A pub with a heavy thatched roof and a pretty garden appears where the village gives way to the incline of the hill. The black-glossed door of its public bar is firmly shut, but Jack can almost taste the bitterness of hops. As he pauses to catch his breath, he looks up at the hill that awaits him, before turning back to view the tranquil scene below.

The village might look idyllic, but to him it lacks the familiarity of home, and he struggles to see any raw beauty beneath its primly kept exterior. He misses the cacophony of early morning Newcastle, the ding-ding of the trams, the clanking of cranes in the shipyards, the clatter of train wagons laden with coal. But most of all he misses the magnificence of giant hulls looming above the terraced streets, like Gulliver’s ship arriving in Lilliput, bringing the promise of adventure and riches.

For the first time, he begins to question the wisdom of his decision to run. In the murky streets of his hometown, there was always somewhere to hide. He could merge with the shadows, blend with the crowds. As he looks down on the sleepy streets before him, all quiet and pristine, he realises how conspicuous he is – a noteworthy outsider – and as such, he is vulnerable and exposed.

A tabby cat sneaks out from a gap in the pub’s garden wall and begins to slink across the lane. It stops, regards him dismissively, then carries on its way, disappearing into the long grass opposite. The cat has told him all he needs to know. There is no refuge to be found in such a place as this. He adjusts his knapsack which is beginning to chafe and starts to climb the hill.

The muscles in his legs are straining by the time he reaches the brow. The sun has shrugged off its modest shift of gauzy clouds and shines brightly now and Jack is beginning to sweat. He removes his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. As the vista opens, he is relieved to see the sprawl of a large town in the distance, a dark blot on the picturesque landscape. His unguided steps, it would seem, have not been in vain – he is heading the right way for obscurity. He finds he walks a little quicker as he tackles the winding road before him.

He hears the ring of hooves before he sees any evidence of a horse. Slowing his pace, he watches the approaching bend expectantly, the clipped sound growing louder and louder. Sure enough, the animal appears – a chestnut beauty, its short coat gleaming like a freshly hatched conker. The horse tosses its head at the sight of him, the metal bit jangling in its mouth, its dark eyes rolling with suspicion.

‘Easy, Arthur,’ the young woman on its back chides, leaning forward to reassure the capricious creature with a pat on its neck. She smiles down at Jack. ‘Morning.’