WE flew to Berlin for the bank holiday weekend with the boys.

In the past, they’re used to me organising our itinerary, but this time they weren’t having any of that.

“You are not dragging us around boring museums and art galleries Mum,” said Patrick.

“If you want to, you can go on your own, we’ll meet you later,” added Charlie.

“Yeah, for lunch and then again for dinner,” added Patrick, the student, who has no money and is always hungry and happy to hook up with his old mum and dad anytime, anywhere, as long as we’re providing food.

This arrangement suited me, as the last time I paid for them to enter a gallery I wasted my money. After a few minutes, they all gave up and made for the lobby, staring at their phones, while they waited for me to finish my tour and buy lunch.

I loved art at school, took it for A-level, and always hoped some of the boys would take it up. But none of them are remotely interested. I have had to accept it. All my attempts over the years to encourage them to appreciate fine art appear to have had the opposite effect and simply turned them off.

“Where did I go wrong? How have I managed to raise such a bunch of philistines?” I lamented, only half joking, when we arrived in Berlin.

But they’re old enough to do their own thing, so we agreed to head off each morning in different directions and meet up later: “For lunch,” Patrick clarified before we separated.

Thankfully, 14-year-old Albert, who came with me and his dad, is still, potentially, quite malleable. He is planning, like his brothers, to drop art for GCSE, but I can still wield some influence. It may not be too late.

While we were at Checkpoint Charlie, his older brothers texted. They had just come across the East Side Gallery, where we were heading next, and were impressed. It’s not a gallery in the traditional sense, but a 1.3km section of the Berlin Wall covered in paintings and graffiti and preserved as open-air street art.

“We took lots of photos. Albert will love it,” they said.

“At last,” I said to my husband, “An art gallery which appeals to the boys.”

And Albert did love it, walking the length of it with me while we took photos and commented on the works, some intricately painted, some stencilled, some scrawled with spray cans.

Our favourite was the iconic image of former Russian president Leonid Brezhnev and East German leader Erich Honecker locked in a passionate kiss, with the inscription: “God help me survive this deadly love.”

There were political slogans, messages of hope, satirical cartoons and outpourings of anger.

One image showed people scaling the wall, another depicted a sea of people breaking through it.

Some were trite and badly executed, others thought-provoking and visually stunning, all protected by a tall metal grille fence, so we viewed them as if through a prison window.

But then, about half way along, we came to a section open to the street, with no protective barrier.

This section, too, was covered in brightly-painted murals, and there were a few teenage boys adding their own graffiti.

“Mum, quick,” said Albert, who was walking ahead of me. “Have you got a pen? There’s a bit here where you can write your own message on the wall.”

That’s interesting, I thought, as we watched the boys scrawling with coloured felt tip pens: “This is incredible interactive art.”

Their messages were in German: “Presumably some sort of political statement,” I said to Albert. I couldn’t find a pen in my bag, but told Albert I’d have a look on the nearby souvenir stalls: “They’re bound to sell them to people who want to write on the wall,” I said. “I think I’ll draw something too, how exciting.” But I couldn’t find a pen or felt tip anywhere.

It was May Day, traditionally a time for political demonstrators to take to the streets in Berlin, and there was a big police presence on the streets. An armoured van pulled up right next to us.

The teenage boys scarpered. Just then, I noticed a small sign at knee-high level in German.

There was an English translation alongside: “It is forbidden to deface or damage the wall. Offenders will be prosecuted.” “Thank God I didn’t find a pen,’ I told Albert, swiftly guiding him away.

When we met up with his brothers, he couldn’t wait to tell them: “Mum was trying to find a pen so that we could write on the wall.”

They were appalled: “Honestly, I’m surprised at you. You’ll be defacing the Mona Lisa next,” one of them tutted. The word philistine may have been used.