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Meditative… Yes, that’s the word I’d use to describe him. He’s listening to Stephen, cigarette in one hand and earbuds dangling by their wires from the other. Hirsute… That would do, too. His shaggy hair pushes out from under his blue baseball cap and hangs down as far as his bushy, black beard. There he stands, after taking a tract from me, inhaling smoke from time to time and then breathing it out in two separate streams from his nostrils.

I called at Durham Cathedral this month. Despite its scale and history, those charged with administering it have not seen fit to charge for admission: good for them! In return, I made a point of eating in the café and patronising the gift shop (at York Minister, which charges £26, I make a point of not doing).