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For those of you who watch Heroes, Ven­timiglia will be an Italo-American, all-flying, all-teleporting, multi-purpose dream­boat called Milo, who sports  a razor-sharp jaw and flaw­less skin. For the rest of you, it’s a one-horse town on the Franco-Italian bor­der that, at some point in his­tory, lost its horse.

Two pieces of knowl­edge prove invalu­able when vis­it­ing Ven­timiglia from France. Firstly,  no trains return to the French Riv­iera between 7pm and 11.30pm. Sec­ondly, there’s almost noth­ing to do at this time of night, and hardly any­where  to go. So it’s fair to say that, after dark, it’s quite the most bor­ing place for miles.

Fri­day morn­ing and early after­noon are best spent ambling through the town’s weekly mar­ket, which sprawls along the prom­e­nade, its myr­iad stalls sell­ing wares that range from good qual­ity, inex­pen­sive and deli­cious food: cheeses, oils, olives, and dried meats; to out­ra­geously naff designer rip-offs; hand­bags, belts, sun­glasses, bling, blang, best ignored  — you could end up arrested for sell­ing con­tra­band at the French bor­der.  Trains return to France infre­quently after 3pm, and we found our­selves stranded until 11pm after an evening spent trudg­ing around in search of a decent restau­rant by the bay (on a Fri­day night!)

My mother and I were reduced, for nearly two hours, to sip­ping (deli­cious) red wine, in near silence, at a tiny café oppo­site the town’s cin­ema. Near silence, for those of you who know my mother, is rare, but we were ren­dered speech­less by the tan­gi­ble sense of iner­tia that seemed to hang, like dust­sheets in an aban­doned house, softly over the town.

So watch Heroes, stick to Milo, and give the town a miss.