In fact I got my first impression long before I ever dreamt of visiting Sarajevo – during a phone conversation to a friend who lives there I could hear the distinctive Muslim call to prayer sounding from one of the city’s numerous minarets. The city felt very distant, very exotic, very foreign.

My preparation for the visit was to read The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway, a moving, compelling and sobering novel. I was filled with awe and respect for the sufferings of the city’s struggling inhabitants as my plane flew in through the narrow valley and I thought of the snipers positioned down the steep mountains on either side.

I had been warned about the holes in the buildings. Looking out each morning from my window on a block of flats and wondering how the different shapes - small round holes, long deep gashes and showers of indents - were created is a permanent reminder of the troubles from 1992 to 1996.

The view from the same window changes subtly but dramatically during the day. At first, it is bright and sunny, yet as the day heats up, a characteristic blue haze develops across the city. The sun moves round, gradually revealing different areas and features invisible at 7 AM.

And the sounds! Sarajevo is a city of sounds: vying with the minaret's call to prayer are the bells of the other churches and mosques, the stray dogs barking intermittently but insistently, the noise of workmen on the building sites everywhere, cars hooting ferociously at each other as they try to pass on the incredibly narrow streets, the street pedlars shouting as they encourage us to buy their wares.

I am also fascinated by the River Miljacka that cuts the city in two yet unifies it - certainly for first-time visitors - because it is a way of getting your bearings. Always in the background, it is present like a powerful yet discreet decision-maker. I haven't seen all its bridges but I'm sure they can all tell stories as fascinating as the river they cross.