With a little time on my hands at the moment I’m doing all those things that need to be done, or at least all those things that can be disguised as culture and therefore sound far more respectable. Today, it was the turn of London and two shows I’ve been meaning to see, but have not had the chance yet, and probably won’t if I don’t do it today. So a refreshingly early start to drive to London for the day, which in Cornwall means setting off at an hour usually reserved for fishermen, milk floats and people with alarming levels of enthusiasm. The shows in question were Hurvin Anderson at Tate Britain and David Hockney at Serpentine North.

I actually look forward to a relatively long drive these days, as you can get a good chunk through an audiobook as well, and there is something oddly satisfying about leaving the hedges and tractors of Cornwall and heading towards the grand and complicated nonsense of London. It always feels a bit like travelling from one country to another, except the passport control is replaced by the M25 and the local dialect changes from ‘proper job’ to ‘mind the gap’. The book for this journey was Chris Broad’s Abroad in Japan, which was a great listen on the way up, and I’m looking forward to the next instalment on the way back. Between him describing Japanese mishaps and me trying to work out which lane in London was least likely to end in personal ruin, it was a day of literary and artistic fun before I’d even parked the car.

Hurvin Anderson was great; I’ve been a fan for a long while and it was a genuine must-see for me. His first major solo show at Tate Britain brings together more than 80 paintings, so there was plenty to look at once I finally breached the institution’s outer defences. What was not great was arriving after a 4 hour drive to be made to wait 30 minutes in the pouring rain whilst they carried out bag searches. I have a Tate membership precisely so I can glide in with the faint air of a seasoned cultural professional, but no such queue-skipping today. There I was, a damp Cornishman in London, slowly absorbing water like an old church wall while everyone shuffled forwards with the resigned expression of people waiting to see either great art or a minor administrative tribunal. By the time I got in, I wasn’t so much a visitor as an estuary with car keys. I eventually got in… soaked. Once inside, though, the show was worth every squelching step. Anderson’s paintings have that marvellous way of making memory, landscape and atmosphere all seem to hover together, and I spent a very happy while wandering around trying to look thoughtful rather than simply damp. Whilst I was there I thought I also might as well go and see the Whistler show as well, the highlight of which was, of course, staring at his mother with the reverence usually reserved for saints, queens, or anyone who looks as if they would tell you to sit up straight and stop fidgeting.

Since I was soaking anyway, I just decided to get a Lime Bike to the Serpentine North for David Hockney. This was not so much a dignified cultural transfer as a slightly chaotic amphibious migration across London. There is something deeply humbling about wobbling through the capital on a rented electric bicycle when you are no longer fully sure which parts of you are rainwater and which are original equipment. However, I did detour for a quick coffee at Bar Italia…. How could I possible not go there??

Still, it got me there, and unlike the Tate experience, Serpentine North offered friendly staff, zero queue and the immediate sensation that art might actually like you back. When I go to see a Hockney show I love to just sit and look, and this was brilliant for that. The centrepiece, A Year in Normandie, is a panoramic frieze inspired by the Bayeux Tapestry and shown in London at Serpentine North for the first time. It runs around the gallery like the longest and most cheerful visual diary in Europe, charting the seasons at his Normandy studio through iPad drawings. I spent a good hour just sitting and looking in different places, which is one of the great pleasures of a Hockney show: every time you settle your eyes somewhere, another colour taps you on the shoulder. It was one of those rare exhibitions that slows you down without making you feel solemn, and by the end of it I was calmer, drier, and almost willing to forgive London for being London.

Going to see this was poignant as I write this as this morning it was announced David Hockney had died. It’s funny as whilst driving back I wondered about his health. I was a huge fan and I feel empty today. I travelled far and wide to see his shows; Venice for ‘82 portraits and 1 still life’; Paris for his ‘David Hockney 25’ last year which we did in two days from Cornwall!; the animated show at the Lightbox in London where at one point I shed a tear I was so moved by it. He was a hugely influential artist to so many people, including me. I remember as an art student in the late 80s finding out about him ‘properly’ as was blown away. He certainly changed my life for the better…. And many others. I’ll miss him.