I awake to a beautiful Summer’s morning in the Boboli District. The heat has me out of bed unusually early and I find myself on our balcony garden, looking across the terracotta rooftops of Florence.

Above me Swifts soar and dive-bomb in the pale blue skies. I find their soundtrack of endless screeching oddly comforting for it reminds me of Summer back home. Below me on Via Romana I hear neighbourhood chatter, the dull rumble of buses, and the occasional waspish buzz of a speeding scooter.

To finally be in Florence is a thrill. At art school we were made aware of the beauty to be found in its art galleries and architecture. The corridors of the Uffizi. The view across the Arno towards the Duomo. The Ponte Vecchio. Piazza della Signoria. I know all of these things as though from personal experience. Hell, maybe even a past life.

I’m also reminded that my Grandfather would tell me how he he liberated the city in WWII — seeming to the younger me as though he took personal credit for the achievement. I’m pretty sure he was joined by the combined might of the Allied Forces.

I’d deemed this city of romance and renaissance important to me long before this first visit. At last I am here. Today Geri and I will take Florence.

Right now I won’t rush. I’ll sit here looking across the rooftops and listening to the Swifts for as long as possible — at least until Geri awakes and my purpose shifts to finding fresh coffee and pastries.

We will take Florence, but maybe later.