There was a time when I could travel England for weeks on end and remain at my sharpest—when, if anything, the travelling gave me an edge. But now that I am older I become disoriented more easily. So it was that on arriving at the village just after dark I failed to find my bearings at all. I could hardly believe I was in the same village in which not so long ago I had lived and come to exercise such influence.

There was nothing I recognized, and I found myself walking forever around twisting, badly lit streets hemmed in on both sides by the little stone cottages characteristic of the area. The streets often became so narrow I could make no progress without my bag or my elbow scraping one rough wall or another. I persevered nevertheless, stumbling around in the darkness in the hope of coming upon the village square—where I could at least orient myself—or else of encountering one of the villagers. When after a while I had done neither, a weariness came over me, and I decided my best course was just to choose a cottage at random, knock on the door, and hope it would be opened by someone who remembered me.

I stopped by a particularly rickety-looking door, whose upper beam was so low that I could see I would have to crouch right down to enter. A dim light was leaking out around the door’s edges, and I could hear voices and laughter. I knocked loudly to insure that the occupants would hear me over their talk. But just then someone behind me said, “Hello.”

I turned to find a young woman of around twenty, dressed in raggedy jeans and a torn jumper, standing in the darkness a little way away.

“You walked straight past me earlier,” she said, “even though I called to you.”

“Did I really? Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re Fletcher, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, somewhat flattered.

“Wendy thought it was you when you went by our cottage. We all got very excited. You were one of that lot, weren’t you? With David Maggis and all of them.”

“Yes,” I said, “but Maggis was hardly the most important one. I’m surprised you pick him out like that. There were other, far more important figures.” I reeled off a series of names and was interested to see the girl nodding at each one in recognition. “But this must have all been before your time,” I said. “I’m surprised you know about such things.”

“It was before our time, but we’re all experts on your lot. We know more about all that than most of the older ones who were here then. Wendy recognized you instantly just from your photos.”

“I had no idea you young people had taken such an interest in us. I’m sorry I walked past you earlier. But you see, now that I’m older, I get a little disoriented when I travel.”

I could hear some boisterous talk coming from behind the door. I banged on it again, this time rather impatiently, though I was not so eager to bring the encounter with the girl to a close.

She looked at me for a moment, then said, “All of you from those days are like that. David Maggis came here a few years ago. In ’93, or maybe it was ’94. He was like that. A bit vague. It must get to you after a while, travelling all the time.”

“So Maggis was here. How interesting. You know, he wasn’t one of the really important figures. You mustn’t get carried away with such an idea. Incidentally, perhaps you could tell me who lives in this cottage.” I thumped the door again.

“The Petersons,” the girl said. “They’re an old house. They’ll probably remember you.”

“The Petersons,” I repeated, but the name meant nothing to me.

“Why don’t you come to our cottage? Wendy was really excited. So were the rest of us. It’s a real chance for us, actually talking to someone from those days.”

“I’d very much like to do that. But first of all I’d better get myself settled in. The Petersons, you say.”

I thumped the door again, this time quite ferociously. At last it opened, throwing warmth and light out into the street. An old man was standing in the doorway. He looked at me carefully, then asked, “It’s not Fletcher, is it?”

“Yes, and I’ve just got into the village. I’ve been travelling for several days.”

He thought about this for a moment, then said, “Well, you’d better come in.”

I found myself in a cramped, untidy room full of rough wood and broken furniture. A log burning in the fireplace was the only source of light, by which I could make out a number of hunched figures sitting around the room. The old man led me to a chair beside the fire with a grudgingness that suggested it was the very one he had just vacated. Once I sat down, I found I could not easily turn my head to see my surroundings or the others in the room. But the warmth of the fire was very welcome, and for a moment I just stared into its flames, a pleasant grogginess drifting over me. Voices came from behind me, inquiring if I was well, if I had come far, if I was hungry, and I replied as best I could, though I was aware that my answers were barely adequate. Eventually, the questions ceased, and it occurred to me that my presence was creating a heavy awkwardness, but I was so grateful for the warmth and the chance to rest that I hardly cared.

Nonetheless, when the silence behind me had gone unbroken for several minutes, I resolved to address my hosts with a little more civility, and I turned in my chair. It was then, as I did so, that I was suddenly seized by an intense sense of recognition. I had chosen the cottage quite at random, but now I could see that it was none other than the very one in which I had spent my years in this village. My gaze moved immediately to the far corner—at this moment shrouded in darkness—to the spot that had been my corner, where once my mattress had been and where I had spent many tranquil hours browsing through books or conversing with whoever happened to drift in. On summer days, the windows, and often the door, were left open to allow a refreshing breeze to blow right through. Those were the days when the cottage was surrounded by open fields and there would come from outside the voices of my friends, lazing in the long grass, arguing over poetry or philosophy. These precious fragments of the past came back to me so powerfully that it was all I could do not to make straight for my old corner then and there.

Someone was speaking to me again, perhaps asking another question, but I hardly listened. Rising, I peered through the shadows into my corner, and could now make out a narrow bed, covered by an old curtain, occupying more or less the exact space where my mattress had been. The bed looked extremely inviting, and I found myself cutting into something the old man was saying.