Timing Isn’t Everything If the Place Is Right : Even when the weatherman lets you down, the essence of travel is not lost.

I keep turning up at the right place at the wrong time . . . and loving it.

I’ve known Vermont without leaves; Park City, Utah, without snow, and Washington without cherry blossoms. Despite prevailing song titles, I go for autumn in Paris, April in Rome, and Christmas anywhere--whether white or golden.

It’s just that travel means more to me than weather, although a clear day has not yet proved offensive.

You haven’t lived, some say, unless you have seen the Taj Mahal under a full moon. Perhaps. But my only chance to see that marble love gift was after a cloudburst, and I promise it’s even beautiful coming out of a shower.

Venice was blustery and flooded on the New Year’s Eve of my first visit. The fabled gondolas were wrapped in tarps and bobbing in the choppy canal. Cafe tables had been pulled inside from the arcade lining St. Mark’s Square. Even the pigeons had the good sense to take cover.

But the shadowy dungeons of Doge’s Palace were eerier than I had imagined, and the quiet candlelight of Harry’s Bar more welcome. I’ve been back since with sunshine and crowds, but that’s not the memory that haunts me.

Sure, Singapore is hot. Bangkok can be smoggy, and the traffic in Cairo is horrendous. But big-city irritations are universal. It’s the soaring notes at the La Scala opera house, or the serenity of a Shinto shrine, or the new best friend you meet in a Zurich market that make a journey glimmer.

Most of us can’t travel by whim. Our schedules are set by civic commitments, school holidays, the dates of a convention or the only three weeks not already claimed as vacation by someone else at the office.

That means that some of us will be traveling in the peak tourist season, and others may hit rain.

Off-season travel is less expensive, less formal and less hectic. But off-season travel may mean missing a rip-snortin’ festival or the annual one-day opening of a stunning palace.

Throughout the year, Hong Kong offers extraordinary shopping, fine cuisine, gorgeous hotels and a sprinkling of festivals. But only if you’re there in late January or early February can you be enveloped in the fireworks and exuberance of Chinese New Year.

Only in late April or early May can you take the ferry to Cheung Chau Island for the pomp and magic of the Bun Festival.

Only in late May or early June can you see the raucous Dragon Boat festival and the madcap races on Hong Kong Harbor.

Hong Kong festival dates are approximate because most are tied to the Chinese lunar calendar (the First Day of the First Moon, the 15th Day of the Seventh Moon, etc). Other dates--such as the Cheung Chau extravaganza--are set by divination. The Hong Kong Tourist Assn. is among the first to know which dates the village wizards decree as auspicious.

One of the first things I do on arrival anywhere is to read English-language newspapers--as well as the tourist brochures in the hotel room. Had I not scanned a tent-card announcement at the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, I would have missed the hypnotic parade on Cheung Chau in which costumed youngsters seem suspended in midair or balanced on the blade of a sword. I would have missed seeing the traditional tower of baked buns, which island lads scramble to scale.

Before leaving for London last spring, I read that Frogmore Park in Windsor--site of the stately mausoleum of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert--is open to the public only two days each year. The dates coincided with my trip. On a chilly May morning, I found myself fourth in a long, curly queue waiting for the garden gates to open.

Behind the mausoleum is a small graveyard where lesser royals are buried. Most talked of are the markers to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor--or “that American woman,” as the Scottish lady muttered at my elbow.

On that same ramble, in the walled city of York, I happened into the great cathedral on the day in May that the mighty bell towers are open to the public. Bell ringers led the climb and showed off the ancient bells, including Great Peter--at 10 tons the third-largest bell in England. From the lacy York Minster parapets, I watched the setting sun pale to silver.

For once I was in the right place at the right time--which was just before the bells tolled at 5 p.m.