Rome, Italy

It's the little touches at hotels that make all the difference. The fluffy bathrobes with the subtle tags announcing they're on sale for an extortionate amount, to remind you not to stuff one in your suitcase; the chocolates on the pillow that tempt you into sinning with their gooey soft centres; the fact they uncomplainingly clean up the red wine you've just accidentally sprayed all over the bed as you trip over the chair (oops)! And the little card they slide under the door each morning with the day's weather forecast so you know what to wear when you get dressed.

Sadly today's news is depressing. The five icons range from a bright smiley sun on the left to a downpour of biblical proportions on the right and it's the latter that is ticked. A quick glance outside suggests the air-conditioning unit that blocks our vision is dry and the patch of sky above it clear so we decide to celebrate the meteorological inaccuracy of the reception staff with a full breakfast in the sixth floor restaurant, Lemonia.

This turns out to be another terraced room, with a view of St Peter's, but bizarrely has a canvas roof, as though we are sat under a tent. As we munch away Verdi's 'Four Seasons' is piped over the speakers only to be drowned out by the heavens opening and rain starting to thunder down upon us. It's like being sat shivering in Glastonbury, just with a more sophisticated soundtrack and a better view.

Fortunately the downpour doesn't last and after coffee we wander downstairs for a little exploration. In the lobby the concierge is explaining to some guests why there are Italian flags flying from every available post in the city. Transpires that today is Republic Day - celebrating Italian unity. It's 150 years since the nation state of Italy came into being and the day is only celebrated with a bank holiday every fifty years. So this is the third day off to toast the republic they've had in a century and a half which seems somewhat weird. We decide we'll stick with St Patrick's Day which is a lot more fun and frequent. The flags are almost identical anyway.

We turn left out of the hotel and venture down the hill, stopping almost immediately at a little art shop where we are almost seduced by the array of paintings and have to hurriedly leave for fear of spending a chunk of cash before we've even gone 100 yards. We continue on and within just a couple of minutes stumble upon the Spanish Steps, by now bathed in sunshine, where a whole host of artists are displaying their wares. Coman is particularly taken by some watercolours but I drag him away by reminding him Clodagh and Shellie are due to arrive any minute now so we return to the hotel just as the downpour resumes, missing a soaking by mere moments.

The ladies have arrived before their room is ready, so with them having been up since 4am to catch the flight from Dublin, and a mere Aer Lingus sandwich to keep them going, we head for a spot of lunch, despite our breakfast still weighing large upon us.

Shellie has a recommendation for a restaurant near the Spanish Steps on the Via della Croce called Antica Enoteca. Built in 1842, frequented by artists and famed for its curving bar and marble wine vats it's a Roman institution. We secure a table at the back and order a quick bite to eat. The ladies go for pizzas, Coman has crepes and I order gnocchi with tomato and basil. Lukewarm and covered with parmesan it's not the finest fare, but washed down with a sharp pinot grigio it does the job.

Shellie produces her purse, emblazoned with the legend "Old enough to know better, too young to give a rat's ass" and declares we should use it for a kitty so we will put in a stack of Euros. Being a senior member of the banking profession we leave her in charge and so when the bill comes for 78 euros she lays down a bunch on notes. Just in time, I notice there's actually 200 euros on the table so quickly retrieve the overspend. No wonder the Irish economy is in trouble!!

A quick cab ride over to the Vatican Museum later, a skip to the front of the queue and waltz through the x-ray machines, and we're soon wandering through the labyrinthine wonders of the Catholic Church. Halls of antiquities, ancient treasures, vast fading tapestries and thousands of paintings all lead us through to one of the wonders of the Vatican; the Galleria delle Carte Geografiche. A ridiculously long room covered from floor to ornately gilded ceiling with ancient maps it is utterly jawdropping. We shuffle along among the thousands of tourists, gazing about us in awe.

Room after painted room leads us on until we get to the spartan walls of the modern art section which is, to be honest, a bit rubbish. Whoever buys the contemporary stuff for Papa really needs to be replaced. Any old tat is hung on the walls which precede the Sistene Chapel so by this point the crowds of people speed up, all eager to get inside and stare at Michaelangelo's masterpiece of a ceiling.

"No photos" everyone is constantly reminded but the amount of surreptitious camera action is hilarious. Some muppet is even using flash before the security bundle him away. In the distraction my blackberry starts accidentally snapping away and Coman rests his camera on Clodagh's shoulder for a subtle shot of the ceiling, but at that moment a priest wanders straight into shot and he's overcome with Catholic guilt so we make a hasty exit.

On we go into St Peter's Square and then the Basilica itself. Having told Clodagh she'll be overwhelmed by the huge size of the building it's actually smaller than I remember. By this point we're all pretty knackered so whisk around the sights inside in just a few minutes. I stride purposefully into one section and get stopped, only to be asked if I want to give Confession. I decline and move on. We haven't got all week!!

Back at the hotel we have a quick drink in Mirabelle and then all have a little siesta. The very early start for Clodagh and Shellie means they're wilting and I have a special recommendation for dinner I want to take them to and there'll be no falling asleep in the pasta!

Our friend Zena has told us of a small, cheap, family run restaurant in the south of the city that she's a regular at called Trattoria der Pallaro, a well-worn eatery that has no menu, just a slogan stating "Here, you'll eat what we want to feed you." Mama Paola Fazi sports a towel wrapped around her head turban-style and leads her family as they serve up a five-course meal of typically Roman food for 25 euro a head, including wine, coffee, and a mandarin juice finale. It's pretty much a lucky dip regarding what you'll be served but an experience is guaranteed.

The cab pulls up, in the rain, and we enter through plastic sheeting doors into a basic little cafe, with plastic tables and chairs and yellow tablecloths. It's bustling and full of locals. A table is found for us and we're ushered to it by Mama with little ceremony. Soon the food starts arriving; bread, huge jugs of wine, braised fennel, lentils in broth, parmesan balls, deep-fried rice, a huge plate of parma hams and salami. These are just the antipasti. Blimey.

At a table behind us a couple are celebrating their engagement. Once this is discovered by an American group next to them the bustling but rather sedate restaurant is filled with huge screams and cries of "Oh my God!" One particularly loud, blonde girl has the kind of shrieking voice that sounds like nails on a blackboard but with the decibels of a jet engine. "I could actually smack her," says Shellie after five minutes of wailing. Bless the engaged couple, they look mortified and only relax once their unexpected congratulating committee leave for pastures new.

Soon a double pasta course is served of rigatoni with tomato and parmesan and then pesto. Presuming this is the finale we finish it all off and sit back, wiping our mouths with napkins and patting our stomachs which are straining under the load. But oh God, no! A salad of Roman beans and anchovies, home made deep-fried potato chips, dainty balls of mozzarella then huge succulent slices of beef are brought to the table, and once they've been cleared, lemon tarts.

There's only one thing for it - so we summon Mama over to the table and get a photo for posterity. She hugs Coman and Clodagh to her bosom, smiles sweetly, and with not a word of English on her just chatters in Italian to our grinning selves. "Grazi!" we all chorus. "Prego", she booms.

"Preggo, more like," says Coman as he loosens his belt. We roll into the waiting taxi and drive through the lashing rain back to the hotel, to dream vivid dreams fuelled by Mama's feast.