We’re trying a scenic route from Southampton, where I picked Tom up from the station, to Fulbrook. It’s turned out to be rather eventful, so far featuring a one-in-eight climb, a river ford, and a grass-grown hollow lane that entailed a long reverse in the face of a tractor towing a slurry tank. I’m mildly regretting the pub lunch that we’ve missed entirely, meandering as we now are through the Mendip Hills under the early spring sunshine. Not at all regretting being here with Tom, whom I haven’t seen since the day we parted in Norwich three months ago.

He checks his competently folded map. “Yoxter. Hundred percent sure. Did you ever take a photo of Bailey, Dad? Florence wants to see him.”

“A photo of Bailey? What an idea.”

“Why not?”

“Waste film on that scrap of a dog? Never.”

“You miss him, really.”

“I do not. I saw him when I had my appointment with Archdeacon Frobisher. He was very dismissive of me.”

Bailey had given me a single sniff and put his nose in the air—oh, yes, that man—before trotting back to sit at his new master’s feet. This was back in January, and Bailey was sleek and bouncing. Frobisher appeared to be thriving too. Less slablike of face, somewhat trimmer. Still given to finger-wagging. “Oh no, Mr. Acton, not so fast. I’m not having you back in harness without a thorough spiritual overhaul.” So I’ve been put through a series of vigorous examinations of my soul, including the retreat I so dreaded.

I tried not to be too bright at breakfast time. Tried not to be too springy. But it’s hard not to be since that December day at Philip Moore’s house. Sometimes it feels almost violent, the onslaught of joy. Like being power-hosed with one part icy water to three parts glory of God.

Frobisher. His finger-wagging will always be intensely annoying, but nonetheless he is . . .

“Tom, how would you describe Archdeacon Frobisher?”

Tom has asked for an extended version of the terse account I gave him in Norwich of my accident. So he’s now fully aware of my archdeacon’s qualities: the strength of his shoulders, his unshakable trust in his Maker, and his proven endurance of extreme suffering.

“Redoubtable, I think,” Tom says. “Yes. Redoubtable. Look, there’s Fulbrook.”

The hills have parted and the town lies spread out below us. We begin our descent.

—