News about the pilgrimage continued to gather momentum as if it had acquired an energy of its own. Word had only to get round that they were approaching and everyone with an Aga began to bake. Kate narrowly missed injury from a woman in a Land Rover hell bent on delivering a tray of goat’s cheese slices. Rich suggested over the camp fire that Harold should begin each meal with a few words about what it meant to be a pilgrim. When Harold declined, Rich offered to speak instead. He wondered if anyone would care to take notes? The gorilla man obliged, although it was difficult to write with a hairy glove and he had to keep asking Rich to stop.

The press also continued to run testimonies to Harold’s goodness. He did not have time to read the papers, but it seemed that Rich was more up to date. A spiritualist in Clitheroe claimed the pilgrim had a golden aura. A young man who’d been on the verge of jumping from the Clifton Suspension Bridge gave a moving account of how Harold had talked him down.

“But I didn’t go to Bristol,” Harold said. “I went to Bath, and from there to Stroud. I remember it clearly because it was the point when I almost gave up. I never met anyone on a bridge. And I am certain I didn’t talk them down.”

Rich claimed this was a minor detail. Petty, in fact. “Maybe he didn’t say he was about to commit suicide. But meeting you gave him hope. I expect you’ve forgotten.” Again he reminded Harold that he had to look at the bigger picture; no publicity was bad publicity. It occurred to Harold that even though Rich was forty, and therefore about the right age to be his son, he talked as if it was Harold who was the child. He said that Harold was cornering a rich market. You had to strike while the iron was hot. He also mentioned cherry-picking ideas, and singing from the same hymn sheet, but Harold was getting a headache. He had such a congestion of incoherent images in his mind – cherry trees and hymn sheets and steam irons – that he had to keep stopping in order to work out what exactly it was that Rich was talking about. He wished the man would honour the true meaning of words, instead of using them as ammunition.

It was already mid June, and Wilf’s estranged father gave a moving interview about the courage of his son (“He’s never even met me,” said Wilf). The council of Berwick-upon-Tweed commissioned placards and bunting to welcome the pilgrims’ arrival. The owner of a corner shop in Ripon accused them of stealing several items, including whisky.