‘What an amazing place,’ Grace yelled excitedly to Ellis, as the boat chugged to a slower pace, in deep contrast to the breakneck speed they had reached coming across the lagoon from the airport. Or ‘water motorway’, as the captain of the boat had said it was called in English.

As they sailed into a narrow canal, she could see rows of beautiful tall buildings, some of them six, maybe eight storeys high on both sides with painted shutters in pastel pink, blue and green, and geraniums in a glorious array of bright orange and red cascading from wooden window boxes. The canal was crossed with a succession of low arched bridges, and with the warm wind wafting all around them and the water frothing up in the back stream of the speedboat like prosecco fizzing from a shaken bottle, Grace felt as if she had actually stepped inside a glamorous old Hollywood film. Or one of Connie’s diaries perhaps. Grace imagined Connie must have felt much the same way as she did right now, when she had sailed from Portofino to the bay of San Fruttuoso. Energised and alive. What a wonderful experience it must have been for Connie, and now for Grace too.

‘It sure is,’ Ellis said, leaning forward on his bench seat. They were sitting opposite each other, him travelling backwards and her forwards. ‘Is it your first time here in Venice?’ he asked.

‘Yes, and I hope it won’t be the last because it’s just so incredible, I don’t think you could ever tire of a place like this,’ she said, gazing around in wonderment at the sights, keen not to miss a thing. Canopied cafés with people basking in the sun drinking coffee and wine. Gondolas drifting past as they sailed underneath an ancient-looking arched bridge, everyone instinctively ducking just to be sure they didn’t hit their heads, even though there really was enough space, just about. The air as they cruised into another narrow waterway was filled with the scent of fresh pizza drifting towards them from a nearby pizzeria. As the boat passed by the open kitchen door, Grace glanced in to see a man in a long white apron throw a floppy lump of dough up in the air and then deftly catch it on one index finger, to spin it around before slapping it on a work bench and giving her a wave. She waved back enthusiastically, drawing in a giant waft of basil mingled with rosemary and garlic. Next, her senses were met with music, a Latin tarantella-style sound of guitars and tambourines and maracas and she swivelled her head to see where it was coming from.