He only had to glance at the houses for the name of the street to come to mind, and he found himself navigating the roads by a map that had somehow managed to ingrain itself on to his consciousness. He drove out of High Street, knowing to a split second when the road ceased to be High Street and became The Struet. He glanced up Priory Hill and knew the Cathedral was just up on the right. He could have described the high vaulted ceilings inside the building, the old tombs with their effigies of seventeenth century notables, their faces crumbling, as they lay attired for eternity in stiff folds of marble and stone period dress. He could have directed a tourist to King Charles’ steps. He remembered the good draught beer in the Boars Head; the comfortable surroundings in the Castle, the George and the Wellington; the old world quaintness that still hung over the Sarah Siddons, the pub named after the actress who had been born there. Then he recalled a pub that had been disparagingly described as the “squaddies haunt”
