The Czech Republic’s second city does not attract many tourists. It has a small city centre with a castle, several squares, labyrinthine streets and the Mendel Museum – on the site of an Augustine monastery where Gregor Mendel carried out experiments in cultivating and hybridising peas and bees, leading to the foundation of the science of genetics.

I got the sense that locals preferred tourists to go to Prague, and that some were wary of the effect of lots of overseas visitors. But it’s a curious spot to visit for a weekend. And one of the most curious places to visit is a place called Villa Tugendhat, one of the best examples – anywhere in the world – of ‘functionalist’ architecture.

I trudge through the snow to Villa Tugendhat for my lesson in 'functionalism' – my heart sinking somewhat. Let’s be totally frank, 'functionalism' is not what most people want on their hols. I’ve booked a 1pm tour; 15 people are allowed round in guided groups each hour. The villa doesn’t look like much from outside: grey metal fence with a locked gate, concrete courtyard, plain white walls with peeling paint and a curved section of opaque windows, all of which cry “anonymity” and make me wonder how on earth this could be a Unesco World Heritage Site.

A bossy middle-aged woman with blond hair, a navy blue jacket and a bright pink scarf comes out. The previous group leaves and we buy our tickets and follow her to a terrace at the back with terrific views down a hill across the centre of Brno’s spires and snow covered roofs. From this angle all the factories and estates are less visible. A bossy woman with a pink scarf hands me information in English to me and in Japanese to a Japanese guy, and then starts talking in Czech.

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As she rabbits away, the Japanese fellow and I read our info sheets. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (1865-1969) was German. He built Villa Tugendhat for a local family called Tugendhat in 1929-30. The “radicalism of the main conception and of the technical and the formal” is praised, and the villa is described as “the most significant European project” by this “legendary” architect. You’re kidding aren’t you, I’m thinking, looking along the terrace. It looks bland and predictably “futuristic” in a Clockwork Orange kind of way.

Christ, what is it with this city: it’s just one let down after another.

We troop inside. And I take it all back. If there’s one must-see sight in Brno it’s Villa Tugendhat. I’ve never been much of an interiors magazine type of guy, but I’ve got to take my hat off to Ludwig. Even though it’s coming on for a century old now, the interior looks like it could be in any of the latest swish hotels in London or New York.

Using big bright windows, dark wood panels, cream linoleum floors, shiny chrome support beams, skylights, a wide open-plan living room, dining room, piano reception and library, an indoor side-garden, shiny onyx partitions, glass coffee tables, a well-placed sculpture or two, leather arm chairs and chaises longues – old Ludwig created a style that clearly still influences everything that’s about today, yet still manages to be classier.

I read my information sheet: “It is for the first time that, in this type of family villa, the traditional concept of the main ‘living room’ as a system of mutually isolated rooms had been separated by the conception of a continuous place.”

The Japanese architect-looking chap – dark-framed glasses, pale-pink hooded top, black jacket - is taking loads of snaps. It turns out he’s a student from Tokyo visiting famous architectural sites in Brno, Dusseldorf, Vienna, Amsterdam and Prague to pick up ideas for his degree.

This strikes me as being a pretty intelligent, but bloody expensive, thing to do; can’t recall being quite that dedicated when I was a student. “I’m impressed by the materials,” he says, pointing at a stone floor slab in the indoor garden that I would have thought was a rather normal piece of stone. “Look at the textures. Quite unusual,” he says. And I realise he’s right. It is an interesting stone slab. Though it’s strange to think I’m discussing stone slabs with a Japanese architecture student in the outskirts of a place in the middle of Central Europe.

“Oh yes, I like the stone,” he says again. I don’t think he’s got all that much English. An attractive young woman from Linz in Austria overhears our conversational efforts. She flutters her eyelids and starts asking me what I think. Wow, these stone slabs might have something in them after all - maybe this is why all these arty interior design-type chaps, with their black polo necks and trendy glasses, are so into all this functionalism stuff. I just love a bit of functionalism! For years, I’ve been really quite a big functionalist (just don’t like to talk about it much).

I discuss how unusual the texture is, “quite unusual” even. She smiles and seems heartened by my take on things. Running out of material, I ask her what she likes about the villa. “Oh I think it’s outrageous. Just outrageous!” she says, and I’m wondering if that’s “outrageous” in a good or a bad sort of way.

Then she says: “I’m an architect. I just find it amazing what he managed to realise here. There are things that he has done here people still struggle to do today. If only I could do things like this. But I am not that long in the business.” She’s lost me a bit, but she’s got lovely hazel eyes and seems very nice indeed. We keep on chatting and then the lady with then pink scarf calls us on as another group is coming. Katharina has to run off with her brother and his girlfriend to drive back to Austria.

End of my lesson in “functionalism”.

How Low Can You Go? Round Europe for 1p Each Way (Plus Tax) by Tom Chesshyre (£10.99, Hodder & Stoughton, or buy it from BooksFirst for £9.89 including delivery).

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