It’s a lovely day. A mild wind blows from the south, the green grass flickers in the sunshine — and all that’s missing is a good vantage point. How I wish I could climb to the top of the church tower next to us. I’d get an uninterrupted view across the estuary a mile northwards — deep into the county beyond.

But my friend has other ideas. He wants to see a grammar school nearly two miles west-northwest of the church. It’s the alma mater of a film director (mother: Joyce) whose work includes three action-packed installments of a 21st-century franchise. I’ve forgotten their names. But Friend hasn’t. Borne on a wave of enthusiasm, he’s insisting on a visit.

“Sorry to do anythin’ as may cause interruption to such very pleasant proceedings,” he chirps.

“As the assassin said when he fired his rifle,” I interject.

“But please can we go now?” he continues.

“No,” I shoot back. “What will you see there? Not the rooftops of Tangier, nor the streets of Berlin.”

Besides, I want to commune with the ghost of a 19th-century writer (father: John). He honeymooned in a village served by this church. The village is now a suburb, but the church still stands in open country.

Then I have an idea. “What about visiting that railway station?” I suggest. Another of the director’s locations, it lies 23 miles west-northwest of the church. Yes, it will complicate the journey home, but I’ll be able to spend more time at the church beforehand. Friend agrees.

I’ll chalk this one up as a victory.