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Viewed from above, Venice resembles a broad-bodied fish with a gaping mouth, a bream or perch perhaps, with the Grand Canal as its intestinal tract. My route began at the fish’s tail, the eastern tip of the city, Castello, the old docks, long straight terraces of the loveliest workers’ houses in Europe. Then back along the northern shore, the dorsal fin, through Cannaregio, where the streets had a sunnier, almost coastal aspect. Through the Ghetto to the train station then down the main tourist drag, which felt like a drag, tourists queuing to squeeze over the Rialto Bridge. How many masks did one city need? I wondered, shuffling along another lightless shopping street, so that arriving in St Mark’s Square felt like coming up for air, so bright and immense that no crowd of tourists could fill it, though they were trying now. By the Grand Canal — the fish’s swim bladder, I suppose — I took a moment to rest. That morning I had seen adenoidal guitarists, ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ performed on the rims of wine glasses, a startlingly inept juggler whose routine consisted of dropping things, but fewer acts than I’d expected. Searching for the terms ‘busker’ and ‘Venice’ on my phone revealed that the city was considered hostile territory. The internet was alive with angry and resentful living statues who had been bustled into motion by assiduous polizia municipale. A permit was required, and I was sure Cat was too wild and free-spirited to submit to Italian bureaucracy. I would be searching for a guerrilla accordionist, someone who hit fast, hit hard and disappeared into the crowd. No time to rest, then. For energy I ate my bruised banana and pushed on, shuffling through the crowds towards the Fenice theatre, where a busker in Pierrot costume sang a warbling ‘La donna è mobile’. Tired now; it was too much, too many people. I burrowed south, hurrying past West African men selling handbags and on to Dorsoduro, the belly of the fish.

After all that ancient stone, there was something pleasingly light and temporary about the wooden Accademia Bridge, and I took a moment to look east to the entrance of the Grand Canal, taking in the view. A strange phrase that, ‘taking in’, implying as it does some sustenance or retention. While I could admire the elegance and proportion of the scene, I was primarily aware of the mass of tourism around me, and also of the extraordinary confidence of the Venetian architects in allowing their finest buildings to teeter at the water’s edge. What about damp? What about flooding? Wouldn’t it make sense to have a little lawn or garden as a sort of buffer zone between the house and all that water? But then it wouldn’t be Venice, said Connie’s voice in my head. Then it would be Staines.

I walked on and heard another voice. ‘How is that map working out for you?’ In foreign cities, I assume that anyone speaking to me wants money, and so I continued some way before turning and seeing the lady from the pensione’s breakfast room. I doubled back.

‘It’s serving me very well. You’re queuing for the Accademia?’ I asked, somewhat idiotically given that she was queuing for the Accademia.

‘Accademia,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Accademia, not Accademia. The desk clerk in the hotel corrected my pronunciation. First and third syllable. It’s Accademia. Like the nut.’

‘Sorry, which nut?’

‘The macadamia nut.’

‘No, you mean the macadamia nut!’ I said.

I’m not sure the written word captures the full splendour of this comeback. I was so pleased that I found myself making a little whining noise in the back of my throat, and the woman smiled at the first nut-pronunciation joke in human history. It seemed unlikely that either of us could top the remark, so, ‘Enjoy the gallery!’ I said. ‘See you at breakfast!’ she replied, and on I strode towards Campo Santa Margherita, where I gorged on a slab of pizza, greasy and delicious, and a litre of chilled sparkling water, then on, belching privately, to the exhaust fumes and bluster of Piazzale Roma in the fish’s mouth. Head to tail had taken me a little under three hours.