When there are no visitors about I find myself looking closely at the Rembrandt self-portrait we have on display at Buckland Abbey. I can almost feel the way the painter felt as he added touches of colour to the canvas, working away in his studio, a man who had to deal with a lot of sadness in his life as did so many of those painters of old. Before I took up writing, I did try my hand at painting but it wasn’t to be. I love the uninhibited way my little granddaughter splashes paint on a piece of paper, tongue out in concentration and I have to say some of her offerings could find a place in some of the modern galleries with all sorts of hidden meanings being discovered. Or am I being cynical?