We arrive, by boat, at dusk. Eyes wide as we watch the ghostly buildings loom out of the thick fog. Venice is at its best in the Autumn. The city’s muted tones contrast with the distinctive green of the canals. Pink street lamps twinkle. A warm amber glow spills out of shop windows into the streets. Dark alleyways beckon and lead you into quiet backstreets with tiny bridges that transport you back hundreds of years. It’s deliciously spooky. And damp. Very damp.
Now. I’m a sun-loving gal… I love me a cactus against a cloudless blue sky, palm trees blowing in the warm breeze and bright tropical colours (if you’re familiar with my work then this is pretty obvious) but there is nothing quite as magical as Venice on a damp, grey day… crumbly peach walls next to rusty terracotta brick and custard yellow. Chalky greys next to mousey browns and rich reds. The occasional pop of blue. And all of it surrounded by THAT green. That deep, milky, opaque green that veers between Arsenic and Vardo. That green that rises up into the tiny streets and grand squares every Autumn and Winter. That green that finds its way into shops and houses and blocks off pathways, turning Venice into a flooded maze. That green that could almost persuade me to live here. Almost. But not quite. I’ll settle for coming back every few years to swoon over the crumbling bricks and pastel colours. To coo over ornate door knockers and brightly coloured Murano glass. To drink endless Aperol Spritzes and eat my body weight in pizza.
Next time I’ll bring a coat though. It was fucking freezing.