And yet the strangest part in all this was that a driver might overtake him, and briefly observe an old fellow in shirt and tie, perhaps a pair of yachting shoes, and see no more than another man, off down the road. It was so funny, and he was so happy, so much at one with the land beneath his feet, he could laugh and laugh with the simplicity of it.

♦

From Stratford he made his way to Warwick. South of Coventry, Harold met a convivial young man with soft blue eyes, and sideburns that curled below his cheekbones. He told Harold his name was Mick and bought him a lemonade. Proffering his beer glass, he toasted Harold’s courage. “So you put yourself at the mercy of strangers?” he said.

Harold smiled. “No. I’m careful. I don’t hang about in city centres at night. I avoid trouble. But on the whole the kind of people who stop to listen are the kind of people who are going to help. There have been one or two moments when I was afraid. I thought a man on the A439 was going to mug me, but he was actually about to offer me an embrace. He had lost his wife to cancer. I misjudged him because he was missing his front teeth.” He saw his fingers against the lemonade glass, and how dark they were; the nails chipped and brown.

“And you really believe you will make it to Berwick?”

“I don’t push it and I don’t hang about. If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that I’m going to get there. I’ve begun to think we sit far more than we’re supposed to.” He smiled. “Why else would we have feet?”

The young man licked his lips, as if he was savouring the taste of something that was not yet in his mouth. “What you’re doing is a pilgrimage for the twenty-first century. It’s awesome. Yours is the kind of story people want to hear.”

“Do you think I could trouble you for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps?” said Harold. “I haven’t eaten since lunchtime.”

Before they parted, Mick asked if he might take Harold’s photograph on his mobile phone: “Just to remember you.” Concerned the flash might upset several local men playing darts, he said, “Could you manage it outside where I can get you on your own?”

He told Harold to stand beneath a sign that pointed north-west towards Wolverhampton. “It’s not where I’m going,” said Harold, but Mick said that the small detail wouldn’t show up, what with the dark.

“Look at me as if you’re shagged out,” said Mick.

Harold found this came very easily.