Sunday morning, I have just been woken by the sound of the voices of warped little angels, since the entire house is tiled and marbled, the sound travels. Mike, or Gian Michel as I now call him has been kind enough to bring me an espresso.

Downstairs Nonna is watching mass on the television. She is 96 and even though you’d never guess, it’s not entirely feasible to take the old bird out of the cage. I’d love to make her day and take her to see the tomb of St Anthony, the patron saint of Padova. Nonna’s memory is slipping, she couldn’t remember who I was, until I told her my name was Alessandro. She goes through moments of being totally lucid to being, well, 96 years old. We should be so lucky.

The mass on television has Nonna so gripped that you could wrestle a lion around her and she wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. She can’t hear the television (hence the screaming hordes of Valkyrie choir-boys) and she can’t read the words on the screen, but she knows it’s mass – and you’d have to drag her kicking and screaming from the television, should you so wish.

Gian Michel took me on a massive day out yesterday. In typical haphazard fashion, he woke me up early, announcing that we were going to visit his cousins (I love it when the Italians talk about ‘family’) in Udenese some 2-3 hours away by train. I got up and did my ablutions as quickly as possible, got my espresso from Flori, the Romanian girl who comes in from time to time to look after Nonna, tucked into some panetone and prepared myself mentally for a trip to see the cousins. Gian Michel (from this point on known as GM) then made a phone call, only to declare that his cousins were not home, and that we would not be going to see them.

GM then told me of the 13th century village of Montagnana, where Nonna was born and grew up. The city he told me, is surrounded by walls and a now dried moat. Four massive sliding wooden doors protect each entrance to the city. Best of all though, is that there is a festival of Proscuito (Italian cured ham) inside the city of Montagnana.

We set off for Montagnana. GM was working his magic, showboating his social engineering skills on everyone, from bus drivers to young ladies working in the sales office of the bus station. No one escapes a grilling. There is a lesson to be learned there. Someone once told me that in London, if you don’t look up, physically, you miss London, and it’s true. The same applies to not talking to people. If you don’t ask, you’ll never know. On Friday night for example, we went out for dinner – I’ll tell you all more about that later. But sat next to us was a couple, he was English (enter Hugh Grant accent and, erm, well, you know, I, I, and my sister and Mummy, they think I’m well, the cat’s anus, oh God you all think I’m so charming), I overheard him remarking on how open the Italians are, and how retentive and reserved the English are, that to talk to a stranger is an invasion of privacy. Here in Padova you really do walk the streets and greet people a good day. Men and women alike give each other a kiss on each cheek, perhaps even a hug when they meet – my father would think that homo-erotic, and probably declare the entire male populous of Italy to be of that particular persuasion. When you are here, the charm of the place sucks you in, you realise what a brutal, retentive, abrasive and blinkered society I was raised in, thank St Anthony’s sweet sandals that I was raised by a woman. I’m getting sidetracked by something I can deal with later on in life through therapy.

Montagnana. The bus trip to Montagnana was a treat – it took about an hour through lush green mountainous regions and villages. GM was being transported back to when he was a young boy at a college nearby, telling me and anyone else sitting close by on the bus that during the war, squadrons of planes would fly over at night, and during the day the they would pull bullets out of walls and pick up spent cartridges in hope of finding leftover gunpowder to play with. GM by the way, is 72, he is physically stronger than anyone I know, and has the drive, sexual appetite and zest of a 20 year old – basically a freak of nature. However given that his mother is 96, and his father who also died at a very old age it’s probably genetic. He is very proud of the fact that when his father died, they found semen stains in the bed, that to the very end he had his priorities in order.

Once we finally got to Montagnana, we walked through one of the mighty entrances. Any invaders in time gone by, would have had to get through a moat, a draw-bridge and a storm of archer’s arrows to gain entrance to the city. The tops of the walls surrounding the city are cut with slits where the archers would have peered through to fire their arrows.

First things first, it was time to eat and be merry. We sought out the Proscuito festival and found it immediately. Imagine the German beer festival, but for ham, tents full of people gorging on ham and cheese, bread and wine. We bought coupons for ham, cheese and wine. For €15 we got 2 plates of the finest cured ham piled high, 2 plates of mixed cheese and bottle of Italian Cabernet and fresh, crispy Italian bread. After eating and debating fervently, as Italians do, quaffing the bottle of wine in about 15 minutes assisted transformation of me becoming Alessandro – GM speaks Italian to me, I only ever have to say ‘si si, bene, tutto bene’ because, being GM he is always right. I am going to sign up for Italian lessons when I get back to London as I feel it’s a language I could learn. I have been getting by in Padova in my very bad and broken Italian, thanks to the very old English/Italian dictionary Nonna has let me make use of…. ‘La dictionare di Italiano è Englese è munto utile Nonna’

GM took me on a tour of the ancient city. Pointing out where his grandfather used to live, where his uncle lived – he had not been back in a very long time, it was clear the memories were flooding back for him, it was emotional, thanks to the wine. We went into every shop, the coffee shop for an espresso, the pastry shop to talk to the rather large and luscious baker’s daughter, I wanted her there and then, smothered in marzipan and cream, in a controlled environment of course, she was as big as a house, the fact that she was the baker’s daughter made this perfectly, well, perfect.

A great day was had in Montagnana, alas we had to leave, by the time we left, I could easily have had another round of Proscuito, cheese, bread and wine.

On the bus back to Padova we got talking to an old boy who had some good history to part with. He told us the history of a piazza in Padova that was the site of a water coliseum. Like gladiators fighting each other and lions, this particular sport involved miniature galleys that would battle each other in crocodile infested waters. Those unfortunate enough to be knocked off their mini boats were considered crocodile food. The place had since been covered over and surrounded by 200 statues of politicians and philosophers, bridges now build over a remaining moat. This piazza I’m told, is the largest in Europe after red square.

On the edge of the piazza is St Giustino cathedral. Possibly the biggest I have ever seen. Inside the cathedral there are many alters and artefacts that adorn the place from floor to ceiling. Unfortunately we were not allowed to take any pictures inside, all I can say is that it left me with a burning desire to visit Rome, Florence and Venice to see the full extent of the riches of the Catholic empire.

All around Padova are symbols of the lions and beasts that would scare the bejesus out of any God fearing medieval peasant. This lion was apparently a symbol for the Venetian Maritime Republic, and relics can be found peppered all over Padova, on top of old columns, outside of churches, everywhere. There are images around that are so dark, it got me thinking where they came from, Bosch would have loved it, who’s mind conjured these images up, how powerful was the hold over the collective social mind by the church, controlled by fear.
I bought GM an ice-cream. The first he said in 10 years. We bought another. The second I said, in 10 years. When in Italy, don’t look beyond a lemon/chocolate cone. My stomach rumbles and the waft of spinach cooking in tomato and garlic wafts up from downstairs.

We went across the square to the church of St Anthony. Thousands of people flock to this church every day. They come in droves, and I wonder why. The power of the Catholic church begins to dawn on me, and can’t help but begin to wonder if it isn’t the most evil, powerful and wealthy business in operation today. The pull they have over people is incredible. The streams of people entering the church seem to be hypnotised. Outside candles are being sold, some cost €30, about £16 and everyone has one. Once again, no photos are allowed to be taken inside the church.

I was stunned when I entered the church. Some things, artefacts and buildings are indeed priceless. It’s strange to be in the presence of something that through history and time has no possible value. I begin to wonder about the Vatican and the Catholic church, a dark and disturbing cloud permeates my consciousness, are we really that subject to the powers that be, just how much wool covers our eyes. Who does the Vatican consult? I ponder Nonna, welded and hypnotised by mass on the television, like a pillar of salt.

The interior of the church is like nothing I have ever seen before. Those bastards could build. Everything is constructed out of marble, silver, gold, gems and stone. The level of perfection is something I have never witnessed. Everywhere the images of heaven, hell, God, angels, cherubs, glory and miracles is so spectacular it’s almost believable. Like special effects of the day, no wonder the pull over the people is so strong. The place glimmers and shines in what can only be described as a divine image. People saunter along, like zombies, hypnotised by the holiness of St Anthony. There must be 20 or 30 altars, at least. At the main altar, mass is being held. Gm and I follow the Zombie flow to see the tomb of St Anthony. Around me people weep and touch everything, from corner stones to benches, the floor, anything. We made our way around the edges, leading up to the tomb – it is covered in silver and gold. Artefacts and paintings, sculptures relief’s adorn the place from the floor to ceiling. The silver is black, apart from where people have stroked it over the last 6-700 years, the corners and edges of everything gleam.

Leading up to the tomb, we see the coffin, his burial robes, his tongue and vocal cords on a jar, everything embellished with gold. Every piece of St Anthony is encased in as much gold and valuable metal as possible. It’s ludicrous. I thought the Catholic church was about the real estate, it goes way beyond that. How did it reach this magnitude? What has it really been about? Who owns this? Why? It leaves me wanting to study history, there is something so Rosemary’s baby about this. Just how little and insignificant am I?

People leave their €30 candles in a box for St Anthony and weep. No doubt the candles make their way outside as soon as possible to be sold off again. Even GM, who is not religious, feels compelled to curtsy and make the sign of the cross as he leaves the church.

I can’t wait to get to Venice, GM tells me I haven’t seen anything yet.