It was more than 65 years ago that I met Pablo Picasso off the train at Sheffield railway station, and it’s funny the details that stay in your mind when others fade away.

The clearest thing I remember from that day is walking there – just three of us in this welcoming party – and the main guy reaching into his pocket and saying: “Well, Bill, since it’s Picasso, I suppose I’d better put my false teeth in.”

We all shook hands and Picasso was warm and comradely. Humble, actually

It was 1950. There was an international peace conference being held in the city. Thousands of delegates were coming from across the world and Picasso was speaking. He was already a living legend by then. His visit electrified the city, really. He was a genius.

I was 26 and employed on the railways. But I was a pacifist and I’d taken the week off work to volunteer at the conference. It was just basic errand-running, but the morning of Picasso’s arrival I got to HQ and was told I’d be one of three lads collecting him off the London train. I remember thinking, I’m glad I’m in my collar and tie.

I don’t pretend to know much about art, but it was a big honour. There was a story about how, before the Second World War, a Nazi officer had been looking at his painting, Guernica, and the officer asked who had done it, and Picasso said: “Your lot did it.” I’d respected him since hearing that.

It was quiet at the station. There were a couple of photographers, but that’s all. When he got off his train, he was wearing a beret and tie. He was smaller than I imagined. The Daily Herald said he was wearing a dirty raincoat, but it looked fine to me.

We all shook hands. He didn’t speak much English – a French assistant did the talking – but he was warm and comradely somehow. Humble, actually. I remember thinking him quite eccentric – but maybe that was just because of the beret.

Later in life I became president of the trade union Aslef and met all sorts of famous people – Harold Macmillan and the Queen among them – but none ever quite had Picasso’s quiet aura. It was charisma, I suppose.

We presented him with flowers. It was quite embarrassing, though. We only had one bunch and were due to collect other dignitaries later that day so, after the photographs were taken, I had to say: “Excuse me, but do you mind if we have those flowers back?” I think, perhaps, he laughed.

We got a taxi to a café above a grocer’s shop where he was meeting the main organisers for lunch. I was told they all had pie but, by the time they ate, I’d set off again to the station.

His actual talk was very inspiring. It made peace feel possible. He drew a dove and auctioned it off, but the story goes that he drew one or two others while he was here and gave them to people as gifts, and they became worth thousands. I sometimes joke that I should have asked for one.

As told as told to Colin Drury