‘I didn’t realise you painted in oils too,’ I declare, walking towards a huge canvas which is ninety per cent complete. It’s a village scene and so beautifully detailed I find myself wanting to reach out and touch it because the leafy scene looks so real. ‘I just love this smell, it’s heavenly. I could live in this room. This is quite something.’ I lean in closer, marvelling at the way he’s captured the light. It seems to jump out, it’s so vibrant, and yet there’s hardly any white paint to be seen. The light and shade has been applied in such a subtle way that all the eye sees is the overall effect.

‘It’s where I was born,’ Nico says with a catch in his voice.

It’s then that I realise few get to step inside this room and see what I’m seeing. It instantly brings a lump to my throat.

‘I don’t have a problem with alcohol,’ he says, flat out. ‘I felt I owed it to you to make that clear. My father, however, was an alcoholic. It was a stupid thing to turn to a bottle of whisky in an attempt to obliterate some memories that aren’t pleasant. But it’s because of him that I usually manage to keep on an even keel. I saw what his frustrations did to him and it destroyed him in the end. He thought he was misunderstood. And he was, because who can really judge what is art and what isn’t? He painted what he saw through his own eyes and that’s not wrong. But allowing himself to become isolated and desperate was wrong, and that’s why I run the retreat.’

I spin around to look at Nico as his eyes bore into me.

‘The painting in my room is your father’s and I find it inspiring. It grabs at something in here.’ I hit my chest with my hand. ‘That’s a gift and he passed it on to you.’

His face freezes and I feel I’ve touched a raw nerve. But he shirks it off and, feeling embarrassed, I turn and walk along the line of partially completed works. Stopping for a few moments to marvel at each one in turn, I’m inspired.

‘I never realised artists worked on more than one piece at a time,’ I comment, making my voice sound more cheerful than I feel. I’m gutted that I inadvertently said the wrong thing.

‘It’s all about being in the right mood, Fern. Each day is different.’

‘I can see that,’ I add, smiling and hoping to lighten the moment. ‘Do painters have days where one colour is more meaningful?’