At the end of the path along the pens we came to a granary, a cylindrical structure made from flat slabs of granite, cleverly interleaved so that the whole structure was sealed. There was a large circular hatch on top of it, four or five feet in diameter and fitted with handles. At the front, where the man led us, a small door was built into the stonework down low so that the grain could be got out.

I looked carefully at the door as the doctor opened it: a normal cupboard door, mounted on its side so that it opened downwards and the spilling grain was helpfully cupped within. And it was, literally, a cupboard door: made by someone with the right tools and fashioned precisely, by a cabinetmaker. The timber was well finished. It did not appear to have originated in this rudimentary world.

The doctor scooped a handful of the rye grain and fished his spectacles from a pocket so he could examine it. He sniffed again but did not place any in his mouth. After a moment of thought, he tossed the grain on the ground at his feet.

‘Anything else to inspect?’ he asked the man.

The family looked at each other: mutters and shrugs. ‘No, that’d be it.’

Gideon led the party back to the first house we had entered. He helped himself to a seat at the table, requested tea, and slid the family bible towards himself.

‘Aah,’ he murmured. ‘You don’t mind?’ He had already opened it and begun leafing through before the man replied, ‘Of course, sir.’ He examined the dates of christenings inside the front cover, picked out various cards and pages of letters, and gave the appearance of reading them thoroughly.

The afternoon was dragging on. The man’s wife built up the fire and began to wash potatoes over a bucket, dropping each clean one in a pot with a hollow thud. From a metal bin she produced a loaf of dark bread, placed it on a board and aimed a knife over it.

‘Throw that in the fire,’ said the doctor. He had not looked up from the bible.

‘I—I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me. Burn it.’ He turned a page, kept reading. The woman responded almost reflexively to the authority in his voice—albeit with a look of bewilderment—and lobbed the loaf onto the coals. It flared a moment, released an aroma that reminded me I was hungry and then settled to a slow smoulder. Gideon closed the bible with a thump.

‘Tell me how you worship,’ he said to the man.

If the man was shocked by the question, or by the burning bread, he did not show it. ‘New Church,’ he said, and I felt his self-consciousness. ‘Got no minister available to us here, o’ course. Make our prayers, read scripture when we can…’

‘When you can?’ the doctor interrupted. ‘When you can? What does that mean?’