Last Saturday lunchtime I drove across the Severn Bridge for the first time. When I drive to Cardiff, I usually take the inner more “scenic” route (name a route in Wales that isn’t picturesque) but for some reason, this time I stayed on the motorway. The bridge’s sprawling telescopic steel limbs funnelled me into Wales like a minuscule spider scuttling home. Whooping as I drove excitedly over the monumental bridge, I gained the momentum I needed to keep going for the remaining hour of my journey. Cardiff’s a fair old drive from West Yorkshire.

The main reason for my trip was to get my harp serviced by those fantastic Camac technicians. Wrench wielding recent recruits Guillaume and Louis did themselves proud and my harp sounds great. Thanks guys! The after sales service Camac Harps provide is just brilliant and I know my harp is in the best hands.

I received a customary warm welcome from lovely Elen of Vining Harps, who were organising the harp weekend. Apart from having my harp seen to, I was very excited about the recital to be given by Isabelle Moretti that evening in the Impressionists Gallery at the National Museum of Wales. That all sounds a bit heavyweight doesn't it? And yes, it was, but effortlessly so. I felt like a VIP, granted permission to the museum after hours. My heart started racing walking past Rodin’s bronzes and, would you believe, some works by Yorkshire lass, Barbara Hepworth. You can take the girl out of Yorkshire… The intimate room was full to capacity and I couldn’t quite register how I was to be treated to such a sumptuous feast for my eyes and ears. I let it all wash over me like an exquisite wave, sweeping away the staleness from my business and my scant unenthusiastic solo practice.

I’ve heard Isabelle perform many times and I can genuinely say I’ve never heard her play better. She performed with character and charisma, grace and elegance, and I forgot about my life for a couple of hours. I was whisked away to another universe, where music and emotion dominated. I can still hear her opening piece, the Sonatine by Marcel Tournier, played with an extraordinary palette of colours. Tears welled up as my soul was soothed. One minute my ear was drawn to the definition given to a phrase by her left hand, the next it zoomed in on her right hand, deftly negotiating a jump with élan and sparkle. To call her playing perfect is false. Isabelle’s playing is beyond that. When I listen to her, I don’t hear a harpist. I hear a musician, an artist, a human being, and I have no questions.

In the first half of her meaty programme, she played famous pieces from the harp repertoire with a freshness that made me believe she hadn’t played them countless times in public over the years. After the intermission, we moved from Monet’s hazy impressionistic mood to Spain. The smooth transition came in the form of her own intricate arrangement of La Soirée dans Grenade by Debussy. After a marathon programme, her finale by De Falla from his opera La Vida Breve catapulted me straight back into the pit. The orchestral sounds flowed organically from her fingers. I could hear flamenco guitars and imagine swarthy bronzed hombres arrogantly blowing cigarette smoke in the faces of their sultry señoritas, their heels click-clacking noisily in a hot airless tapas bar.

Unlike my vivid imagination, there was no excess, no indulgence in Isabelle’s performance, one that will stay with me for a very long time.

Walking into the museum, I bumped into Ceri Wynne Jones who I hadn’t seen for years, possibly not since a Gregynog harp course. Remember those? It was great to catch up with her and compare stories from our freelancing endeavours. There was a post concert reception at the intimate Kooywood Gallery. Even more art! Wine was flowing freely. This was one of the first social events I’ve been to since I stopped drinking a year and 3 months ago. Despite feelings of inadequacy and shyness, I think I managed alright. I wasn’t a butterfly and neither was I a wallflower. I left with a clear head filled with notes and no anxiety about how I was going to get back to the hotel. It was reassuring not to feel a looming sense of dread in anticipation of the morning after.

There’s never enough time to fit everything in at this type of event. I heard promising sounds from Claire Jones and her ensembles rehearsing and doing their sound checks, but I had to head back up North before the closing concert. And yes. I went over the bridge again with the exact same excitement. You can take the girl out of Yorkshire…