I remember sitting near the Rialto Bridge, with my younger daughter, eating calzone and quaffing numerous glasses of red wine. The month was January - middle of winter - yet we managed to find a sun-blessed spot on the South side of the Grand Canal; placing alternate orders for food, with the sole purpose of retaining the best table in town. They were magical hours: vibrant, yet relaxed, with ferries docking then powering away and gondolas gliding by. We stayed until we ran out of sun and the month became January again.

More than the Aya Sofia or Blue Mosque, what impressed me most was the raw emotion that people show for cats. Whether Darth Vader black, powder-puff white, or a mix of colours in between - they’re there on every doorstep, curled up on each patch of spare ground, sitting majestically on top of that red Porsche; fed and watered by their neighbours from apartments above.

I guess there could be a hundred other places I haven’t seen, which I might prefer, but when I’m too long away from Italy, I start thinking I should be making plans to re-visit. It gets to me when I see tablecloths spread under a street-side veranda, or people quaffing wine during their lunchtime break; in whatever nondescript place I happen to be, my mind floats back to a piazza setting in Rome, or Umbria, or an untold number of glorious Italian localities.