I’m constantly distracted by the noise, the crowds, all there is to see as we walk out of the station and into a bustling piazza. Another explosion of sound greets us, as hawkers try to sell their wares from various stands.

“They used to hold chariot races in this square,” I say. “Right up until the end of last century.” It’s easy to imagine: the square hemmed in by tall stone-faced buildings, a sense of timelessness exists hovering over it all as if we are both now and then, as if the line between us and the past is suddenly less certain. I can see it all here in front of me, and this nearness to history is dizzying, like walking straight into the pages of the sort of book I would read at home.

“Santa Maria Novella.” Ben points to the church on the other side of the square. “Always my first stop when I get to Florence. Come on.” He hitches the bag on his shoulder again and grabs my hand, weaving through the crowd. “This was one of my mother’s favourite places,” he says.

We push through the wrought-iron gate cut into the high walls and around the small, neat cloister behind. When we walk into the church there’s an incredible feeling of space and light. The high stone arches meet gracefully in a vaulted ceiling. The floor is laid in a checkerboard of black, grey and white, rubbed smooth by a million footsteps. The muted colours of the walls and ceilings tangle with the brilliant stained glass windows. Despite there being so much to take in it leaves me feeling serene, as if the quiet and the beauty speak to something right at the core of me, as if I feel it right in my bones.

We go back through the cloister and enter another chapel, one that feels a million miles away from the huge white space we’ve just been in. Here, the walls and the ceiling are painted in earthy jewel tones crowned by a midnight-blue sky filled with saints. It’s joyful, noisy, clamouring: a riot of colour.

“It’s incredible,” I murmur, feeling suddenly a little shy. “I can see why your mother liked it so much.”

Ben returns my smile and reaches for my hand again. I like the feeling of his fingers around mine. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go and find Lili.”

We wind our way down narrow cobbled streets and it seems that every corner we turn in this beautiful maze leads to another scene so picturesque that even I, with my lack of artistic eye, am moved. The light here is golden, and it brushes lovingly against every surface like a kiss.