Rome, Italy

So, what could be more quintessentially Irish for St Patrick's Day than fleeing the Emerald Isle and following generations of emigres on an adventure to foreign shores? Well, downing vast amounts of Guinness and sending Jedward to the Eurovision for a start, but that aside, a trip overseas seems like a fine idea. And so when our friends Clodagh and Shellie suggested that we join them on a trip in honour of their patron saint's bank holiday, it seemed rude not to. Especially as Guinness isn't my thing, Coman misses the craic and we can have belated celebration's for his birthday while we're about it!!

Praising the joys of air miles we bagged a couple of cheap flights on BA and decided to use the money saved on the most spectacular hotel we could find. And they don't come more splendid than, erm, the Splendide Royale. Recommended by Stuart who had been whisked there for his 10th Anniversary in October, a quick Google search told us all we needed to know. It's more ornate and full of glamour than Versailles itself, so therefore perfect for a couple of understated gentlemen such as we and the very refined ladies from Dublin society.

As the website enthuses, "This 19th century palace - once headquarters of the Roman Maronite community and only a stroll away from the famed Via Veneto - is today a luxury hotel which gracefully offers that same decor and furniture once only open to the noble palaces of 17th century Roman aristocracy. Here, the lush and rich sumptuousness of the city's Baroque period comes to life again." Hallelujah!! Finally, a home fit for a Queen.

I thought of such glamour as we dragged our bags through the Tube this morning, bumping into aggrieved commuters on the Victoria line, silently enduring the delays on the Circle line and crushed up against some halitosis-ridden employee as I hauled myself out at High St Ken for a day's frantic work to clear the decks before I could switch the Out of Office reply on, and head for the Eternal City.
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It's late afternoon when I finally meet Coman at Paddington to hop on the Heathrow Express and zoom off to Terminal 5. A quick sashay around the duty free and a few illicit squirts of fragrances later (the new Pamplemousse de Rose is especially fine against my unshaven features!), and we find ourselves at the Cartier bar for a swift Chenin Blanc.

Suitably fortified we board the plane and are treated to the joys of a British Airways ham and egg roll. Stuffed with more emulsifiers, stabilisers and E numbers than a raver on a ketamine binge, it's at least washed down with a rather fine Spanish Tempranillo which helps the 2 hours slide by smoothly.

We land at the rather tired looking Fiumicina airport and are met by Salvatore from the Hotel Splendide Royal, a diminutive chauffeur with a twinkly, silver-fox appearance. He leads us silently to the waiting limo and within moments we are on the motorway to the city. No fear of getting lost as here, all roads really do lead to Rome. Apart from the signs to L'Aquila, Napoli, Firenze and more. But why let that stand in the way of a good cliche?!

Fortunately the heavy rain in the forecast has just passed so although the city is soaking wet we get unimpeded views of St Peters and Castel San Angelo as we cross the river and head towards the Splendide. Having not been back to Rome for nearly eight years since our first visit, we're surprised how much we remember the streets, even from the darkened windows of the car.

Upon arrival Gianluca shows us to our room - 501. "It is a wonderful room sir, a superior room" he tells us, "the fifth floor has such breathtaking views". Sadly Gianluca has swallowed the hotel brochure whole and has never actually opened the curtains. Superior is actually the lowest class room, followed by Deluxe, Grande and other superlatives, all the way up to Presidential Suite. And the view is *****. The back of the hotel air conditioning unit is, quite literally, breathtaking but not for the reasons Gianluca suggested. Hey ho. At least the bed has a royal crest upon it!

By now it's 11pm, and rather than unpacking we decide on a nightcap before bed. The bar is located in Mirabelle's, the seventh floor restaurant where we are booked for dinner on Saturday night. We opt to sit on the terrace, which is garlanded with flowers and warmed against the spring chill with heaters. Boasting one of the most panoramic views of the city, out across the Villa Borghese to St Peters lit up on the horizon, this is the breathtaking view Gianluca promised with forked tongue from our room.

The wine menu is proferred and swiftly returned once we see the price of a small glass is three times more than the entire bottle of duty-free Aussie Merlot we've smuggled into the room downstairs. Opting for the only slightly less eye-watering selections of beers I choose a bottle of Nastro Azzuro to be suitably Italian and Coman, to welcome in Paddy's Day asks for Guinness. Which comes in a wine glass. Bizarre!

On the table next to us sit a couple of very stylish and slightly mysterious Italian men. Let's call them Fabio and Valentino. Shaven heads, plucked eyebrows, immaculate suits and a pair of leather man bags hanging off their chairs, we can't decide if they're a couple of just very stylish brothers. With supreme indifference to each other, and utter disdain for everyone in their vicinity, they sit elegantly smoking and surveying the view in utter silence. Every now and again one of them sips at the espresso before them, and then exhales anew. Ah, so Italian.

But then on the next table a bejewelled woman and her over-tanned husband pull out huge cigars. Vast plumes of choking blue smoke engulf us, so with elaborate show we move inside and sit by in the leather banquettes by the restaurant. Penguin-suited waiters waft round the Michelin-starred room which upon closer inspection looks more like the kitsch of Kettners in Soho than an Italianate palace.

To the anaemic strains of Sarah Brightman-meets-Dido that pump softly from the PA we watch a procession of pneumatically-enhanced women leave for after-dinner bunga bunga with what seem to be their grandfathers. How very Berlusconi.
And so to bed for us all!