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October 2000: Having taken the decision to make the place my home almost 12 months ago, I was a little surprised to discover that there are in fact two cities in northern Italy called Venice. On the face of it, they have much in common, and topographically speaking might be twins. In each case more than 400 bridges span 28 miles of canals to connect a jigsaw of 118 different islands, on whose sodden belly a succession of intrepid architects took turns to embellish a smorgasbord of architectural flamboyance unsurpassed in the history of the western world.

Images of both cities are seared on mankind's collective consciousness, the pigeons and their palaces each contributors to what has been referred to as a "shared inheritance". The two, you think, might be as one. I did, and millions still do. Only the luxury of a prolonged encounter has proven me wrong. These are, I now know, two very different cities.

One is the Venice of the tick-box tourist, 12 million of whom each year concentrate their pre-programmed sightseeing and billion-dollar spending power in an area the size of New York's Central Park.

Laden with their camera-heavy cargoes, bobbing armadas of gondolas jostle for position with the buses, taxis and delivery boats that ply the city's crowded waterways. Landlubbers face their own struggle amid the suffocating grip of commercialism; around every corner a barrage of glass and mask shops, on every bridge a nervous, limpet-like bag salesman, in every square a tuxedoed waiter beckoning another batch of tourists, judgement rendered subservient to hunger, towards another bad pizza.

Each day of the year an average of 200 visitors fall prey to the bands of wily pickpockets who stalk this Venice's streets, a line business sufficiently remunerative that its more successful practitioners can spend their season as guests of the city's finer hotels.

The Rialto Bridge (tick), Piazza San Marco (tick) and the Canal Grande (tick), followed by an ice cream, a quick nap and an over-priced lasagne in an under-staffed café. This is conveyor-belt culture, the Venice you can find disinfected and replicated in theme parks from Tokyo to Las Vegas.

In its pigeons and rats, the cocksure and the camera-shy, the city recognised an important means of survival; the ability to sustain itself on the profligacy of its visitors. Practised to perfection, this attitude now threatens to do more than fuel the local economy; it threatens to turn the city from a real-life town into a make-believe ride. And yet this is the Venice known to so many; known to so many, but loved, I imagine, by so few.

Its twin, a reticent and less tawdry relative, is quite the opposite; a city known only to a few, but loved without exception.

It is the Venice that reveals itself late in the autumn as the last tour bus turns its back, that warms the soul beneath the blanket of mist that is its winter companion, that rules serene before the fanfare of carnival frivolities in early Spring signals the return of its other.

Its shy and enigmatic nature spurs on the traveller, that hardy soul who arrives out of season to find himself almost completely alone in a city of indescribable beauty. To embrace the uncertainty of the unfamiliar, to find your own way, to get lost and submit your wandering to chance amid the deserted streets is to discover a Venice that will remain with you to your dying days.

With its milky light and crumbling dignity, it has the charm and intrigue of an unattainable love, first seducing then tormenting those romantic souls who think themselves able to capture, in ink or in oil, more than the slightest inference of its magnificence. It belittles any attempted comparison, renders metaphor ineffectual, and defies any pre-conceived system of categorisation. It is not "like" anywhere else, does not "remind" you of another place, it is so completely unique - and I use that word with all confidence - that you will return home wondering if it was all just a dream.

The choice would seem simple. Stand in line for an hour to enter St. Mark's, or wander in for your own private mass; wither in the heat and fraying tempers of a crowded waterbus, or have front row seats for the ride of a lifetime. Venice in July or Venice in January; travel in droves or Travel Intelligent.

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