‘Quite a while,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘I went through a rather depressed period a number of years back and she helped me through it. It feels like a lifetime ago, now.’ He turns back to look at me. ‘Because of that we will always be friends; that often happens between counsellor and patient. Now we share a common goal, borne out of our respective experiences in life. We’d like to expand the business here to include a well-being centre. A place of healing. Ceana’s background as a practitioner of mindfulness and holistic healing gave us the initial idea. The dream is to enlist another professional to help take it forward.’

‘That’s a wonderful idea, Nico. There’s something about this place that is so welcoming and comforting that it’s easy to settle in. To take that a step further is a natural progression from what I can see. Even among the people here this week, everyone seems to have something sad in their lives they are holding on to, maybe without even realising it. I’m surprised you haven’t already ventured there.’

Nico eases his shoulders downwards in a circular motion, stopping to run a hand across the back of his neck. His arms are powerful, and I find myself watching his every move. He’s beautiful to look at, like a painting. A man so vibrant and with such big dreams.

‘It’s down to money. My work sells well, but if I don’t invest the time, then I simply don’t have pieces to send to the gallery. I’m running behind, but the summer months here are demanding. It’s not simply my own income on the line, but everyone else who has bought into this dream.’

The distant sound of voices in the hallway filters through for a few seconds before fading into silence.

‘My muse will return and the paint will flow,’ he says, turning back to gaze at the portrait of his mystery lady. Nico throws the flimsy cover back over the painting. ‘It has to, because until it’s complete I can’t rest. Anyway, this evening you are here to think about the beginning of your own creative journey.’ He throws the words at me with bold enthusiasm.

‘I think this might be a purple phase,’ I reply, then begin laughing. ‘I only have to turn my head and glance out of the window to find my inspiration.’ The deep, purply-red of a climbing rose drips decadently over a stone wall, an entrancing waterfall of colour.

‘Well, you had better take a snap quickly because the light is beginning to change. But you have a good eye, because I often think the garden is at its most vibrant just before dusk descends.’