I’m up and out by nine, and Venice is just waking up. Shops were mostly still shut (though some were just opening), and the buskers were gone. One supply boat chugged down the canal delivering coca-cola.I walked to the station, brought the aquatic equivalent of a one-day travel card, and took a boat bus to St marks Square. I found the city’s main tourist information office and asked about visiting the dolomites. Unfortunately the assistant only had information about Venice, and referred me to a travel agency. I went in search of a travel agency, doubtful that I’d get any decent information out of them except stuff about package tours.

Fifteen minutes later a travel agent was explaining to me in great detail their wonderful package tour. I escaped and sought refuge in an internet café, where within an hour I had short listed a few towns to use as my base, selected one, found train information and bus connections, and checked the weather forecast. The only thing I couldn’t find was accommodation info or maps of local hiking trails.

I found another travel agent as a last effort at obtaining these, but still no joy.

“Can I at least book the train service?” I asked “Certainly, my colleague will help you with that”

She was gesturing at a woman about a metre to her right, who seemed to be equipped with exactly the same desk and computer, but was studiously ignoring me. I looked at the other woman expectantly. Eventually she looked up and said “Can I help you?”. I decided I would have to play along, and explained the whole thing all over again.

We then had a big row about which train went where at what time. Eventually she conceded that the information I had printed out from the Deutsch Bahn website was correct (it usually is), and issued my tickets. This was all all somewhat ironic since I was going to miss the train whose existence I had just spent several minutes trying to prove. But I didn’t know that yet.

I caught another boat bus back to St Marks Square, and thought about visiting the Basilica, but the queue did not look very inviting, so instead I joined a shorter one to ascend to the top of the bell tower. I passed on the audio tour, brochure and souvenir postcard, and paid the €6 admission (no student discount!).

At the top the view across Venice was magnificent – I stood gazing out from each side, and battling for a good position to take pictures. A group of youngish monks was engaged in a reluctant photo shoot on the other side of the small gallery with some snap-happy tourists, though they were much more forthcoming when a group of girls from an American university appeared. I was standing in the southeast corner of the tower intermittently watching this spectacle and looking at the view. I was completely unaware that it was about five seconds to two, and above my head one of the six enormous bells had started swinging. At exactly two pm, a DONG loud enough to be heard across Venice put an end to any hope of conversation in the tiny space at the top of the tower.

The bell was ringing about once or twice a second, and then another started slowly moving from side to side. Some visitors were covering their ears, and one or two headed straight for the lift to escape the noise. The rest of us watched with rapt attention as the two bells continued their powerful performance. I hoped that all six would join in, but after a couple of minutes the two active bells started slowing down as the motors driving them switched off. They kept ringing for another half minute with less and less strength until finally normality returned to the tower.

Back at the base I decided to give the Basilica a miss in favour of visiting Murano, the home of Venetian glass. A number 42 bus boat takes about 40 minutes to get there from St Marks Square. As soon as the boat arrived there was a guy loudly advertising a glass blowing demonstration in about 5 languages. I followed the crowd into a factory, and sat on one of the wooden benches arranged at one side of the room, facing a large roaring oven.

The demonstration was given by a man who said nothing at all, whilst his activity was narrated in five languages by another man who paced around the first. The two of them made a very odd pair. In not saying anything, the glass-blower gave the impression that he only spoke Italian, but also that he was a simple man devoted to his craft and might even be somewhat surprised by the sudden arrival of a couple of dozen tourists. The other man was completely the opposite – with his tailored suit, sunglasses (despite being indoors), and perfect command of at least five languages he looked more suited to a role in a James Bond movie.

I watched in utter amazement as the glass-blower, described as ‘the master’ by the narrator, took a glob of molten glass and turned it into a horse in under a minute. With equally astonishing skill he effortlessly produced a jug, and then the demonstration was over. I imagined that these two must do this demonstration hundreds of times a week. Was there a mountain of discarded jugs somewhere, I wondered?

I walked around the island to the glass museum, past a parade of glass shops and restaurants. The museum was well stocked and contained some astonishingly old pieces of glasswork, some from as early as the first century.

Back in St Marks Square after another ride on the 42, I phoned home and then worked my way back across Venice to my hostel. I’d done this walk several times by now so I headed east initially and circled round to the north and then west. On the way I met a trio of American girls looking for a bar, apparently near McDonalds and Burger King. These weren’t very good reference points because to be honest anyone who makes a point of remembering the location of McDonalds’ limited presence in Venice probably wouldn’t enjoy the city anyway.

Having talked to them for a few minutes, they wanted to take my picture with them, so I took one too and continue back to the hostel. I was hoping to find Laura around, but she was nowhere to be seen so I dined alone at a very nice place just down the street.

Since I had to be up so early in the morning to catch a train to Cortina, high up in the Dolomites, I called it a night at 10:30pm. I hoped that my dorm mates would not be too annoyed when my phone started playing a very irritating noise at 6:30am. On reflection I realised that they probably would, but it couldn’t be helped.