I arrived in Venice with a plan: pick up the rental car, drive north, and be surrounded by alpine glory before sunset. But the rental desk had other ideas. Apparently, international driving permits expire (mine had), and without a valid UK licence in hand, the answer was a firm and definitive no.

No licence, no car, no mountain escape.

Still mildly optimistic, I booked the next Ryanair flight back to the UK to collect my licence. And just as I raised my first Aperol to toast my resourcefulness, an email landed. Flight cancelled. Three hours before departure. A perfect storm of bureaucracy and budget airline brilliance.

So… sightseeing it was.

I wandered across the Ponte di Rialto, through the narrow backstreets of San Polo, down to the waterfront and along the Grand Canal. I stopped by Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, crossed toward Piazza San Marco, poked around Palazzo Ducale, and ducked into Harry’s Bar for a swift, slightly sulky Negroni.

Post-spritz, I figured I’d head toward the airport to regroup, hopping on a vaporetto with what I thought was the right line. It wasn’t. Thirty minutes in, I realised I was circling the outer islands… on the last ferry of the night.

Three hours later, I was back where I started — now properly stranded, still without accommodation, and thoroughly marinated in poor decisions.

Eventually, after knocking on a few closed hotel doors, I found a room at a hostel.

Hotel: Combo Venezia — a private four-bed dorm room never felt so luxurious.

Venice gave me no mountains, but it did give me a crash course in improvisation, patience, and scenic meandering while lightly sauced.

Not the alpine start I had in mind, but Venice had thrown down the gauntlet. And I wasn’t backing out.