Milan Airport, where I spent an hour or so in transit, was certainly not the most attractive airport I’ve seen, given that it looks like it’s been dug out of a giant quarry, but it was on arrival in Rome that the real drama broke out. I was there to meet my mate, Kylie; experience had shown, however, that it could never have gone to plan, especially when arrangements were required at both ends.

For my part, I spent almost two hours at the luggage carousel waiting for my precious backpack before eventually being told that it had been zapped into oblivion somewhere. I’d just finished filling out a dozen forms describing every lost item and its approximate value (as though the hair straightener isn’t priceless!) when out of nowhere my bag materialised - sheer relief!

As for Kylz, midway through my agonising wait I’d received the following text message: ‘Before you read this, laugh. Because there’s a train strike. Got confused, got on wrong train. Am approx. 150km away on express to Florence. Sit tight.’

A less than ideal start, admittedly. But the trip – and Italy – was to make up for it.