Rome. One can almost feel the word vibrating on the page. I seem to remember one of the great psychologists, I think it was Jung, who despite repeated attempts, could never quite bring himself to visit the city, so in awe was he of its history and reputation. We suffered from no such inhibitions. In fact, I'd already been there on three or four occasions, but only to work, which, however enjoyable, is never quite the same thing as being on holiday. We'd booked ourselves into an hotel near the Piazza Navona for four nights, giving us three whole days to "do" Rome. Three whole days! Ridiculous really, but we weren't there to prepare a doctoral thesis. What we were looking for was the opportunity to gorge our senses on the sights, the colours, the sounds, the texture, the smell and, of course, the tastes of what the ancient Romans called the urbs, the city.

Our hotel was in an old palazzo which had been recently and creatively converted, with a fantastic (and long!) circular stone staircase which led us up to the third floor. The climb was amply repaid, however, as we were ushered into the archetypal "room with a view". Throwing open the shutters, the light poured gorgeously into the room and we were confronted with an exquisite view across the jumble of red-tiled roofs to the dome and towers of Sant'Agnese in Agone - a Baroque jewel of elegance and charm.

What is it about the colours of Italy which is so magical? It must have something to do with texture and the way the light is reflected off the walls of the buildings. Perhaps, but there remains something quite unique about the the infinite nuances of pale mustard yellow through to the deepest ochre, the siena reds, the delicate pinks set against the rich blue-greys, creating a perfect setting for the cream-white marble of the monuments and churches. All of this, don't forget, somehow melded and unified by, as it were, an ancient patina, blurring overly sharp distinctions, disguising inconsistencies and flaws, creating an effect similar to the felicitous accidents of a spontaneous watercolour. And this tastefully sensuous orgy of painter's colours is contained within a harmony of line which seems somehow to correspond to some innate aesthetic sense. Seeing the "sights" of Rome is, at bottom, no more than a thin pretext to allow oneself to move through this aesthetic vision and partake of it...Beauty as food.

We did all the "usual" things, getting just a little bit lost as we meandered across the Piazza Navona, dawdled on to the Pantheon, continuing on to the Fontana di Trevi, along to the Via Tritone and the Via del Corso, stopping to take in the column of Marcus Aurelius and back to the hotel again, using all the back streets we could find. By the time we had stopped and admired, and photographed and drunk coffees and written postcards and eaten ice-creams and had lunch at a busy trattoria, it was mid-afternoon when we got back to the air-conditioned haven of our rooms for a retreat from the madding crowd and a well-deserved siesta. Of course, Rome is a powerful magnet for tourists from around the world, but they are somehow absorbed into the urban landscape, becoming integral to it, in a way that defies that (snobbish?) sense of irritation at having to "share" one's experience with a mass of people. In fact, it is hard to imagine that there was ever a time in the history of Rome when it was not so. Ancient Rome must surely have thronged with awestruck outsiders.

Ancient Rome is omnipresent in the modern city. So near - and yet so far. It seems sometimes that some vast psychological gulf seperates us from that older world. Wandering around the Foro Romano and the Palatino and more obviously still in the Colosseum, one is deeply impressed without being touched. Nowhere does one see that aspiration to humility which, if only unconsciously, still informs our own civilisation. One has the sense that there is a ruthless and brutal materialism at the heart of the Roman vision of the world. The Romans were very obviously brilliant soldiers, administrators, engineers, organisers of sadistic spectacles, but all their creations are somehow self-referential, the central message being: "Behold and bow down! Are we not far and away the biggest shots around?"

And if one is brutally honest, some of that same spirit seems to have spilled over into the Vatican. St. Peter's is magnificently impressive in its Baroque pomposity, but nothing could be further from the notion of Christian humility. For me, St. Peter's is about one thing and about one thing only - the power and prestige of the Church in general and the Papacy in particular.

Where, however, we did begin to have a sense of the numinous was in the church of San Clemente. Just up beyond the Colosseum, excavations have revealed three architectural layers. One enters a twelfth century church with its charming Romanesque frescoes, but for small fee one can gain access to the two lower levels - a fourth century church and below that again, ancient Roman buildings, including a Temple of Mithras. I surreptitiously attached myself to a small guided party. The guide was obviously a young American Art and Archeology PhD student, who was able brilliantly to explain the significance of the stones. She told us an awful lot about Roman bricklaying techniques, brick and mosaic paving methods, water supply technology, the Mithraic cult. The Mithraic cult, it seems, was a secret society, exclusive to men, popular with the miltary, which had at its core a ritual shared meal of bread and wine. "Wow!", as one of the young American guidees exclaimed! The fourth century church also contained primitive frescoes depicting the life of St. Clement, including what our guide claimed to be the first known example of written Italian. So much to learn about, so little time. Maybe I can come back as an archeologist and write a doctoral thesis...