Today in 2017, Mrs Gnomepants V2.0 and I embarked on a day trip by boat from Pula in Croatia (where we were on holiday) to the lovely, but slightly fusty smelling city of Venice.

Venice was always one of those “be nice to go one day perhaps but no worries if I don’t make it” kind of places. Of course I’d seen Roger Moore’s James Bond drive a hovercraft converted gondala across St Marks Square in Moonraker, I’d scaled its walls and speedboated down it’s canals looking for Marco Bartoli in Tomb Raider II, I’d listened to Monteverdi’s Vespro della Beata Vergine[1610] since I was 17 and I’d also eaten my fair share of Cornettos after consuming a good unhealthy dose of slightly racially stereotypical advertising campaigns by Walls Ice Cream during the 1970s and 80s, so I’d like to think I had been culturally soaked enough in the curious Italian city without the need to experience it for myself.

But yeah, that’s all misguided rubbish really because nothing can match the experience of being punted around the canals of Venice by a bloke in a straw hat and a stripey top even if he disappointingly doesnt sing anything about just having One Cornetto. I’ve sat near the Oxford Canal at Norton Junction and even the backdrop of the glorious and privately owned Northamptonshire countryside could hold a slightly damp tealight to Venice.

I’d often heard that there was a “smell” in Venice and you know, while it’s not like the Granox in Widnes or even eau de bad eggs as the title may allude to, even on windy days theres the slight musk of waterbuts which, while not entirely unpleasant, you do get used to. I think once you actually get away from the moorings and into P.Za San Marco the air changes into one of roasted coffee and delicate fragrances from nearby market stalls and shops.

It’s not cheap there either. Like most tourist traps, Venice clings onto its mercantile past and tries to grab as many pennies as it can from the already fleeced tourist. Cafes selling coffee at prices that would make even the Sultan of Brunai’s wallet seem a little light, restaurants charging a princely sum for a plate of spaghetti with some chopped tomatos dumped unceremonially on top and fancy Italian boutiques flogging skimpy/shiny/blingy things for 200% the price you can get a similar imitation of from off Wellesbourne Market.

Indeed, as glorious as Venice is, like anywhere, if charge too much – you just appear greedy and you’ll put me off putting my hand anywhere near my wallet. But do you know what, I did have a lovely time there and I’m glad I went.