YOU’LL be wanting to know how things went on my holiday. A week in Florence and rural Tuscany, when mists swag the valleys, trees are golden and the sun still warm – what could be more enticing?

Despite the stressful preparations to get away – had we packed the right clothes? Did we remember our European Health cards? – within hours of our departure time from Edinburgh, we started to relax. To our surprise and delight, despite not being in Italy since the Christmas before Covid, we found the locals easy to understand. Occasionally we even managed to uphold our end of a conversation. How friendly people were – perhaps more so than before the pandemic? Certainly, it seemed that way to us. It was almost as if people were on their best behaviour, recognising that everything can fall apart with frightening speed, and intent on rebuilding connections and confidence.

What a joy to be able to stroll the byways of one of the world’s finest cities, filled with sculpture, art, and vistas that make the heart swell. Nor need you ever cross the threshold of a gallery, with stunning architecture on all sides. At every corner we collided with history which, in a city like this, goes back centuries. There have been glorious, proud moments, but for an ancient centre of banking rivalries and political and religious skulduggery, where the rich jostled for supremacy while the poor got on with their hand-to-mouth lives, there is a sinister edge to bygone days. In the bright light of modern times, of course, such a past adds a frisson of interest, which in part explains why so many continue to throng here.

Despite the eye-watering price of hotels, there were plenty of tourists still wandering around, but the frenetic pace of summertime had passed, and a leisurely air hung over the place; even office workers, nipping out for a lunchtime panino, seemed more chilled than at the peak of the season. Only when rain thundered down – downpours are common at this time of year – did people move at a lick.

Open-topped buses passed, throwing up spray from puddles, but since we know the city well, they weren’t for us. Instead, we padded around on foot, enjoying the aroma of freshly ground coffee wafting into the medieval, cobbled streets from a delicatessen or one of those artisan cafes where the cappuccinos are topped with a souffle of foam, and there is an array of glistening pastries at the counter which makes you realise that stretching the waistband is what holidays are all about.

With time to stand and stare, we found quaint backstreets we had not explored in years, and alleys with tempting bookshops, where we browsed with no need to rush, before deciding it was time for lunch or a pre-dinner glass of wine.

And what wine! From the vineyards of Chiantishire, it transported us straight to the heart of Italy, as if welcoming us back. Which was a bittersweet sensation because, as you will probably have guessed by now, we never did reach Tuscany. Instead of strolling around Florence, Siena and Arezzo in search of Piero della Francesca, we were marooned in Edinburgh. Thanks to striking air traffic controllers in Italy, on our day of departure all flights in and out were cancelled.

Unable to find alternative flights, we had little option but to kiss our hotel fees goodbye – forfeited if cancelled within 72 hours – and try not to think about the return flight, which would leave Bologna without us, since we were already at our destination, as if our feet had been glued to the runway.

By way of compensation, we spent the weekend flaneuring around Edinburgh – see above – and had a very enjoyable time. Even so, I couldn’t forget the words of a neighbour, on waving us off: “Enjoy the sun, because it might be a long time before you see it again.”

No need to dwell on our disappointment. What I do brood on, though, is the powerlessness. Tales of holidaymakers thwarted at the departure gates or stranded abroad have been a refrain this past year and more. I don’t do the lottery, but trying to get anywhere at the moment runs it a close second.

Whether it’s international flights, which can be more volatile than the stock market, or local buses, which mysteriously fail to appear, getting from A to B has become one of the great challenges of our times. Just at the point when most of us are realising that car journeys should be rationed, the transport system is in meltdown.

Absent or tardy buses are a regular bane of travellers’ lives. Bad enough in a city, when the next bus will be so tightly packed people can detect the brand of deodorant their fellow passengers are – or are not – wearing. On rural routes, however, the non-appearance of a bus can ruin the day: appointments, deadlines and connections missed, with no hope of catching up.

Far worse, though, are the railways. With Scotrail’s ongoing strike action, the train network can no longer be trusted to deliver us where we need to go. Weekend workers have to find other ways to reach work, and those going out, be it shopping, a football match, or an evening show, must either cancel, postpone their plans or find other means of getting there.

With a buckling economy and ambitious targets to reach net zero emissions by 2045, this is hardly ideal. I understand the frustration of railway staff desperate for a pay rise, but the impact their action has on others trying to earn a living – or simply get on with their lives – creates a spiral of misery.

Long before the current strikes, train travel has been growing increasingly unreliable. On a two-day trip to London recently, my outward train was cancelled, the return train delayed by fallen power lines, and its onward leg from Edinburgh to Inverness cancelled because of short-notice staff illness. I was impressed by a party of Londoners, now in danger of missing a pre-wedding dinner in Perthshire, who remained remarkably calm.

Not all of us are like that. How prescient Robert Louis Stevenson was, when he wrote: “to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive”. Problem is, some of us are in danger of giving up hope.

Read more by Rosemary Goring:

Time to see the light on changing the clocks

Stop the digital world, I want to get off