Westmorland Alone. Ian Sansom

don’t you think we could perhaps produce our own little homage to the Great North Road on this trip? Four Hundred Miles of England?’

      ‘I think our hands are rather full at the moment, Father,’ said Miriam. She got out of the car, and ushered Morley into the back seat of the Lagonda, and began fitting his desk around him.

      ‘Well, a slim volume perhaps? Three Hundred and Forty Miles of England? We could stop our tour at Berwick-upon-Tweed?’

      ‘Yes, Father.’ This was another of Miriam’s techniques for dealing with Morley: humouring him. It seemed to work.

      ‘A little preface or prologue, perhaps? A record of significant stops and sights along the way. A kind of investigation of the meaning of the road. You know, I rather have the notion that it might be possible to invent an entirely new kind of writing about places – a kind of chronicling not only of their physical but also their psychical history, as it were.’

      ‘Psychical geography?’ I said.

      ‘Exactly!’ said Morley.

      ‘I don’t think it would catch on, Father,’ said Miriam.

      ‘No?’

      ‘No, Father.’

      ‘Well, just a straightforward guide then, perhaps? Stilton. Stamford. Boroughbridge. Are you a fan of Stilton, Sefton?’

      ‘Stilton, Mr Morley?’

      ‘The cheese, man. Are you a Stiltonite? Lovely with a slice of apple, Stilton.’

      ‘Where do you stand on Stilton, Sefton?’ asked Miriam.

      ‘The English Parmesan, Stilton,’ said Morley. ‘Or perhaps Parmesan is the Italian Stilton …’

      ‘Sorry?’

      I was no longer listening. I had spotted a policeman who had noticed the crowd and who was now walking briskly towards us. He seemed to be looking directly at me. I was still standing by the Lagonda. I checked quickly behind me; if I was quick I’d be able to make it across the Euston Road and disappear.

      All was not lost.

      And then it was.

      I had spotted him too late.

      The policeman blew his whistle: many people had now stopped and were staring. I had nowhere to go.

      ‘Hey! You!’ he called, reaching the Lagonda. ‘You! What on earth are you doing?’

      ‘Excellent whistle!’ said Morley, from the back of the Lagonda.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Your whistle, Officer. I wonder, is it made by Messrs J. Egdon of Birmingham, by any chance?’

      ‘I have no idea,’ said the policeman.

      ‘They’re renowned for their whistles,’ said Morley.

      ‘Really? And you’re a whistle expert, are you?’

      ‘I wouldn’t say that …’ began Morley. He was a whistle expert, obviously.

      ‘Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?’ demanded the policeman.

      ‘Well, to answer your second question first, if I may,’ said Miriam. ‘I think you’ll find that what we’re currently doing is speaking with you.’

      ‘You are blocking the entrance to the station, madam,’ said the policeman, unamused.

      It was true: Miriam had parked, as usual, without care or regard for other road-users, and our small gathering of onlookers had begun to cause a problem.

      ‘Oh, that!’ said Miriam. ‘Are we? Really? I hadn’t noticed. I’m terribly sorry.’

      ‘I’m not looking for an apology, madam. You realise I could book you under the Road Traffic Act of 1930 for obstructing the king’s highway?’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure you could book us, Officer,’ said Miriam, lowering her voice and fixing the poor policeman with her most glimmering smile. ‘But the question is, would you?’

      This threw the policeman rather, who obviously was not accustomed to being flirted with by a woman of Miriam’s considerable expertise and world-class charms. He changed his line of questioning and turned to me.

      ‘Is this man with you, madam?’ He had clearly noted my rather rumpled appearance.

      ‘Him?’ said Miriam.

      I could see that she was considering causing mischief. I prepared to sprint.

      ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘He’s my fiancé, aren’t you, darling!’ She leaned across the car and offered her cheek for me to kiss. I had no choice but to oblige. ‘He’s just bought me some flowers, Officer. Isn’t he adorable?’

      ‘Ha!’ came a laugh from the back seat.

      ‘And this gentleman?’ asked the policeman, nodding towards Morley.

      ‘This is my father, Officer.’

      ‘And where are you all headed this morning, might I ask?’ The policeman addressed his question to me.

      ‘We are headed to …’ I had no idea. Miriam and Morley usually didn’t tell me where our next destination was until we were en route. I rather suspected that this was often because they didn’t know themselves.

      ‘We are headed, sir, to the very heart of the country!’ said Morley. ‘The hub! The centre! The cultural capital!’

      ‘And where is that exactly?’ asked the policeman, having extracted a notebook from his pocket and taken down the registration of the car.

      ‘Westmorlandia!’ said Morley. ‘Westmoria! The western Moorish county.’ He began whistling the Toreador Song from Carmen. (He had a recording of the Spanish mezzo-soprano Conchita Supervia singing the role of Carmen, which he claimed was one of the great cultural achievements of all time. He also claimed this, it should be said, for Caruso singing ‘Bella figlia dell’ amore’ in Rigoletto, Rosa Ponselle in Tosca, and John McCormack singing just about anything.)

      ‘No. Still no wiser, sir. If you wouldn’t mind spelling that for me?’

      ‘Westmorlandia! One of the truly great English counties!’ continued Morley. ‘Home of the poets! Land of the great artists! We shall be visiting the mighty Kendal. Penrith – deep red Penrith! Ambleside. And we shall follow the River Eden as she rises at Mallerstang and makes her majestic way to the Solway Firth—’

      ‘We’re visiting the Lake District, basically,’ said Miriam.

      ‘Ah,’ said the policeman, writing in his notebook.

      ‘Westmorland!’ cried Morley. ‘Do get it right, Miriam, please. Westmorland! Which – combined with Cumberland – might together accurately be described as “the Lake District”, though of course the designation is rather misleading because—’

      ‘And what is your business exactly in Westmorland, sir?’

      ‘Our business? Our business, sir, is to do no less than justice and no more than to offer honest praise!’

      ‘Exactly what is your business in Westmorland, sir?’ The policeman was getting tired: I’d seen it before. Morley’s eccentricities could be extremely wearing.

      ‘We are writing a guidebook,’ said Miriam. ‘To the county and its—’

      ‘Roofs!’ cried Morley. ‘The roofs of Westmorland are some of the finest in the land, Officer. Did you know?’ Morley had a great enthusiasm for roofs. He began explaining the quality of the roofs of Westmorland to the policeman, who wisely decided at that point that it was time to give up.

      ‘On you go then, please,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind. Move