BEAUTY is in the eye of the beholder, they say, and after visiting Venice earlier this year, I've never agreed with this old adage more.

As we packed our bags, friends assured us it we were about to encounter one of the most fascinating places on earth and gave the impression our long weekend would be a whirl of magical moments involving cultural treasures and good eating.

We arrived under drab skies, and by the time night fell we were still looking for our hotel. A maze of narrow back-streets may seem awfully quaint by day, but after an hour going round in dark circles without much help from a map, the plight of Julie Christie in the horror flick Don't Look Now seemed pleasant in comparison. (And let me tell you, all those cobbles play havoc with your luggage wheels.)

Gnawingly hungry, we eventually stumbled across a modest caf that was still open for business. The waiter didn't even have the courtesy to even lift an eyebrow to acknowledge us as he threw down a basket cradling a single slice of stale bread.

One small plate of pasta, a beer and a dessert later, we found our coffers 40 quid lighter. We vowed to find a better eaterie the following day - not realising at the time this would be the best meal of the holiday.

A visit to St Mark's Square would surely be worth the trip alone? How wrong we were. The hoards of tourists (ourselves included) seemed more verminous than the thousands of pigeons too fat to fly from the area, and we just couldn't face being stuck in the two hour queue to enter the Basilica or the Doge's Palace.

We'd heard that a coffee in St Mark's Square is the most expensive on earth, so weren't too surprised at the £12 bill for two cappucinos. What we didn't count on were the drinking vessels being marginally smaller than a mouse's egg cup and the contents more tepid than Les Dennis.

A small Florentine biscuit or wafer-thin mint would have eased the chagrin somewhat, but these were as elusive as the Venetian welcome.

Never mind, we consoled ourselves over lunch with a dry bread roll housing one slice of salami (funny that, the caf window sported pictures of sarnies so packed that their contents were spilling out.)

Instead of gondoliers resplendent in straw boaters and striped tops, we were treated to blokes in Burberry caps smoking roll-ups. They wanted to charge a fortune for a few minutes on what smelled like little more than an open sewer.

OK, so the city was once a successful maritime nation which was at the hub of a great age of trading, but how the mighty have fallen.

It seems the way it's going, Venice is due to turn into some sort of tacky theme park before it slips beneath the waves for good.

And if any of the locals happened to invite us back to their faded city, I would tell them to stick it up their Grand Canal.

First published: Oct 21