I’ve been on two ‘art courses’, the first up in the Southern Peak District, where there’s an ‘art school’ called Bullclough. It’s run from a lovely country home in the middle of a beautiful landscape. At that one I was the only man amongst about 12 of us. So I was surrounded by charming women.

Our tutor, Rachel, was enthusiastic, encouraging, knowledgeable and generally charming, getting some brilliant results out of us. Some beginners, others who’d been doing this painting thing for quite some years and me, who has been drawing for aeons, but not painting. I’ve been at it for about 5 years or so. I was there to see if I could get to grips with colour and found the whole thing inspirational. It gave me new energy to come back and do loads more painting.

Now that was a couple of years ago, and my enthusiasm graph needed revitalising. Knowing that Rachel did classes in the local village where she lives in Oxfordshire, I signed up for another. This was two days last week and involved a train north, then west, then a taxi from the nearest Cotswold village with a railway station to the one where she does the course, which has no station.Stupidly, I booked late, and the rail cost more than a return to Sheffield. One lesson learnt.

I’d booked too, to stay the night in the local pub. Now if you book a room at a pub, there’s going to be a chance that you will be sleeping in a room over a bar. This was the case. Very old pub, quite small, clean room and bathroom. The pub itself was located close to the big business in the area: the Brewery.

In many ways this small pub was like many from years ago, hardly enough room to swing a kitten round in the bar area, and with modern man being like the cars, twice the size of yore, it was a squeeze to get past the bloke who seemed to have his chest glued to the bar. I also got ‘ the glance’ , that spoke of ‘ who the hell is this bloke with his suitcase on wheels in our pub’, and then a look back at the main event, the beer, and possibly the thought that ‘ does he know it’s Friday night?’

I’d got to the pub by taxi, Uber to be exact. My driver was a charming young Somali man who’d come to this country with his wife from Norway, where he’d been an IT engineer. He wanted to be an IT engineer here too, but it was proving difficult. He’d driven down to the Cotswolds from Birmingham to look out for business.

Wheeling my suitcase through narrow country lanes in search of the elusive village hall, three people telling me they weren’t local, and Google Maps not finding it, eventually ‘woman walking dog’, walked me to it, telling me at the same time that it wasn’t her dog. An odd start.

Walking into the Hall was like a scene from Miss Marple, a sea of female faces and just one other bloke. I was made very welcome.

Rachel was on hand to dive into an intense sort of day, getting to grips with form, colour, composition and drawing. We had a table each and my opposite neighbour had her guide dog, Keith, with her. Now there’s something, someone with sight issues getting to grips with painting. She and Keith were charming.

At the end of the day one of the other women on the course gave me a lift back to the pub, and I settled in. I was lucky that they had food; Friday night is Pizza night, any other night and I’d have gone hungry. I got myself comfortable in the room, moved about in the shower to get wet, had a huge wheel of pizza delivered and prepared for a relaxing evening watching telly, as the sounds of the bar beneath started to get busier and busier, until by 11, the place was jumping. As drinkers get more sozzled, they seem to lose their hearing, so talking gets louder. As it got more crowded, they spilt out of the front door, and the sound then travelled up through the old bedroom window. I was not entirely surprised but looked forward to closing time. At 10 to midnight it reached its climax of noise and banter; at 10 past the place was as silent as a churchyard. I went out like a light, waking reasonably refreshed the next morning by a tawny owl.

Breakfast at the brewery was advised, and off I went, joined there by a classmate who then gave me a lift to the hall for the Saturday class. Excellent breakfast. Ready to paint. Rachel got some brilliant results from all of us, and when I mused, ‘Why do men not do this sort of thing?’ the response from one of my classmates was just one word: ‘Football?’

I’d ordered my Uber back to charming Cotswold village with station, and a black Mercedes turned up. This time the charm came from an Afghan driver. A remarkably good-looking young man who’d driven all the way out from Oxford to get me and take me to the station. I told him what I’d been doing, and we had a tricky conversation about art, which he had no knowledge of whatsoever. He thought that I’d been on a painting and decorating course. In an attempt to get the conversation on track, I mentioned Picasso. ‘You know Picasso, the world-famous artist, painter, potter, creative genius? ‘… Never heard of him’ was the response. I must have looked a little surprised and said incredulously, ‘ Never heard of Picasso????’’

Look, I said, I’ll show you one of my paintings when we get to the station.

He got me to the station in plenty of time, but demurred when offered a small private showing. He too was working hard to make a living, having trained as an accountant.

My daughter later said to me when I was telling her this, ‘Well done, Dad, comparing yourself and your work to Picasso!’

‘One has to aim high’, I responded.