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a virtuoso display of art lore and gossip (‘…and to think that the man who sculpted these delicate features should have broken the nose of Michelangelo and been hounded from Florence!’) before whisking us upstairs to admire Zurbaran’s panel of Saint Hugo presenting a joint of lamb to Carthusian monks. ‘The world’s first icon of vegetarianism,’ Michael declared, pointing out how the lamb had spontaneously combusted to prevent the monks breaking their vow to eschew the eating of meat.
    It was a real tour de force and I felt privileged to be a part of it. But it was the evening’s visit to Seville’s massive cathedral that most strongly encapsulated the trip. The cathedral’s builders boasted that successive generations would regard them as mad, in their ambition of scale. But they could not have imagined the true strangeness of the scene that was to unfold. As we arrived at the northwestgate, where a stuffed crocodile known as the Apothecary’s Lizard hangs from the rafters, it took a while to grasp that uniformed security guards were actually clearing the public from the building. Shortly, one of the guards came over and addressed us in deferential English: ‘If you’d like to come this way, please…’ The cathedral authorities had emptied the building, the largest church in Europe after St Peter’s in Rome, for less than two dozen visitors. I wondered just what sort of donation Jeremy must have put in the poor-box.
    The emptiness was all the more disorientating when we were assembled in the choir stalls, and the cathedral organist , dressed impeccably in a grey suit, stepped across the marble tiles to put his instrument through its paces. ‘This is the highest note – that little pipe up there,’ he told us, pointing to a tiny pipe nestling miles above among at least four thousand others. He pressed the key and from the tiny pipe came a peep so high and thin that you’d imagine only the keenest-eared bat could appreciate it. ‘And this is the lowest…’ It seemed that the very chasms of the earth were being sundered open somewhere deep in the crypt.
    Then he played a few pieces, doubtless full of nuance and emotion, though I couldn’t really enjoy them. Organ recitals remind me inescapably of school: first they depress me a little, then send me into an uneasy doze. The Bostonians, too, began dropping off in ones and twos, and it was a relief to be suddenly jarred awake by the organ’s last shuddering bass notes and to be ushered out again into the fresh air and light, by our secret entrance. Looking back I noticed the congregation reforming to take up their private devotions again, while tourists streamed along the main aisles. It was good to be back amid the bustle of the Sevillian throng ourselves, off in search of an evening’s pleasure.
    Against my fears and expectations, my role as tour guide had been an easy one – Michael had miraculously appeared for all the big numbers and had managed to appear at all the dinners. However, the final evening set a challenge even he could not defy. We were to be treated to the best seats in the house for the Seville Opera, to see La Traviata . But the musicians had gone on strike. They did so at the last minute, so there we were, the Bostonians in their evening wear, all dressed up, with nowhere to go.
    ‘W-well, this is an opportunity,’ declared Michael to everyone. ‘We can’t have opera, but we can have literature . Chris has most kindly agreed to read to you from his m-marvellous book.’ It was hardly on a par with Verdi, I felt, and nor did it seem right, somehow, to be offering this black-leg labour. But we headed to a bar in the Barrio Santa Cruz, ordered a dozen bottles of house wine, and had a genuinely jolly evening of it.
    We read the next morning, however, that the conductor at the Opera, exasperated by the intransigence of the musicians , had walked onto the stage, swished his tails over the edge of the piano stool and played the