Old Dai Jones was surely turning in his grave as we traipsed up the previously forbidden track, decorated now with fairy lights and pink bunting. Women in the Nightingale Singers? “Over my dead body,” Dai had famously said.

I couldn’t even sing. Like most others, I came out of curiosity. That, and because Carol had espoused the healing benefits of group singing. I’d try anything that might help my arthritis, and it couldn’t be any worse than that yoga lark.