‘Sensible is a dirty word to me,’ she said breathlessly, when I caught up. ‘You’re missing the point, which is to sample the freeway. What do you see stuck in a plane? Clouds! Thousands of miles in a few hours. Not natural.’

‘But convenient,’ I countered.

She slowed down. We walked together, heads bowed into a stirring wind that demanded respect, or else we’d be airborne to Calais. The sea air was affecting the tenor of our conversation. I could feel something being released.

‘If you’re in a hurry, but I won’t be. I loved touring, even though some of the B & Bs were of a kind where the landladies turned the sheets over in between guests, a toilet brush was likely to be caked with brown bits or your mug of tea in the morning was stained with someone else’s lipstick. We all loved Lily’s Guest House on the edge of the Yorkshire moors. Put your photo into the silver frame on the piano just before you were due to arrive.’

We had reached the promenade, home to two iron benches bolted to the walls of a weather-beaten, planked-off caff. I faced the sea, felt my lungs expand.

‘Go on, let it out,’ she urged me. ‘Scream – I am free! I am free! I am free!’

Down in the water, fishing boats banged against each other with a sound like the soft pads of African drums, building to a ritualistic crescendo against the wooden stakes of the pier.

I tried to scream but ended up choking. After all, if anyone had been around they would stare, and, although they’d be strangers I’d never see again, that was enough to stop me.

Still, I tried again and yelped like a dying sheepdog run over by a speeding truck. On the third attempt she joined me and I rode on her volume, then matched it and finally surpassed it. It was a pure Stanley Moment. One I will never forget. It had taken thirty-four years, nine months, three weeks and, yes, four days.

When the wind began to sprinkle spit on to our faces, we headed back towards the car. I’d lost almost a stone, well, about twelve pounds to be more precise.

‘I’ve never stayed in a B & B,’ I said, getting into the passenger seat, rubbing my hands together. ‘Only in hotels as part of package holidays, Tenerife, Lanzarote, Jamaica, but that was with family, West Berlin once and –’

‘Germany?’ she cut in. ‘I toured British Army bases in Germany once in my car. Those farmers trim their fields with nail scissors. Bavaria was like driving on to the set of The Sound of Music. Any moment you expected Julie Andrews to come dancing over a hill with a guitar in one hand and a load of blonde Heidis skipping behind her.’