TPR was triumphant. Not only had we managed the huge hill out of the city on our tandem, but our top speed broke 70mph. All the effort had been his. My own feet barely touched the pedals.

We came to a halt at the summit, narrowly avoiding a collision with my former PhD student FVR, who crossed our path east to west. Then we drifted down into the village.

We had some time to wait before our appointment, so we looked for somewhere to shelter. We found a nice bungalow and let ourselves in through the unlocked doors. Before long we were settled in, helping ourselves to tea and coffee.

I glanced out of the window and saw a couple of women walking down the street. The older of the two was the image of my mother in her 60s, and the other – presumably her daughter – looked just like a younger version of me. I invited them into the house and asked TPR to photograph us together. They both spoke with Lancashire accents, and I genuinely thought that we might be related.

Just as I was copying down the email address of the younger woman and TPR was tidying up the house ahead of our departure, two women barged through the front garden gate. The first was the owner of the bungalow; the second the resident of the last house that we had ‘borrowed’ in a similar way. They were on the warpath, vowing that his time we wouldn’t get away with our ‘polite squattng’.