Beth has returned the china pot to Presley. She closes her eyes and raises her face to the sun again, her arms held wide, and then begins to chant. No one, least of all me, has a clue what any of this means but it must go on for at least a minute. Beyond the chanting, I can hear the mew of the seagulls and the click-click of the reporter’s shutter. More shots for the Journal. Then, suddenly, complete silence before Beth’s arms come down and she opens her eyes. The spirits, she says, are in attendance. And now we must propitiate them.

Propitiate them? At another nod from Beth, Presley produces a small speaker connected to his mobile phone. He swipes the screen a couple of times, dabs at an icon, and we hear music, mainly drums and some kind of wind instrument.

Beth widens the circle, asking people to step backwards. When she has enough room, she begins to dance slowly around the towels, the faux flames, moving slowly from foot to foot, her body swaying above the hips, her lips moving in some silent prayer. Then comes a change of chord in the music, a tiny pause, and she reverses the dance, circling the other way. From time to time, she beats her thighs with the palms of her hands, one after the other, before the tempo of the music quickens, some form of promise, or maybe release, shaping itself in the harshness of this muddle of notes. Then comes a sudden climax, and she stands rigid for a moment, totally immobile, before jumping over the towels with a wild yelp I can only describe as animal.

Watching the faces around me, it’s impossible not to sense how appalled these people are. Must we do this? Will it be our turn next? And I, too, a seasoned performer, am dreading the moment she claps her hands again and tugs us into this crazy piece of theatre. But I needn’t have worried. This isn’t Beth’s plan at all. She’s standing on the far side of the circle, her body limp, a strange smile on her face.

‘Done.’ She gestures down at the towels. ‘Finished.’

People stir. You can almost taste their relief that this strange rite of passage is over. Even Evelyn, always fair-minded, can’t resist a shake of the head and a muttered confidence.

‘What total crap,’ she says.

Bill, mercifully, has taken over, appointing himself MC for the rest of the proceedings. Ever the diplomat, he thanks Beth for the time and effort she must have put into what we’ve all had the privilege of witnessing, and then indicates a smallish boat that has beached below us.

‘Room for six,’ he says. ‘To avoid disappointment, I’m afraid the places are pre-allocated.’