After a few years away from Italy, I was itching to get back. I had lived there for a couple of years and it was one of those places that had never really let go of me. More importantly, my lovely Venetian ex-landlady had invited us to stay with her in the house I had lived in — and loved — for two years. The thought of walking through that front door again was enough to make me ridiculously excited.

The plan, such as it was, was fairly simple. I would fly to Rome to meet A.P., who had left a few weeks earlier and had been wandering around Greece. We would spend a couple of days in Rome, then head north to Venice.

After that, things became considerably less organised.

We knew we would eventually end up in Paris, and somewhere along the way we had to fit in a visit to a town in southwest France that was a firm favourite of A.P.’s — Sarlat-la-Canéda. Beyond that, we had no real itinerary. We would work it out as we went, which at the time seemed a perfectly reasonable approach to travelling across Europe.

My flight landed early into the familiar craziness of Rome Fiumicino. Airports are rarely anyone’s idea of a gentle welcome, and Fiumicino certainly wasn’t trying to change that, but somehow I made it through customs and baggage claim in surprisingly good time. I walked into the arrivals area and there was A.P., standing there grinning at me.

It was good to see him.

We headed straight for the metro and made our way to our B&B, which was a little way out from the main tourist hub of central Rome. It turned out to be a good choice. The neighbourhood was busy without being frantic and there were cafés, bars and places to eat everywhere we looked.

After a shower, I gave in to the jetlag and had a bit of a nap.

Yes, I know. Apparently you are not supposed to do this. You are supposed to stay awake, force yourself into the correct time zone and behave like a sensible international traveller.

I have never been particularly interested in doing that.

If I have just spent hours on a plane and my body thinks it is the middle of the night, I am going to sleep.

A little later, feeling considerably more human, we headed into central Rome for a wander. We had no real plan, which suited me perfectly. We stopped by the Forum and the Colosseum, wandered through streets I half remembered and eventually found a small trattoria tucked down a narrow lane where we stopped for a late lunch.

This was the Rome I loved.

Not necessarily rushing from one major sight to another, but simply wandering. Turning down a street because it looked interesting. Stopping somewhere because there were tables outside and the food smelled good. Sitting longer than intended because there was no particular reason not to.

When I had lived in Venice, my flatmate and I had come to Rome many times. She had been dating a guy who moved there, which gave us a perfectly good excuse to keep returning, and we would come down and simply hang out.

I think St Peter’s Square was our favourite place. We would sit on the steps and watch the world go by, sometimes for hours. Tourists came and went, priests hurried across the square, groups gathered and dispersed, and we sat there doing very little at all.

This was long before the barriers, fences and guard rails went up. You could simply wander in, find yourself a spot and sit.

By late afternoon we had done enough sightseeing for one day and headed back towards our B&B.

That evening we ended up in a bar close by, where wine came in a pitcher and there was antipasti laid out to eat with it. We were still full from our late lunch and neither of us particularly wanted another proper meal, so a pitcher of wine and bits and pieces of antipasti seemed entirely adequate.

Actually, it seemed perfect.

We sat there drinking wine, picking at food and watching the evening unfold around us. Nothing particularly dramatic happened. We weren’t standing in front of some famous monument or having an extraordinary travel experience.

We were just in a neighbourhood bar in Rome.

And that was enough.

It was lovely to be back.

The following day we visited the Vatican and then went back to doing what I liked best in Rome — wandering the streets with no particular purpose, stopping for wine or ice cream whenever the need took us.

The need took us fairly often.

There is something about Rome that encourages this sort of behaviour. You walk for a while, decide you deserve a coffee. Walk some more, decide it is probably time for gelato. Another couple of streets and suddenly sitting down with a glass of wine seems not only reasonable but necessary.

At some point during the day we managed to wander straight into the middle of a protest.

Everyone seemed to be wearing orange and waving flags with great enthusiasm. There was a lot of chanting, a lot of movement and a great many people who clearly knew exactly why they were there.

We did not.

For a short while we found ourselves being carried along with the crowd, which was slightly awkward given that we had absolutely no idea what we were apparently supporting.

Eventually we decided it was probably best to make our escape before anyone handed us a flag or asked us a difficult question.

We ducked down a side lane and disappeared.

Rome returned to normal almost immediately.

That evening, our last night in the city, we found ourselves back at the little bar near the B&B.

By now, apparently, we were regulars.

We walked in and were greeted like old friends, which seemed rather generous considering we had only discovered the place the day before. But that was part of the charm of it. We found a table, ordered wine and settled in as though we had been coming there for years.

We ate.

We drank.

We laughed.

It was uncomplicated and fun, and perhaps because we knew we were leaving the next morning, we stayed a little longer and enjoyed it a little more.

Tomorrow we were heading to Venice, back to the city where I had once lived and to the house that had once been home.

But that could wait.

For tonight, we were still in Rome.