with the public. Everything beyond the screen was for the monks—or their noble patrons. Today’s resident Cistercians are more outgoing. Several times a day, one of them will unlock the gate for a guided tour. The tour is in Italian, but you don’t need to understand it to join. (If your Italian is minimal, reading up in advance will help you appreciate what you’re seeing.)

What lies beyond the screen is even more extraordinary than what you have seen so far. 

In the arms of the cross-shaped plan you’ll find magnificent funerary monuments. One side holds the marble, recumbent figures of Ludovico “Il Moro” Sforza and his wife Beatrice d’Este. (Top photo.) History tells us he was never the same after her death—a grief that may have contributed to his disastrous invitation to French troops to help him defend his lands. That call for help kicked off a cycle of foreign invasions that kept Italy under outsider control for centuries. But Ludovico also bankrolled Da Vinci and sparked Milan’s greatest artistic flowering. Flawed though he was, his tomb is surrounded by artistic paradise: inlaid marble, frescoed walls, and stained glass of breathtaking quality. In the opposite chapel rests Gian Galeazzo Visconti, founder of the dynasty, in a far more flamboyant canopy tomb. Between the two, portals adorned with reliefs of noble faces lead to ornate sacristies bursting with gilded altars and woodwork marquetry. 

The choir and altar area at the head of the cross were redone in the late 16th century in full Baroque style: neoclassical temple elements, bronze statues in dynamic motion, and yet more exquisite marquetry. (Not quite as spectacular as the treasures at Santa Maria in Organo in Verona—but close.)

From the church, your guide leads you through the monks’ doorway into the first of two cloisters. This one offers a glorious view of the church’s rear façade. While the front blends Renaissance and late Gothic styles, the back leans hard into the Romanesque and Gothic. Stacked colonnades, soaring pinnacles reminiscent of Milan’s Duomo, and exuberant terracotta detailing are everywhere. You’ll also find a striking terracotta lavatorium, where the monks would wash before meals, and a frieze in the same style circling the cloister. If you’ve ever wondered where London’s Victorian architects got their ideas for all those fanciful red-brick embellishments—like those at the V&A—look no further. There are similar examples elsewhere in Italy, but none better than here.

The adjacent refectory may be more modest, but for those who couldn’t get tickets to see Leonardo’s Last Supper, Ottavio Semini’s version here offers a worthy consolation prize. While no match for Da Vinci’s genius, its setting—with original benches and tables still in place, and a pulpit projecting ten feet above the dining room floor—offers a more authentic sense of how these rooms were used. The refectory was a place of silent reflection, where monks ate without speaking while scripture was read aloud. Unlike Leonardo’s mural, now encased in a functional museum setting, this room retains its sense of sacred function. 

From this cloister you move into a second, even larger one. At first glance it seems plain—until you realise what you’re looking at. The lawn at its centre is bigger than a football pitch. Terracotta decoration continues around the arcade. And instead of monastic cells, this cloister is lined with individual houses. Yes, houses. If you ever found yourself consigned to a cloistered life, this would be the place to do it. 

Each monk’s home had its own entrance foyer, sitting room with generous fireplace, a clever drop-leaf desk built into a bookcase, a bedroom filled with light from leaded windows, and a private L-shaped garden with a shaded loggia. It’s hardly full compensation for a life of isolation, but certainly a generous interpretation of the vow of poverty.

One corner of this cloister offers a view out to the monks’ vineyards—just one example of the work they performed when not in prayer.

The tour ends with a walk down a long hallway leading back to the main courtyard. Along the way: a small museum and the monks’ shop. The Cistercians continue monastic traditions of agriculture and healing, offering honey, beer, wine, and herbal remedies prepared in a beautifully preserved Renaissance pharmacy. Photography is strictly forbidden inside. Fortunately (for my wallet), I had no checked baggage allowance on my flight and couldn’t bring any liquids home.

Despite being within Italy’s largest metro area (Rome is technically the largest city, but Milan takes this broader category), the Certosa is surrounded by fields growing rice for the famous  risotto Milanese. There is a profound, rural quiet. To process everything you’ve seen, stop at the Gra-Car café just outside the gatehouse. Nestled in a garden of herbs and roses, it served up a giant Aperol Spritz—with included side-platter of olives, crisps, and nuts—for just €8. I could have lingered for hours, but didn’t want to gamble with my return logistics.

And therein lies one of the reasons this place is off the beaten track. While it’s not necissarily hard to get to, it does require some effort. 

There’s a station at Certosa di Pavia, but it’s a 20-minute walk from the monastery. Trains are infrequent, and reaching Milan’s Centrale station requires a transfer. I opted instead for a frequent, inexpensive (around €4 each way) direct train to Pavia.

Even as a seasoned European train traveller with passable Italian, I found the system challenging. Multiple train operators run from Centrale, it’s not obvious which one you want without asking, and queues at the ticket desks were long. Ticket machines refused to print, and the mobile app wouldn’t let me register. Eventually I managed to buy as a guest via the website, but downloading the QR code was far from intuitive. Once I had it, I still had to decipher which platform to use—since Pavia is a stop en route, not an end point. The trick: the departure main hall just outside the platform gates has a big, electronic board that shows destinations will all the stops along the way.

All this faffing meant I was an hour behind schedule. (Allow time to admire Milano Centrale while you’re there—it might be Europe’s most majestic train station.) Once in Pavia, I had lunch in the lovely Piazza della Vittoria, then hunted for the bus stop to the Certosa. Apple Maps was off be almost two blocks, and there was no signage to help me correct my error. Fearing I’d run out of time, I hailed a taxi. And, tired and uncertain of return logistics, I called the same driver to bring me back. My cheap train, bargain cocktail, and free admission were ultimately offset by €70 in cab fares. Oh—and the return train was half an hour late.

One more tip: the monks close for lunch. Check the website for exact opening times.

So, fair warning: getting off the beaten track demands patience, effort, and cash if you want to speed things up or cut down on the walking. But the reward is immense. You’ll have the time and space to reflect—without interruption—on spectacular treasures. In Lombardy, the Certosa di Pavia is the finest example. 

Five tips for beating the heat in Italy

The Brits have always decamped to Italy en masse in the summer on the promise of guaranteed heat and sun, something they traditionally couldn’t count on across their green, pleasant and often-damp island. Climate change has altered that equation. While still dependable, the Italian heat is hotter and the sun more brutal.

I find myself in Tuscany as a heat wave named after the hound who guards the gates of hell, Cerberus, blasts temperatures over 40, starts to exact a death toll, and pushes daily highs towards historic records. Brits rarely experience days above 22 (72) at home, and while Americans … who flood through Italy in their summer holidays … often come from places with extreme heat, they’re used to near-ubiquitous air conditioning. What’s a visitor to do to cope with the extremes? 

STAY OUT OF CITIES

Admittedly a bit of a problem if your itinerary is set and hotel booked, but do everything you can to avoid city centres. Florence’s black paving stones and stolid stone palazzi are lovely to look at but they radiate heat as effectively as an Aga. Add motor vehicles and crowds of tourists and even basic sightseeing becomes physically challenging. Get into the countryside and temperatures will immediately go down a bit. Hill towns are likely to catch a bit of a breeze. No place is comfortable right now, but elevated, less crowded spots like Volterra or Montepulciano are operating at less of an extreme. 

A rental villa in the countryside, like our Lampone Cottage in the Pian del Lago between Monteriggioni and Siena, is the ideal. As I sit typing this in a centuries-old converted farm building, thick stone walls and terracotta floors do a remarkably effective job balancing temperature. (And show how Italians can cope without air conditioning.) Opening windows and doors not in direct sun and letting the breeze blow through further improves things.

SKEW YOUR DAYS EARLY AND LATE

Anglo-Saxons often express frustration with the mid-day closure in much of Southern Europe, when everything shutters for a few hours. Experience a heat wave like this and it will all make sense. It’s crazy, and probably dangerous, to be sightseeing in the middle of the day.

Get up early. Stay up late. Take a nap in between. If you can manage it, doze in some shade next to a swimming pool.

The early hours are magical. Colours haven’t yet been bleached by the fierce sun and the air retains some coolness from the night. Tourist attractions may not be open yet but if you’re in towns or cities, sightseers rarely emerge betore 10 am giving you fabulous photos and pleasant walks. 

At the other end of the day, the locals come out. Old men sit on benches in the shade gossiping. Families are out for their passegiata, a communal evening stroll. Restaurants spill into the streets and squares, and queues trail back from gelato stands.  The local medieval festival in Monteriggioni, near our villa, didn’t open until 4 pm and was only getting crowded when we left at 8. Making the most of the early and late hours not only keeps you cooler, but gives you a truer feel for Italian life.

RENT A CAR

Many people … particularly Americans … get very nervous about hiring cars in Italy. Yes, the local drivers are fast and aggressive. Yes, many regions feature roads that slither back and forth like a tub of serpents. But the roads are generally in good repair and a car is the gateway to off-the-beaten-track experiences. More importantly, in the heart of a heat wave it offers an insulated, air-conditioned box. And given the general lack of air conditioning in Italy’s hotels and holiday rentals, your car may become your only reliable refuge from the heat.

We adjusted our plans to build in more driving and less exploring on foot. Tuscany is full of spectacular views. If you take your time, keep an eye open for lay-bys and pull in regularly, you’ll be able to snap some great shots … or merely appreciate the scene. 

Whoever does the PR for the Val d’Orcia has done an amazing job promoting the stretch of road between San Quirico and Pienza. It is pretty, and there’s one particular villa in the fields with a white marble chapel to one side that’s so familiar it’s practically a logo for the whole region. But if you’re going between the wine towns of Montalcino and Montepulciano (the main reason for being in this bit of Tuscany), we found a little detour beyond Montalcino to the Abbazia di Sant‘Antimo to be more beautiful; particularly views down on the abbey itself, an ancient Romanesque building bleached white in a valley of golds and greens.

 

The road from Greve-in-Chianti up to the Castello Montefiorelle, then along to Badia Passignano and on to Sambuca before joining the highway is truly spectacular and could be a day in itself if you stopped along the route to explore. The road from Colle di Val d’Elsa to Volterra is another blockbuster, particularly around sunset. This route also offers a picturesque view of San Gimignano without having to brave its crowds.

TAKE ICE SERIOUSLY

If you’ve rented a villa, you’re likely to have a full-sized refrigerator and freezer. Make the most of the latter. Make new ice at least twice a day, on waking and before going to bed. Get a bowl or a bag in there and keep it full. Only have one ice tray? Explore your cupboards for anything that could make good cubes. (We’ve had four plastic tumblers turning out eight giant ones a day, ideal for serving limoncello spritzes in pint glasses. Inelegant, but effective.)

As you empty plastic water bottles, re-fill them and freeze them. Taking a frozen bottle with you first thing should ensure you have cool water all morning. Don’t want to wait for the initial melt? Fill the bottle 3/4 full, freeze it at an angle (avoiding the cap, or you won’t be able to twist it off) and fill the empty bit with water just before you head out. 

You can fashion a cooler bag for the car by putting several frozen bottles in a towel, and then into a bag. If you have a fan, positioning it so it will blow over a bowl of ice will make the room cooler. (You can literally freeze a whole bowl of water to make this trick effective.) And if you’re having a miserable time sleeping in a hot room, you can freeze a two litre bottle of ice solid, wrap it in a towel and use it as a pillow; it will bring your whole body temperature down.

BE SENSIBLE ABOUT FOOD AND DRINK

Tourists in Italy inevitably default to pasta and pizza. With good reason. I could happily eat tagliatelle with cinghiale ragu, a local specialty, every day of my holiday. But real Italians no more exist on a diet of heavy carbohydrates than Brits start each day with a full English breakfast. A carb-heavy diet is a particularly bad idea in hot weather, where you’ll be sluggish and possibly feel ill as your metabolism struggles to digest the bulk. Take a tip from the locals and default to items like cold meat and cheese platters, melon and prosciutto or insalata caprese. (If you want to know how to survive in Italy without pork products or … heaven forfend … as a vegan, you’re going to have to find someone else’s blog. I haven’t a clue.)

In this weather you’ll understand why Italians eat so much ice cream. While you might not adopt the Sicilian habit of having it for breakfast in a brioche bun, you will find it both cools you down and gives you a lighter-than-carbs energy boost to keep going.

Alcohol, of course, isn’t a good thing in excessive heat since it can provoke dehydration, high blood pressure and dizziness. When temperatures soar, one glass of wine can carry the same punch as two or three. Start by focusing on your water. In extreme heat you should be drinking at least two litres a day, if not more. Though it’s more famous for its wine, Italy is like the rest of the world in having a thriving new culture of micro-breweries. There are lots of local offerings to try. The Brasseria del Grifone in Volterra is an excellent example of this new trend, with a variety of styles brewed on site by a local who will happily talk you through his range. 

If you are here for the wine, drink less of it and think about doing it once you’ve finished sightseeing and are established wherever you’re staying in the relative cool of the evening. 

Even if you follow all of these tips, travel in Italy is challenging when the temperatures soar. I confess to breathing a sigh of relief that I’m heading back to cool, rainy England as next week’s temperatures push toward the record. These tips allowed us to avoid the worst of the trauma this week and may help others as another summer of climate change pushes visitors to the edge of endurance.

The best tip of all, however? Plan your trip in May or late September.

V&A’s Donatello blockbuster brings wonder, beauty and Tuscan sun to South Kensington

Ask the proverbial "people on the street" to name a sculptor from the Italian Renaissance, and even the ones without a trace of interest in art history stand a good chance of coming up with the name Michelangelo. He and his David are so big, they've crossed into pop culture. Go back a century and a half, however, and the answer would have been different. Donatello would have dominated the consciousness back then, just as he had in the four hundred years since his death.

It's not hard to see why Michelangelo connected with the 20th century: rebel, sculptor of muscle-bound figures of power, portrayer of brutal force and raw emotion, immortalised as a restless, troubled genius in modern book and film. But if you want to really touch the spirit of the Renaissance, from its obsession with classical elegance to its love affair with beauty and humanism to the very warmth of its sun-baked piazzas, Donatello is your man. 

The Victoria and Albert Museum's new exhibition, Donatello: Sculpting the Renaissance, sets out to prove that point, and does so with style. 

Curators divide their cavernous main space into three sections with arches, walls and loggias, so you find yourself in an abstract distillation of a Tuscan townscape. The first part explores the young Donatello and the workshop system that trained him. There’s work from plenty of names you probably don’t know here, all beautiful, showing the collaborative spirit of the age and the way all the artists influenced each other. We learn about, and see an excellent video on, the jewellery making that was … like many other Renaissance craftsmen… Donatello’s first trade. Many feel that starting at such a fine, intricate scale is what gave the sculptor his virtuosity when he moved to larger scale works, particularly his bronzes. 

The heart of the show is pure Donatello, with free-standing figures, portrait busts, tombs and relief sculptures contributed from museums across Europe. Florence’s Bargello has been particularly generous, but this show started with them and came through Berlin before its triumphal conclusion in London.

The exhibition closes with a look at Donatello’s outsized impact on the art world, particularly in the century after his death and in the huge Renaissance revival of the 19th century. It’s amusing to see the counterfeits in this section created to sate a voracious hunger for the artist. And there are works from as late as the 1920s that exactly copy his style.

While Donatello worked across central Italy, he was indelibly a son of Florence. Any visitor to the cradle of the Renaissance will have seen so much of his work on plinths, walls and in niches, standing amidst so many other wonders of the age, that it’s possible to take it all for granted. The real glory of this show is the way it takes works out of their sensory-flooding contexts and stands them alone, allowing you to fully appreciate just how remarkable they are.

I don’t think anyone in art has been as good at capturing the contradictions of boys on the brink of manhood. Here we’re treated to two Davids, a Saint George and a John the Baptist, all shown as teenagers at that exquisite stage just before their elegant, androgynous features are rewritten by manhood. They exude that curious mix of confidence and doubt, power and fear, one foot in reality and one in some dreamy nether world so distinctive of the age group. The details on St. George’s armour are particularly impressive, reminding us of Donatello the jeweller. So beautiful is the young man in his martial glory we can forgive the fact that the dragon looks as menacing as a golden retriever.

But Donatello isn’t a one trick pony. His women are just as beautiful as his men, shown off by a whole wall of Madonnas and their children. The mothers are ethereal, soft and warm despite the stone they’re made of. The children are plump and adorable. You want to reach out and wiggle a toe or squeeze a fat little thigh. His mastery of children is at its height, however, in a series of spiritelli. (This was a new term for me. Why these frolicking winged children aren’t cherubs or putti is a nuance I can’t explain.) It’s as if someone covered fat, gorgeous babies at peak giggle with a thin coat of bronze to preserve them forever.

He doesn’t just do feel-good art. There are wizened, life-beaten men in a series of portrait busts, a classical form Donatello helped revive. The bronze Christ on loan from the cathedral of Padua is heart-rending in its emaciated pain. An over-sized head of a classical god is as frightening as he is attractive. And yet these, too, are all wondrously beautiful. 

Your jaw is most likely to drop, however, when you look hard at Donatello’s relief sculptures. A relief is a sculpture that rises out of a flat background rather than standing on its own; think of the raised images on a coin. Donatello is credited with inventing a technique called rilievo schiacciato, a kind of squashed relief … the whole thing only a few millimetres deep … where the artist manages to show many layers of depth.

The best example of this is a panel depicting the ascension of Christ, carved from snowy Carrara marble. The exhibition is using this as its lead image in marketing but photography can’t convey its wonder. Christ, Mary and the apostles occupy three different planes. Angels and putti are on at least two more in the background. And then the landscape recedes, in wave after wave of hills, with tiny but perfect town walls barely scratched into the marble. All created from a piece of stone no thicket than your thumb. Elsewhere the receding background is layer upon layer of architecture, while in front a crowd watches St. Francis offer communion to a donkey. (One of his more delightful legends.) That one is in bronze, as is a Crucifixion where crowds, architecture, angels and distinctive Italian umbrella pines draw your eyes ever deeper into the complex scene.

This last relief hangs in the section on Donatello’s legacy, beside copies by followers that are beautiful, but can’t quite compare to the master’s combination of technical perfection and mastery of beauty. That didn’t stop them from following in his footsteps. Much of the look and spirit that defines the Renaissance emerged beneath Donatello’s chisels over more than 60 years of productive work. Everyone that came after studied him, including a young man who would have copied Donatello’s works in the Medici gardens when he started his own training some twenty years after the master’s death. His first work would be a rilievo schiacciato of madonna and child with winged putti occupying various planes of a receding background. Very Donatello. Except the figures are more muscular. More masculine, even though they’re children and a young mother. Michelangelo had arrived. But he wouldn’t have gained his current fame had he not stood on the shoulders of the earlier master.

Donatello: Sculpting the Renaissance is on at the Victoria & Albert Museum until 11 June. Reviews have been universally ecstatic, so weekends are likely to sell out. 

Eternal Rome's changed a lot in a decade. Mostly for the better.

Rome may be an Eternal City, but it's not an unchanging one.

It's been exactly a decade since my last visit. The years before that had seen me there frequently, taking in everything from quick business trips to in-depth art historical studies to one very special visit for the canonisation of the nun responsible for establishing my school.* But less familiar places have beckoned in recent years, and I'd consigned Rome to memory.

Last weekend, the grand old lady and I got to know each other again. And just as when you see any dear, old friend after a long break, changes jumped out. Some good, some bad. Here are the main things I noticed after a decade away.

It's clean!
The Rome of my memory was crumbling and past its prime, most of its major sights blackened with the accumulation of the urban grime. Rubbish clean-up was haphazard, public green spaces were rarely maintained and graffiti abounded. Sightseeing was hard work, and always tinged with sadness about how the place and its treasures were deteriorating.  Clearly, government has been working on this. And it shows. The Piazza del Popolo, Trinita dei Monti, the Trevi Fountain and numerous once-dingy baroque church facades are now gleaming white. The restored Ara Pacis in its sparkling new museum was the highlight of my trip.  The Forum is much improved with manicured green space. Pavements are even. Graffiti still exists (it wouldn't be Italy without it), but it's much less prevalent than it used to be. Facades of most buildings ... both public and private ... seem freshly painted and in good shape. Roof gardens are now crowning glories of of pastel-kissed beauties, rather than aberrations in a landscape of decay. Taking a tram beyond the city centre, however, showed that this beautification is limited; more about that in my upcoming rugby coverage. In the primary tourist areas, this is as good as Rome has looked in my lifetime.

But good lord, it's crowded!
Just like any major European capital, I suppose. It's the inevitable result of all those cheap airfares, the opening of the Communist economies, the rise of Asia and the advent of younger generations of Americans not content to wait until retirement before seeing Europe. Groaning under the weight of tourism, historic districts feel more like DisneyWorld than working urban centres.  Fortunately, once you step off a beaten path, there's peace. Go up onto the Palatine, visit the Capitoline Museum rather than the Vatican, wander the side streets between Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. When it comes to the postcard-familiar viewpoints, however, be ready for body-to-body jams, made even less appealing with street hawkers who are far more aggressive than they used to be. Sadly, it takes some of the wonder out of the experience.

There's security everywhere
Some of this might have been a consequence of an international rugby fixture. A sold-out 70,000 seat stadium, well over half the audience visiting from England, was no doubt a tempting target for terrorists. But it felt like much of the security is now business as usual. It's most noticeable at the Vatican, where Bernini's exquisite colonnade has become the framework for airport-style scan stations required for anyone entering the church. Police cars were abundant, while soldiers in camouflage with impressive guns stood in front of military vehicles watching over key areas. This being Italy, everyone's uniforms looked great, and they were carrying them off with the usual "I've just stepped off the catwalk" swagger. It's still a bit disconcerting to be so obviously guarded. A consequence of our times.

A lot less traffic
Rome has finally done something about its traffic problems. It used to feel like any wander about town was taking your life into your hands, as speeding cars dodged and dashed, scooters zipped dangerously close to the pavements and crossing any road pitted you in an adversarial contest against drivers who paid no attention to any rule of the road.  These days, many key tourist areas like the Via Condotti have been restricted to taxis, and there seem to be many more one-way streets. The huge avenue through the forum was completely pedestrianised (I'm guessing this was only a weekend thing) which gave the whole area a carnival feel. Even on Monday, traffic seemed light. The cacophony of horns had noticeably reduced, and people seemed to be paying attention to traffic lights. I don't know how they've managed it, but it's much improved.

The Filipinos have arrived
Anyone who got to know Rome in the '80s and '90s was warned against the pickpockets merged in with beggars and street people, usually in Romany gypsy garb. Given the current refugee crisis, I expected those problems to be worse, and homeless numbers to be swollen by Syrians and Africans. I don't know where the government has moved them, but we saw fewer homeless people than in London. A few packs of gypsy women were holding their grimy children out and appealing for coins around the Vatican, but otherwise any homeless or refugee problem wasn't much in evidence. The ethic group that surprised me, however, were the Filipinos. As a steadfastly Catholic country, they've always been here as nuns, priests and pilgrims. Now, they seem to be taking over the service industry. Much of our top-notch hotel staff  was descended from those islands, Filipino waiters worked tables across town and I spotted Filipino chefs working in more than one kitchen. Given their global reputation for excellent customer service, and for immigrating around the world to find work, their presence wasn't a surprise. I always found my Filipino school friend's reverence for family, food and religion to be very Italian, so I can see the cultural fit. But seeing them in customer-facing jobs that, in my opinion, Italians had always held back for la famiglia was a surprise. What it says about Rome's economy, and changing attitudes towards immigration, I wasn't there long enough to be able to say. But it's a fascinating development.

But the illegal handbag sellers have gone
Another large immigrant group was traditionally West African. They'd be organised into gangs to sell suspiciously accurate copies of designer handbags. I used to think they were some of the best organised people in Italy. I remember watching in admiration as a white van dropped a group of them off on the Via Veneto. In less than 20 seconds they'd be unloaded, scattered to assigned points, and the van would have disappeared. No doubt to return to some assigned pickup point later. Each man had a bed sheet he'd spread to form a backdrop for his wares, which he could fold by the corners, thus being able to disappear with his stock at first sight of authority. They clearly had a sophisticated system of communicating about police, and always seemed to be one step ahead of them. The word on the street was that these weren't fakes at all, but percentages of normal production skimmed off manufacturing lines by a well-honed mafia retail organisation. I confess to buying more than a few of these items in the old days: I loved bargaining with the guys, the good deals fit my young professional budget and the bags were lovely. Clearly, the authorities have broken the trade. A few of the African sellers are still around, but now they're doing a range of folding wooden fruit bowls. They may now be legal, but I suspect their margins aren't what they were. The bowls just don't have the cachet of a Prada bag at 90% off.  The hottest item for street vendors these days is the selfie stick. One assumes there's been some sort of immigrant turf battle, because this trade seems to be controlled by Indians and Southeast Asians. The African handbag hawkers would never bother you if you didn't make eye contact. The selfie stick vendors are irritating pests who surround you, follow you along and keep badgering, no matter how many times you say "no". The trade is particularly fervent around the Vatican, in front of Castel Sant'Angelo and in Piazza Navona. I'd suggest this needs to be the police's next focus; it's by far the most irritating part of being a tourist in Rome these days.

St. Peter's suffers
Even with the additional crowds and the irritating selfie stick vendors, on balance Rome has improved impressively. We had a great trip, and most things were better than I remembered. The one glaring exception was Vatican City, where crowds, security and the realities of modern tourism have

combined to destroy the old magic.  The crowds are jaw-dropping; the queue to get into the Vatican Museums had reached the two-hour point by mid-morning on a Monday. The people hawking Vatican tours and shortcuts to the Sistine Chapel are as numerous and irritating and the selfie stick men. The frequency of papal appearances may be a good thing for the faithful, but it means that the piazza in front of the basilica is now cluttered with the detritus of modern event management. In addition to those security stations, there's the permanent papal pavilion, a network of crowd management fences, giant television screens, speakers and lighting. This piazza is one of the grandest architectural statements in the Western world, carefully designed by Bernini to evoke the sense of walking into the welcoming embrace of mother church, while a host of saints smile benignly down upon you. The modern clutter destroys the effect. Inside (once you've made it through the scanners) the crowds are as bad as you'd expect; made worse by the fact that they now fence off the entire area under the dome and most of the area beside and behind the main altar. Once, even huge crowds could disappear into the vast space, giving you the delightful experience of not realising its true size until you spotted someone in the distance and the scale kicked in. Now, everyone's kettled at the bottom of the nave like a London mob. Not only does it ruin the perspective, but you can't get close to many of the wonders of the cathedral any more. No chance to look at Bernini's greatest works at anything but a distance. The only redeeming quality: you can now get some gorgeous, people-free photos. But it's a woefully unfair trade for the complete destruction of reverential, mystical awe this place was built to convey.

Of course, the thing that's changed most in 10 years isn't Rome, but me. In that decade I've gone from being an Italophile who spent repeated holidays in that country to a more adventurous traveler. Our Northwestern Girls' trips have been seeking out new adventures since 2005, and I acquired a partner, then husband, in 2009 who prefers France and Germany to Italy, and opened up the possibility of couples-based, romantic travel. I've reached a point in my career that means I don't have to pinch pennies when I travel as I once did, and my perspectives on food and wine have broadened considerably. Of course, my energy levels are diminished and I no longer have the desire (or ability) to go clambering up bell towers and church domes. I've changed, Rome's changed, but overall ... I think we're both the better for it.

*Philippine Duchesne made it to the ranks of sainthood in July 1988. She was a member of the Society of the Sacred Heart and, fairly late in life, achieved a long-standing dream to travel to the Americas to teach American Indian children. She's now considered the patron of perseverance and adversity. Her shrine and burial place are in St. Charles, Missouri, and she was a tremendous role model growing up.

Da Rioba tops list of Venetian restaurant finds, but avoid eating at Hotel Dei Dogi at all costs

As a general rule of thumb for Venice, the further you get from St. Mark's Square, the better the food will be. (With an exception for the area immediately around Piazzale Roma and the train station, generally filled with execrable places taking advantage of hungry new arrivals who will never return.)

In the main islands of the city, your best bets tend to be in the districts of San Polo and Cannaregio. If you're staying in the main mass of tourist hotels around the Rialto or in San Marco, this may look like a daunting walk. Once you get the hang of navigating the city, however, nothing is more than about 20 minutes away. Trust me, it's worth it. Get into the areas where the natives actually live, and you'll find places serious about the food because they need their regulars to come back.

Our top find for this trip was Ostaria Da Rioba, at Fondamenta de la Misericordia 2553. As with most of the best places here, it's tiny ... about 10 tables ... so essential to book. They put additional tables on the pavement in nice weather; they're on a lovely but almost entirely residential canal with wonderful views. The menu is varied with both fish and meat dishes (the latter being more unusual in Venice) and the preparation leans toward the gourmet. The service is fantastic; English-speaking waiters know the details of dishes and aren't afraid to make recommendations, both from the menu and the wine list.

Piers started with a most un-Venetian goose carpaccio with mango jam, baby salad leaves and candied walnuts which was the clear winner for this course. My spaghetti alla seppia, with a black sauce made from cuttlefish and their ink that's one of Venice's most classic dishes, was delicious but lacked the novel delight we got with the goose. We both triumphed with the mains: Piers with a gorgeous piece of tuna crusted with black and white sesame seeds and grilled perfectly so that it was still very rare at its centre, me with melt-in-your-mouth goujons of lightly battered turbot served over a pile of grilled baby artichokes. On the side we'd ordered a spinach salad with pears and walnuts, also gorgeous. This was all accompanied by the waiter's wine choice, a 2009 collio bianco from Edi Keber, a Friulian who doesn't export much. Decanter magazine gives it five stars and says "ample fruit and floral aromas, soft and full bodied with a long tasty finish." Yes. A second bottle was a must. Which means that neither of us can now remember what I had for dessert, other than to say it was great. (Piers had the first of many tiramisus; every restaurant tells you theirs is unique) I suspect if those particular brain cells weren't killed by the wine, they were done in by the complimentary grappa the waiter brought at the end of the evening. The whole meal came in at £140 which is, of course, not cheap, but good value for three courses each and two bottles of excellent wine.

The runner up prize goes to Osteria Da Alberto, on calle Giacinto Gallina not far from Zanipolo. Less elegant and more homey than Rioba, its handful of tables are scattered over two rooms. At the front there's a bar where locals pop in and get sandwiches and snacks to eat while chatting with the proprietors; most of the starters and desserts are dished up from here. I started with sarde in saor, a Venetian classic from the days before refrigeration. The fish are breaded and deep fried, then marinated in a sweet and sour vinegar with lots of onions. It's not a dish for the faint of heart, and I have to say that the Danes win the pickled fish contest by miles. But you really should try the dish while you're here, and Alberto's was an excellent example.

Piers started with a dish of tiny gnocchi in gorgonzola sauce. Delicate and rich, this combination of two of his favourite ingredients ... potatoes and cheese ... had his eyes rolling in delight. He went on to a fillet steak, cooked rare as he requested and served on a bed of balsamic dressed rocket, while I had the spaghetti al mare. It's tough to avoid the latter dish in Venice, as just about every restaurant does it, but this was a particularly good example loaded with fresh seafood and delicately flavoured with garlic, oil and excellent tomatoes. We had another excellent wine here: Marco Scolaris' pinot nero from the Collio region was the kind of fruity yet light red that can easily cross over between meat and fish.

Next on the list is Anice Stellato (Star Anise), on Fondamenta de la Sensa. It is the closest restaurant to the Hotel Dei Dogi, and one that's been in the guidebooks for a while. I'm fairly sure we ate here on the Northwestern Girls' trip in 2001, something I didn't remember until I got inside and was almost certain I'd been there before. A bit bigger than either of the restaurants above, Anice Stellato spreads over three rooms with a bar anchoring the space between the first and second. While Rioba looks like a slightly trendy local wine bar, Alberto like an un-improved workers' lunch spot, this place is a more consciously modern restaurant, with stripped wooden floors, bare wood tables and lots of modern art. The food was good but the service less so, something you'll see reflected on their Trip Advisor reviews. We couldn't get in on our first night, so made a reservation for 9 on the next.

Our table was waiting when we arrived but service was slow ... after a long delay posy starters the waitress removed our bread basket and handed us dessert menus. I'm sure they forgot the second half of our order. Because of the delay, we were the last people in the restaurant and while we had dessert the staff was changed to go home, sat in the front room, had a good gossip and generally forgot about us.

The food might have made up for it but for some sloppy mistakes in the kitchen. We started with a little ciccheti ... the Venetian take on tapas ... of prawns in saor. A more delicate and enjoyable taste than the sardines, but this is never going to be my favourite way to prepare a prawn. Piers' first course was tagliatelli with locally caught spider crab and zucchini, which he pronounced excellent but for stray bits of shell in the dish. My bucatini in a light tomato sauce with smoked tuna was good, although I'm not sure I'd do that combo again as I felt the sweetness of the tomato and the smoke of the fish were actually battling with each other; a cream sauce would have been better. When the mains finally arrived, they were average. Piers' lamb rolled in pistachio had potential, but had been cooked too long for much taste to remain. My swordfish steak was beautiful, done with lemon, butter and breadcrumbs and melting in the mouth, but the plate beneath it was swimming in far too much butter and the potatoes that accompanied it were bland and unattractive. I'd try it again if staying at the Dei Dogi, but I'd book well in advance so I could be there with the main dinner crowd, and I'd be much more assertive about how my mains were cooked.

One place I would NOT, under any circumstances, eat again if staying at Dei Dogi is Dei Dogi itself. We reserved a table in their small dining room for Valentine's Day dinner, figuring it would be convenient not to leave the hotel and responding to a great looking Valentine's Day menu in a brochure left in our room and promoted at the front desk. We should have been warned when the front desk seemed surprised that we wanted to eat in the restaurant, offering to book us a local place instead. Our first surprise that evening: No sign of the promised menu. What was on offer bore no resemblance to the brochure, and was an odd selection of dishes all in a jumble rather than broken into starters and mains. Second surprise: The window table the hotel manager had specifically walked us into the restaurant that morning and told us he'd save for us was already occupied. The service at Anice Stellato was world class compared to here, where one man alone was working the nine tables of the restaurant and the hotel bar. We waited almost an hour between starters and mains. Third surprise: The biggest bill of the trip ... over £200 ... for the least amount of food and wine.

We split a decidedly mundane carpaccio of over-marinated beef which I suspect had also been left out longer than health standards would say is wise. (Piers' stomach was not its usual robust self the next morning.) Piers had badly overcooked tuna; the "tartare" of courgettes on the menu arrived as diced aubergine and potato. My mixed platter of fried local seafood was lukewarm and uninspiring. At least the wine the waiter recommended was good, but at 45 euro it should have been. At that price we paced ourselves and kept to one bottle, a challenge since the creeping service meant our dinner took more than three hours. Still trying to make it a special evening we tried for dessert. Piers' plate of local cheese lacked diversity and had too many hard, sharp varieties that are better cooked with than eaten alone, and my tiramisu ... really the only appealing thing on the menu since they were out of the chocolate fondant ... was well below what I can whip up myself at home. A final insult: they refused to serve tap water. Bottled only. That, my friends, is simply blatant extortion. And after all those indignities, it took another 20 minutes to get the bill.

Sadly, the outrageous rip off off the restaurant countered the great deal we got on our room, and left me with both a literal and figurative bad taste in my mouth. While I still recommend the hotel, based on that experience I will be shopping around for other options for my next visit. Fortunately, I have the memory of the other restaurants to remind me that you can dine well in Venice, with enough research and planning.

Zanipolo tops new and surprising sights in this Venice trip

Venice's glory days were the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, when the world's riches throbbed through its markets and the ensuing profits made the Republic a power to be respected. These are the centuries that gave us most of the city's architectural and artistic masterpieces. I, however, love Venice in her decline.

By the 18th century she was without political power and world trade was flowing through other channels. This, however, was when the rest of the world fell most in love with her. English aristocrats flocked here on their grand tours, Goethe wrote descriptions that drew early tourists and anyone with money who wanted a fast, decadent life with great clothes and an exotic mask could rent a palace and live the dream.

Ca'Rezzonico, an impressive palace on the Grand Canal, exemplifies this age. Not completed until 1756, it's hundreds of years younger than its neighbours and strikingly different in its neoclassical regularity. A few years after completion, a family member became Pope and another made a fabulously prosperous marriage. At the time, the combination made this palazzo one of Venice's most significant places to be seen. It's thus wonderfully logical that it's now a museum to Venice in the 18th century.

While there's an interesting collection of paintings and some impressive pieces of furniture, the real thing to see here is the palace itself. The main rooms wind around a piano nobile of exceptional height. You enter on the side away from the Grand Canal, climbing a magnificent white marble staircase to arrive in a ballroom covered with some of the most magnificent tromp l'oeil (fool the eye) paintings you'll ever see. Billowing draperies, columns, balconies, gods and putti thrusting their limbs into the room all look real, but are simply illusions created with paint. There follows a procession of rooms with grand ceilings, most with more frolicking deities and fat baby angels who hover over slightly more restrained classical interiors. At the front, two salons and a great hall look over the Grand Canal. Here the decor is a bit less flamboyant, if only because it's hard to compete with the picture postcard views out the towering windows.

There are two more floors, mostly filled with paintings. Here the architecture is less grand, but still worth a wander. Though of great architectural and historic significance, Ca'Rezzonico is a second tier museum in this city and sees far less traffic than the main sites; we were alone in many rooms and never had more than six people for company even in the biggest spaces.

Another blockbuster without a lot of tourist traffic is La Fenice opera house. This is certainly, in part, because it's very expensive (8 euro) for the little bit you see, and not on the Venice Card scheme. Thus only the dedicated are there. But for either the serious opera fan, or those who wonder at architectural re-creation, this is a must see. The place couldn't have a better name. Fenice means phoenix, and this theatre has, like its avian namesake, risen from the ashes more than once. The most recent fire destroyed the entire theatre in 1996. Fifteen years later you'd never know it, as the whole place has been rebuilt to the exact details of old.

Tourists get an audio tour with their admission that talks them through the history of the building and the story of the latest restoration. You get to explore the entry foyer before going upstairs to look at an impressive model of the building inside and out. After that you can settle into a seat in the royal box to take a good look at the theatre itself. The box is so opulent, with its gilded putti, baroque woodwork and copious mirrors, that it actually takes a moment for you to look beyond. You then see an impressive galleried space around a traditional stage, topped by a ceiling painted to look like a dawn sky. A few frolicking deities seem to have flown over from the Ca'Rezzonico. The colour scheme is actually a bit off-putting: pink, light blue, white and gold, it is feminine bordering on what the English would dismiss as "twee". But it's of its time (the 1830s), and would no doubt be a great place to see and be seen while enjoying a performance. I don't know if we were lucky, or if this is a regular feature, but a pianist was practicing on stage while we were there, which added greatly to the atmosphere.

Once you tear yourself away from the theatre, you can explore a series of reception rooms at the front of the building used for entertainment during the intervals. Clearly, they also do a fair amount of corporate entertaining here, and the ballroom at the end of the complex is used for smaller concerts. If you can't get to a concert here, then paying to take the self guided tour is an excellent second best.

Venice's naval museum was another new sight on this visit and, I'm afraid, a rather disappointing one. You'd expect a former maritime empire that derived all its fortune and power from trade over sea routes, and whose capital works on water rather than roads, to have one of the best naval collections on Earth. And it might, if it had several million to invest in installation, explanation and the building itself. Alas, this is like so many of Italy's museums: a treasure trove of great stuff bundled together into a crumbling building with little staff and only the barest, dry and academic labels for what you're looking at. (And yes, my Italian is good enough to tell you that the locals don't get much better than the English translations.) Its organisation is also confusing, as you're confronted with World War II upon entry ... let's face it, not Italy's finest hour, although Piers said the manned torpedo on display was actually justifiably famous ... and don't get to the glory years until you're upstairs.

It is, however, worth the making the effort for the model of the Bucintoro alone. One of the most lavish crafts ever built, probably second only to the legendary barge on which Cleopatra seduced Mark Antony, the Bucintoro was essentially a floating version of the Doge's palace. It represented Venice's special relationship with the sea, and played its biggest ceremonial role on Ascension Day, when the Doge, the most important members of court, ambassadors and special guests would board to be rowed into the Adriatic, where the Doge would throw a golden ring into the sea to "marry" her for another year and proclaim his dominion. The model is meticulous in its detail, showing the parquet floors, stately throne, lavish sculptural carving and typically Venetian levels of gold leaf. You'll wish you could, Alice-in-Wonderland-like, sip some potion to shrink so you could scramble around inside it. Alas, you'll just have to stand behind the glass and gawp.

The museum has many rooms of detailed ship's models, and a good collection of full-sized gondole. (Yes, I spelled it right. That's the plural of gondola.) A good example of the poor labeling ... it's from the Rough Guide, rather than anything in the museum itself, that I learned the reason for so many, and such exact, models is that the craftsmen in the dockyards worked from these rather than any kind of blueprint. Make sure you get to the gondole rooms, where you'll see the range of craft from the workday basics to the lavish private boats built to take aristocratic families to grand social occasions. (Even in the 1830s, when they were building La Fenice, they insisted on both a water and a land entry, as the most fashionable would make a grand arrival by gondola.) Also look out for the model of the clever lift system which surrounded a ship and elevated its draft, allowing heavily loaded vessels of the 18th and 19th centuries to get into the shallow lagoon. You'll also find galleries of naval costume, sea shells, ship models from other countries, even a Swedish room dedicated to Vikings and several artistic and military partnerships between the Swedes and the Venetians (who knew?). With limited time, however, you're best to stick to the highlights mentioned above.

My last new discovery was a trio of magnificent churches. The blockbuster amongst them was the basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo (known in the local dialect as Zanipolo), a place which, I'll admit, it now embarrasses me to say I didn't even know existed. It was a shocking hole in my art historical knowledge of the city, because Zanipolo should be on anyone's Venetian top 5. A vast Gothic church, its undecorated ceilings and large windows make it lighter and less claustrophobic than the heavily decorated St. Mark's. But don't imagine you'll find austerity. This is the burial place of most of the doges, and almost every inch of the wall space is filled with grand tombs. Most are monumental sculptures. A few are painted. (There are some fine Veroneses.) One portrays the grisly story of a doge who was captured by the Turks and flayed alive; his dried skin is preserved in the urn near the top of the memorial. Outside, don't miss the ornate marble facade of the building next door. It is, believe it or not, the hospital.

That same treatment of marble ... multi-coloured yet symmetrical, ornate yet ordered in its Renaissance sensibilities ... is the most memorable aspect of the second of our church discoveries, Santa Maria Dei Miracoli. It's a small place compared to Zanipolo, remarkable because the interior has the exact same marble walls as outside. It's a striking yet calming effect, which therefore doesn't distract you from the church's most unusual architectural feature. The altar is raised a full story above the rest of the church, up an awe-inspiring white marble staircase. It's so ancient Roman in its influences that you almost expect Augustus to emerge at the top to welcome a triumphant general home. Instead, you get a lovely but unremarkable statue of the Madonna and child that was reputed to work miracles, hence the church's name. The only thing that throws off this vision of classical elegance is the ceiling. Don't look up, if you can help it. The barrel vault is dark wood of many coffers, each painted with a different scene. As if that Venetian tendency for excess took over at the end and the architects said "well, we have to cover something with ornate bits and bobs."

The final church that gets a nod is Madonna Dell'Orto, located conveniently next to our hotel thus un-missable. It's probably not worth going out of your way for, but if in this area, it's worth popping in to admire its austere (for Venice) Gothicism and its excellent collection of Tintorettos (he's buried here).

So there you are. It was my fifth trip to Venice. I had four days. I managed to explore six places I'd never seen before. And the best part? There's still a generous list of museums, palaces and churches into which I have yet to set foot. Now that's a city with hidden depths.

Venice's "must sees" are familiar, impressive ... and cleaner than they used to be

You know it's been a while since you've been someplace when they manage to build a whole new airport in your absence. It's a bit disconcerting.

I always liked arriving at Venice's tiny, old world airport where you walked straight out of the terminal and onto a boat dock. But no worries. Venice, I assured Piers, was the most unchanging of all European cities. The one almost untouched by chain restaurants, where all the stores were local and all the sites hadn't evolved much since Ruskin wrote his guide. Then I cleared the sparkling new immigration area and saw the big poster for the Hard Rock Cafe. Was I about to be proven wrong? Had Venice sold out?

Mostly not, although there are a few more touches of modernity here. In addition to the Hard Rock, there are two McDonalds. But on the whole, this is still a place into which the modern world has barely barged (you'll find almost no free wi fi; I haven't been that out of touch in years), and where you're going to be paying attention to the same things your grandparents did. The biggest difference these days: things are a lot cleaner.

Everything around the hub of St. Mark's square is in the middle of a major restoration campaign. It's a bit disappointing for the first time visitor, as many of the elegant facades along the sides of the square are under scaffolding and the base of the bell tower is a construction site hidden behind fences. It's definitely not a Canaletto view at the moment. But work is finished on both St. Mark's cathedral and the clock tower to the left, producing a shocking transformation. The church was always a bit overwhelming and garish in its decorative profusion, but you didn't get much color. Mosaics and sculptural detail rose out of a dull gray stone. Now you can see that all the flat surfaces are different color marbles, from the palest pastels to deep reds and greens. There's no symmetry at all, of course. Every column is a different shade. One expanse of wall might feature 10 different marbles. It's impressive, lush, beautiful and a bit ugly all at once.

Much more restrained is the clock tower, an amazing piece of 15th century engineering. It's gorgeous golden dials, pointers and symbols on a bright blue ground show you not only the date and time, but moon phase, what symbol of the zodiac you're under and all sorts of arcane astrological details. Up top, two larger-than-life metal shepherds swing mallets against a big bell to ring the hour. This is all set within, or upon, an elegant construction of white stone that's now dazzling in its cleanliness.

White is not a colour you see much once you get inside the famous church next door. Gold dominates, and those early Christian mosaics, fresh from restoration, are sparkling like a pile of newly cleaned jewelry. There are so many things to look at in St. Mark's, it's hard to know where to start, and nearly impossible to rest your eye on just one thing. The ancient mosaic floor is justifiably famous. Every inch of wall space is crammed with mosaics, monuments or sculpture. There are side chapels, rooms of relics, a treasury, opulent hanging lanterns, highly decorated domes and, of course, hundreds of milling tourists. Frankly, it's a place you can't stay for too long without being completely overwhelmed. I find it wise here to concentrate on a handful of details each visit, as it would take years to actually take it all in. Piers was pushed over the edge by the little room filled with more than 100 reliquaries. (According to The Rough Guide, it's rarely open. So we should consider ourselves lucky.) Toes, locks of hair, bone fragments, bits of the true cross, the stone that martyred some saint. It was all too reminiscent of the worst excesses of the pre-Reformation church. Protestantism rose in him and we decided it was time to check out more secular delights.

The logical next step is the Doge's palace. St. Mark's was, after all, simply the Doge's private chapel for much of its history, rather than the official cathedral. Which should immediately clue you in that you're unlikely to find humility or simplicity in the man's house, either. The palace is interesting in that it's both the home of an elected official and the seat of government. For most of history the Doge didn't actually have much power. He was a figurehead and the brand ambassador for one of the world's most impressive trading empires. Everything about the place is built to impress: the Doge's quarters to awe visiting ambassadors, the huge assembly halls to remind the younger governmental members of their place, the smaller rooms of justice to make citizens quake and bow in awe of the all powerful committees of state. You wander through so many rooms here that, like the church, your eyes start to dull. But it's a rich feast. Magnificent carved or plastered ceilings, some in dark wood, some painted, some gilded. Some all three. There are many impressive paintings, most of them exceedingly large propaganda pieces designed to promote Venetian power or capture its glorious moments of history.

The most jaw dropping room is probably the sala del maggior consiglio, one of the largest rooms I think I've ever been in. It was built to hold a meeting of every man entitled, by his family's entry in the official "golden book", to the ruling classes. By the mid 16th century this was around 2500. Tintoretto's amazing Paradiso is the largest thing in a room of massive paintings; it features 500 individuals all painted in detail. My favourite room, however, is the salla della scudo, a long reception room decorated with frescoed maps of all the places in the world with which Venice did business. (They're later copies of the 15th century originals.) It's a fascinating world perspective from the time of Marco Polo. There's a passable armory; not nearly as good as the one at the Tower of London, but useful for re-capturing the attention of boys whose attention has started to flag from too much art appreciation. At the end of the tour you'll wander through the dungeons, which provide quite a grim contrast and would have sent a shudder down our spines even had they not been cold and damp enough to make us feel we were trapped in a refrigerator's fruit and veg drawer.

Next on the iconic, must see list is the Rialto Bridge. It's a truly awe-inspiring piece of architecture, with a gracious, sweeping arch below and an arcade of shops above rising to a peak dominated by a triumphal arch. Unfortunately the view is marred a bit by the fact that it's the shop backs that face toward the canal, and these are often coated with graffiti. The most elegant views of the bridge are either from a distance, or from the bridge itself. Up top, the store fronts glitter with glass baubles, jewelry and silks (we found great deals on men's ties and cravats), parting at the bridge's summit to offer you rest in sophisticated loggias on each side with some of the best views of the Grand Canal.

After St. Marks, the palace and the Rialto, the island of Murano comes on most people's top sites lists. In addition to being canny traders, the Venetians held a monopoly on the manufacture of the world's most sophisticated glass for almost two centuries. All the glass blowers were kept in splendid incarceration on Murano. A miniature Venice with lovely houses, stately canals and gracious churches, the workmen and their families lived far more prosperous lives that the typical craftsmen of the era. The catch was that they couldn't leave the island. If they did, legend had it, the government would send an assassin after them to protect Venice's coveted trade secrets. Today the monopoly is gone, there are far fewer glass blowers and any of them are free to leave. They're more likely to be producing baubles for tourists, chandeliers for hotels and restaurants or art glass for rich collectors rather than glassware for the tables of Europe's monarchs and aristos. The work, however, is just as beautiful.

One of the best places to see the continuity is the glass museum, which has displays of glass from Roman times all the way up to modern art pieces of today. Don't miss the impressive Barovier wedding cup in deepest cobalt blue, painted with scenes of courtly life in the Renaissance, and the 18th century glass table decorations that allowed you to build an entire formal Italian garden down the centre of your banquet.

Most of Murano is, unsurprisingly, glass shops. The moment you come off the vaporetto you'll be greeted by touts luring you to their demonstrations. Try to avoid these, as they are usually assemblages of work of marginal quality but generous mark ups, fronted by glass blowers of only basic skill. I highly recommend Franco Schiavon's gallery at Fondamenta dei Vetrai 15. They have their own workshop in back, which they'll happily take you into and explain the process while the craftsmen work. Downstairs there's the usual selection of glassware, jewelry, lampshades and chandeliers, but of a higher quality than most. Upstairs their gallery veers towards the collector, with displays of some truly ravishing pieces and gold gilt glasses fit for royal tables. Were I a rich woman, I could have spent a lot of money here.

And speaking of shopping, one of the places here that always gets a repeat visit from me is Paolo Olbi's tiny book binding and paper shop. He's been hand crafting books and desk items from decorated leather and marbelised Florentine papers for almost 50 years, still producing every item himself while his sister works the shop. Over the years I've bought exquisite notebooks for myself and watercolour portfolios for my mother. This trip we invested in the photo album and guest book for our wedding, each made from luscious white leather tooled in floral patterns. You'll probably pass his shop on the calle della mandola on the way to the Accademia Bridge.

Familiar yet still surprising, these top sites are worth repeat visits. The wonder of Venice, however, is that there's so much to explore beyond the familiar. And once you get off the beaten track, it's amazing how few tourists you'll find around you. Next entry I'll explore those new discoveries.

Opulent Venice works its magic ... sort of ... for a Valentine's Day break

The challenge: you, one quarter Sicilian and imbued with the love of all things Italian, want to inspire in your Anglo-Danish, Francophile fiancé a similar appreciation. Where to start?

Going with a conjunction of timing and tradition I thought I'd try Venice at Valentine's day. This much-cliched combo must inspire some magic, right?

Well, he wasn't glassy eyed and rhapsodic at the end of it. There were parts he liked, and Byzantine-Baroque elements he found so-over-the top that his brain simply stopped processing. I became more firm in my belief that the symmetry, logic and elegance of the Florentine renaissance is going to do the trick. But, in the mean time, we bobbed down canals on vaporettos, wandered past mouldering Gothic palaces, froze to our bones in grand but unheated museums and enjoyed quite a few very fine meals. With an early Saturday departure and a late Tuesday return, the four-day weekend felt like a much longer break, and we were both relaxed and culturally sated before returning to our desks on Wednesday morning.

So, the overview. We went out on a package tour with Expedia. Since the debacle of snow closures at Heathrow over Christmas I'm less of a fan of the company (I'm still waiting for my £800 refund for a canceled flight, which would have been far easier to get had I gone direct with the airline) but when it comes to flight and hotel packages for European city breaks, Expedia still tends to deliver the best deal. For a bit less than the trans-Atlantic flight Piers never took, we both got to Venice on BA and spent three nights in a five star hotel with a room upgrade. Given that a 5 star room in Venice can easily go for 200 a night, I was satisfied that we'd scored a bargain.

We stayed at the Hotel Dei Dogi, a place I discovered on a shopping weekend with a friend nearly a decade ago. It has lavish, classically Venetian interiors (befitting the family palace and then the French embassy that it once was), the largest private garden in Venice and it's own jaunty motorboat that zips you from the canal in front of the hotel down to St. Marks on a regular shuttle schedule. And yet, because it's in the quiet, off-the-beaten-track area of Cannaregio, its prices are about 30% below what you'd pay for an equivalent hotel closer to St. Mark's.

I have to admit, I actually prefer Cannaregio. It's heavily residential, so its lanes and canals are filled with locals. The absence of tourists means it's quiet and, late at night wandering down silent lanes with the canal glimmering beside you, wildly romantic. Its dominant church, Madonna dell'Orto (a stone's throw from the hotel), is a masterpiece of Gothic restraint not often seen in this city. It's the district closest to the airport, so either a straight shot by the Alilaguna shuttle (13 euro) or a short walk from the Piazzale Roma and the train station gets you there with ease. Once you figure out the route, it's a tolerable 20-minute walk to St. Mark's. And, best of all, it's the district in Venice with all the best restaurants. What's not to like? If someone else would like to pay for me to stay at the Danieli, I'll be there in a heartbeat. But on my own cash? Dei Dogi it is.

As Piers had never been to Venice, the plan was as follows. Day 1, having cleared the airport and checked into our hotel by 1:30, was devoted to rambling around the city and getting a feel for the place. It was, amusingly, also devoted to trying to find someplace to watch the England v. Italy rugby match that kicked off at 2:30. We went to a spot near the train station where the girl behind the bar helpfully went through nearly a score of sports channels on the satellite, but no rugby. A disappointed Piers sucked it up and fell into sightseeing. Ironically, we arrived back at the hotel to find the game on national TV with a time lag, so he got to see the second half after all.

Venice is such an opulent, decadent place, almost overwhelming in its sights, smells and design, I always figure you should ease a new visitor into it. Climb to the centre of the Rialto Bridge and gaze over the Grand Canal. Walk along it for a bit. Wander over to St. Mark's. Gape at the church, watch the clock strike, stroll through the piazzetta to see the outside of the Doge's Palace. Gawp across the basin at the rows of gondole, the outer islands and the Palladian magnificence of Santa Maria della Salute. Up the Riva degli Schiavoni for a bit. Check out the bridge of sighs. Look back at the that most famous of Venetian scenes. And then, frankly, quit while you're ahead. Because any more, as a first timer, is going to put you into sensory overload.

Sunday we concentrated on the glass-makers' island of Murano, then the museum at the Ca'Rezzonico. Monday St. Mark's, the Doge's Palace and La Fenice theatre. Tuesday the naval museum, the church of Zanipolo and shopping. And then a mid-evening flight home. For me, it was a great balance between the familiar and, though this was at least my fifth visit, a good array of new stuff. That's one of the beauties of Venice that goes beyond its lovely skin: There's enough to see in this compact territory to keep you occupied for years.

A few more essential tips for any such sightseeing breaks in Venice.

First, go off season. Even now, in the lowest of low times, we queued to get into St. Mark's, packed body-to-body on the No. 1 vaporetto up the Grand Canal and found some of the smaller lanes to be uncomfortably crowded. Nothing in this city is worth the hell of overcrowding it experiences on school holidays.

Second, don't plan to do anything quickly. Walks from point A to B may only take 25 minutes if you're moving briskly and know where you're going. But if you get turned about (highly likely in the warren of twisting lanes and canals bereft of easy sightlines to identifiable landmarks), or have to take a boat anywhere, that quick jaunt can easily take an hour. Don't sweat it, you're on vacation.

Third, look into tourist cards. If you're planning to go into at least two attractions a day (palaces, museums, churches) for three or more days, the HelloVenezia card is a good investment. Just under 40 euro per person for a 7-day pass, it not only works out cheaper but encourages you to pop your head into attractions that you might otherwise skip. An additional 30-ish euro gets you a 72-hour pass for the transport system. I'm undecided on the value of this one. If you're not planning to leave the main islands, you can probably walk everywhere and save the cash. Especially if your hotel, like Dei Dogi, has its own shuttle. But a trip to Murano and the ability to hop back and forth up the Grand Canal probably meant we broke even.

Fourth, try to only eat at recommended restaurants. Venice is notorious for having the worst food in Italy. Unsurprising when you think that this is a city supported almost entirely by tourism. When you're not working for return customers, it's all about being in a good location and snagging passing trade for a meal palatable enough to keep them from complaining while making you as big a margin as possible. So get off the beaten track and go for places validated by a critic like the Rough Guide. Or this blog, of course, which will naturally be getting around to restaurant reviews.

But first, we have some culture to discuss in coming days...