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Being truly honest, I was still haunted by an incident from decades ago, when I was inside a tube station in London’s West End, rushing for the last train after a show. There was a young man slumped against the wall at the bottom on the stairs, causing people to crush and crowd in their haste to get past. He had a bloodied stump, one leg freshly amputated at the knee, and he looked utterly desperate. He held a piece of cardboard which said: ‘Please help me get back to Scotland’. And as I slowed, appalled, wanting to help, my companions grabbed me by the arms and hustled me onto a train. ‘C’mon! We haven’t time.’ And for thirty years I’ve regretted not stopping to help that boy, often wondering what his story was. Did he ever get home?

This time, though, was different. I knew that road back over the hills was long and exposed and I felt emboldened.

When Dave got back in the car, I said: ‘I think we should go and offer that guy a lift.’

‘What guy?’

‘The walker. The crazy foreigner.’

‘You are kidding.’ He turned to look at me as if I had sprouted two heads.