Speaking another language you haven’t grown up with strikes me as revealing an individual flair – like painting, or ballet. I’m not convinced that anyone can do it. In particular, I’m hesitant that I can do it.

Nevertheless, this month I ventured, with my husband – who was blissfully sanguine about it! – to join a class provided free of charge by the generous government of the Azores, to try and ‘up’ my Portuguese beyond the few phrases I’d picked up so far.

This involves zipping over the mountain to the city of Angra do Heroismo, on the other side of the island from the village where we live, for two-hour classes every weekday throughout March, April, and May, save for a spring break in the middle. I also throw in an hour’s revision and preparation at home each morning. The benefits are: a witty and encouraging teacher who is a gifted communicator; immersing myself in the correct pronunciation of words; and the structure, commitment, and entertainment value of being part of an international group of immigrants like me.

Because as a cohort we truly are travelling together, helping each other, sharing real feelings of solidarity and optimism. This suits me completely, matching my – predetermined and determined – attitude to the challenge: that I was not going to be perfectionist about it. I’d meet what daunted me by simply doing my best … and as long as I managed to come out with more Portuguese than when I went in, that would be a win, wouldn’t it?

You may be wondering, why am I so uncertain of my own capability as a linguist?

Well, those of you who’ve met me might already grasp the surface aspect of the problem, because I do sound unmistakably English! Getting away from my own accent, and navigating radically new-to-me Portuguese sounds – both vowels and consonants – is not easy. On the other hand, my schoolgirl French and Latin – being from the same family of romance languages – do help a lot with the architecture of Portuguese. It’s as if there’s a pre-existing pattern in my brain of how verbs conjugate, for example, or the gender of nouns affect possessive pronouns and adjectives – boxes into which I can drop the Portuguese versions. My husband, originating from South Africa, has the grammar much tougher: the languages he acquired as a younger person – Afrikaans, Zulu, and Xhosa, with the beautiful clicks – being based on completely different organising principles. He has the advantage of a musical ear, though, and, while I help him with how the nuts and bolts fit together, I rely on him to adjust my actual speech.

As is often the case, however, the answer lies deeper. A long time ago in the far-off land of my early teens, I had a teacher at school who didn’t take to me. You too probably had ‘that one’, and it’s a ‘no big deal’ club. But humour me – it was intense. The other kids in the class observed, ‘Wow, Rosemary, Miss X really doesn’t like you!’ For my part, I admit I was annoying – a bit of a swot, and my swot-iness paid dividends, sending me up the rankings in what we called ‘Mark Reg’. But I wasn’t superior with it. I wanted to belong – and not be singled out. So her ‘Wait till you get to university, Rosemary, there’ll be plenty of people far cleverer than you!’ was fair warning – but uncalled for, undeserved. And the humiliation in front of my peers … As my parents instilled in me, ‘It’s not what you say, it’s the way you say it.’

Is it coincidental that Miss X was a modern languages teacher?! But that’s not the point of this story. Neither is the curiosity factor that her words have come back to me for a lifetime, although on each occasion, feeling it’s right to do, I’ve consciously forgiven her. It’s that she saw life as a competition against other people, rather than a race to become myself.

Whereas, I’m happy these days following my own creative inclinations. Free to be me, mistakes and all, better at some endeavours than others, but accepting, liking, and trusting myself. I don’t envy classmates for whom the Portuguese language we’re in the process of acquiring just rolls off the tongue, and I don’t feel bad about my own more tentative level of learning. I also don’t begrudge fellow writers whose books achieve publication ahead of mine – because each person’s vision is different, and there is place for us all.

A longstanding friend who has recently found her spiritual home among Quakers shared a piece of her new community’s wisdom with me: ‘There is that of God in all of us.’

Which makes you, and me – and Miss X – chips of originality. So, no contest. Enjoy.