Travelling, for me, is about lost and found.

Some people take holidays specifically to switch off from their daily lives, sit in a hammock on a beach and sip something covered in fruit and umbrellas. Others take the guided tour experience, allowing them the freedom to relax and see the sights, letting someone else handle the logistics. I tend to make a lot of work for myself with holidays.

The beauty of a self-planned holiday, is that sometimes it can throw you into the most unlikely situation; a situation that can come to define your entire trip. Our story starts in the town of La Spezia.

The less said about La Spezia the better.

Luckily for us, we had somehow managed to predict without ever seeing it, that La Spezia was going to be worse than Satan's toilet and had instead booked accommodation out of town. La Spezia is one of the best starting points from which to explore the Cinque Terre, and that's pretty much all it has going for it; proximity. After being handed a useless map and given wrong directions by the tourism office employee, we set off in search of our hotel, Al Convento in Vezzano Ligure, which is a small village hanging onto one of the steep hills outside La Spezia. From the moment we pulled up beside a woman and asked for directions, to which she responded "It's just a little down the road, follow me", we sensed that we were onto something good. The sun was shining, the locals were helpful, the view was magnificent. Vezzano Ligure is one of those rare places that looks like a postcard or could even be a movie set. It almost feels as if it has all been set up entirely for your amusement. The hotel - a converted convent - looked out over the town square with the bell tolling the hour from atop the church. Children played in the church courtyard while their mothers sat and observed, chatting away. It was the perfect cliche' Italian village made real.

We walked around taking photographs in the late afternoon, off in the distance I heard drums being played and inevitably my attention was pulled away. The sound of rudiments being practiced over and over again issued from a smaller church further up the hill. I entered the church vestibule to see what was going on and an older Italian gentleman informed me through broken English that the local marching band would be performing at 6 o'clock outside "The Municipio", a sort of town hall, on the other side of the village, and we understood that he was inviting us along. We followed one of the red -jacketed musicians up the winding steps towards the pre-ordained meeting place, where the assembled band sat around smoking and chatting, past 6pm, then past 6.30pm.

For much of the time, we stood outside a sort of club; no signage, just a verandah full of older Italian men and women (mostly men) playing cards, drinking and talking loudly over one another. We were assured by the man in the newsagency across the street that the club was indeed a public bar and that we would most certainly be allowed inside, where they were serving one euro glasses of wine and beer. Although I felt as if we blended in with the locals effortlessly, a loud, brash, grey-haired fellow assured me that I stood out like a sore thumb when he started joking about my hat. Apparently, it seemed, I looked a bit like one of The Blues Brothers (I'm guessing Belushi). Silvano Bianchi knew very little English, but he knew for certain I shouldn't be wasting my time with a beer and bought me a glass of vino instead. Silvano spoke to me at length, but my Year 8 Italian was doing me no favours. Still, we managed to stumble through our conversation with hand gestures, helpful interpretations from the quiet and friendly Andrea Simoncini, and the local cast of characters crowded around the bar.

Upon Silvano's query about kangaroos, I recounted a recent, all-too-close encounter with one late at night whilst riding my motorbike very close to home. The roo jumped out from a front yard garden, probably startled by the noise of the bike. Needless to say, I was unable to do anything but hope for the best, and Silvano heartily appreciated the story, recounting it to every newcomer to the bar from then on.

Our dinner plans were pushed back, as the chianti flowed, so did the stories. At one point, somewhere after 'O Sole Mio' and a rousing rendition of 'Volare', Silvano was called home by his wife for dinner, but Jill and I stayed to hold up the bar, waiting for him to return. When he finally returned, he had dressed up, had shaved and was smelling of good aftershave. He would accompany us to the restaurant, he said, and we marched off down the hill. On the way past the town hall, we noticed the children of the local school were celebrating (something I never did find out about); Silvano decided this would be the perfect opportunity to introduce his new friends to the townsfolk. The Mayor, the head of tourism, the school board, everyone knew Silvano; his reputation as a joker was becoming clear. After regaling the children with his version of a story I'd told him about the near miss with the kangaroo, the children sang us a song and after making our apologies for not staying for dinner, we finally made our way to the restaurant; late and very, very drunk.

As we ordered, Silvano disappeared. We weren't sure where he had gone and were almost certain he wouldn't return, but return he did shortly thereafter, with his friend Pietro and a bottle of the finest chianti he could muster, as a gift. Earlier, I had given him my Blues Brothers hat as a token of our friendship, and he hugged me and said something in Italian, the only word of which I understood was 'simpatico'. Silvano inscribed the label of the bottle of Chianti Classico "Con Simpatia, Silvano". After dinner, we followed Silvano again to another bar where we drank grappa and coffee and talked again to a group of locals before we headed back again to the town hall to finish off the leftover food and drink with the assembled parents and organisers. After one final rousing version of "Nessun Dorma", we said our goodnights and stumbled back to Al Convento. I have every intention of visiting Vezzano Ligure again one day, in the mean time, I hope to keep in touch with Silvano.

I did see Silvano the next morning before we left, both of us nursing slightly sore heads; me heading for a trek along the Cinque Terre, him heading to work. We exchanged best wishes and i only wish I had enough Italian words to say that his good humour, company and friendship had left an indelible mark on me. Perhaps I will get that chance one day.

We never did get to see that marching band play.