But a pebble

When I was a teenager failing to fit in, William Blake's paintings were ranked alongside Lord of the Rings as works of art that everyone worshipped, without question. I kept my mouth shut. My umpteenth attempt to get into Lord of the Rings was eventually kiboshed when I accidentally left my copy outside on a camping trip and the overnight rain stuck all the pages together. A relief.

Blake's pictures would occasionally show up in exhibitions, then I discovered his poetry in my 50s when I belatedly did an English A level and Songs of Innocence and Experience was a set book. I was interested in how his prodigious imagination responded to war, revolution, injustice and unpredictability, but, sorry, I didn't like his poetry either. Hating mysticism, not understanding spirituality and being wary of romanticism didn't help.

A while back, when friends suggested going to the 'William Blake’s Universe' exhibition at the Fitzwilliam Museum, I opted out. When Tivoli, who has a very different response to Blake from me, suggested a day trip to Cambridge from Bedford, I decided to be grown up and try to appreciate his work with her, in a more informed context and alongside the work of other European artists, Philipp Otto Runge and Caspar David Friedrich.

I really enjoyed our time chatting on the bus, spotting shadows in sunny Cambridge (extra) and seeing the most unusual busker ever, but once again, despite his pretty flames and charming monsters, Blake did not touch me.

From now, I will leave Blake to others.