The lane winds its way further into the village. A humped bridge takes him across a single-gauge train track and along it he sees a small station, its solitary platform deserted. He carries on and soon a row of shops appears, flanking the road: a butcher’s with its blinds drawn low and the canopy rolled back against its red-brick wall; a drapery with a handwritten advert for dressmaking lessons for 2/6d a week displayed in its window; a sweetshop; a hardware store; a greengrocer’s and general provision.

Soon the main street curves around a grey stone church surrounded by a neatly kept graveyard that sides onto a meadow. Beyond it he discovers two more shops: a tobacconist, and a bakery that exudes the delicious smell of warm bread, though it has yet to open. His stomach gripes, but he walks on.

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.