Posted on Wednesday, 15 February 2017

Brian isn't the most romantic of souls, bless him, even when he's somewhere as wonderful as Venice.

"Is any city as beautiful as this?" I said as we gazed out at the myriad of riverboat traffic on a sunny Grand Canal. Gondolas, delivery boats, police boats – and our own water bus – jostled for space as we passed the incredible Doge's Palace and the domes of St Mark's Basilica.

"They plundered everything," said Brian, "from all over the Mediterranean."

"That doesn't make it any less stunning," I said, as we gingerly stepped off for St Mark's Square. "They certainly had an eye for pretty things."

"Are you condoning theft?" he said, only half-joking. But even Brian's natural pessimism was hushed when St Mark's Square opened out in front of us. The thronging tourists, normally so annoying to us both, seemed to fade into the background in the presence of such grandeur. The onion-shaped domes of St Mark's Basilica and the gothic archways of the Doge's Palace simply defy pessimism.

Evidently built to impress visitors, St Mark's Square is guarded by two imposing columns. One of these is topped by St Theodore, the other by The Lion of Venice.

Though undeniably beautiful, there is a slightly haphazard aspect to some of the buildings. For example, on one corner of St Mark's there a carving called the Tetrarchs, hewn from a hard granite; it didn't fit in with the rest of the church.

"They stole it," said Brian as we gazed at the four antique figures, “from Egypt.”

I ignored him, moving on to admire the four bronze horses on the facade of St Mark's.

"These are just replicas," said Brian. "The real ones are underneath the church. They were stolen from Rome by the Greeks."

"And the Venetians pinched them from the Greeks?" I interjected.

"Yes. But then Napoleon stole them and took them to Paris. They were sent back to Venice after old Boney met his Waterloo."

The interior of St Mark's was cool and very beautiful. Mosaics on shimmering gold backgrounds gave it a truly opulent feel.

“No wonder it became a symbol of Venice's wealth,” said Brian.

After St Mark's we emerged into the sunshine and grabbed some (rather expensive) espressos in the Piazza, then spent half an hour gazing at the many enthralled visitors.

"Bloomin' tourists," said Brian.

Next up was the Doge's Palace, which was also, Brian explained, created to impress upon visitors of centuries ago that Venice was all-powerful. Only here, it seemed, the object was to strike fear into guests' hearts too: After exploring the fantastically ostentatious interiors, we visited the museum. Here we perused a vast selection of shiny axes, maces, thumbs screws – and even a chastity belt. The menacing spikes on this last artefact brought Brian out in a cold sweat, so we had to leave.

These torture implements and weapons served as a reminder of just how bloody Venice's past was. It made all the plundering pale into insignificance. It also triggered memories of Ian McEwan's chilling The Comfort of Strangers and the Paul Schrader film which based itself on it.

I told Brian about this: "I keep expecting Christopher Walken to appear under a gothic archway and invite us to dinner. If he did, we would have to turn him down."

"Yes, dear."

Fortunately, we didn't meet Mr Walken – or any other sadist – but we did spend a thoroughly wonderful evening that began by watching the sun go down over Venice.

The next day we caught a riverboat to the cemetery island of San Michele before moving on to Murano, famed for producing some of the finest glass in the world.

"Oh isn't it wonderful, Brian," I said as we gawped at the incredible figurines, chandeliers and wine stoppers in the shop. "Look at that one," I was pointing to a fancy-looking blue and white paperweight. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, then passed it to Brian for inspection.

Just then a boat-load of visitors bundled into the shop.

"Oh, more tourists!" Said Brian, "Come on love, let's go and grab a coffee."

We pushed through the crowds and hurried outside.

Sitting down at a lovely pavement cafe in expectation of an invigorating Americano and perhaps a slice of cake, I noticed that Brian looked rather sheepish.

"What is it Brian? What's wrong?"

Brian put something hard and shiny on the table: it was the blue and white Murano glass paperweight.

"Ah," he said, “I thought I put it back.”

"Oh, Brian!" I said, "You plundered it! You're a blummin' plunderer too!"

However, the saying “when in Rome…” wasn't applicable to this trip, so we returned the souvenir once the shop cleared of its onrush of customers and enjoyed our cake with a clear conscious.

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