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guests.’
    Zulu nodded her head gravely in our direction, then gave each of us a paw to be shaken. I was enchanted.
    â€˜What a lovely dog! She’s beautiful, and so well-behaved.’
    â€˜She’s a good girl,’ said Pam in that foolish, fond tone dog owners use for their darlings. ‘Now, I’ve brought you a bus schedule, but you might also want to think about the train.’
    â€˜I thought Broadway didn’t have rail service any longer,’ said Alan, confused.
    â€˜We don’t, not regular service. That’s been gone since, oh, the sixties, I suppose. But we’re very excited about the new steam line. Well, it’s an old line, really. The GWR – that’s the Gloucestershire Warwickshire Railway – used to run from Oxford to Cheltenham, and they’ve been rebuilding the line for pleasure trips. And just this spring they finished the Broadway station. It’s great fun, the trip from here to Cheltenham. Here, I’ve brought a brochure.’
    Alan and I love old, traditional places and events. We took one look at the brochure, with its glossy pictures of shiny locomotives and flower-bedecked Victorian stations and sweeping vistas, and were sold. ‘Let’s see – how long does it take?’
    â€˜Ages,’ said Pam, laughing. ‘Steam trains are not about getting places, but it’s such a pleasant journey. I think you’ve just time to get to the station, if you hurry. Or no, look, I can run you there, if you’d like. I have to go out anyway. That’ll give you ten minutes to get organized.’
    We didn’t need to think twice. While I brushed my teeth, Alan pulled out a backpack and put in a few things. ‘What’s that all about?’ I asked through a mouthful of toothpaste.
    â€˜In case we decide to stay the night. Here, love, rinse off that toothbrush and toss it in.’
    On the way to the station, Alan asked Pam to hold our room. ‘If it works out that way, we might spend the night in Cheltenham. Would that be a problem?’
    â€˜Not at all. It’s only a worry when someone doesn’t tell me.’
    Someone like Paul. None of us said his name, but he was in everyone’s mind.
    The day was straight out of a Visit England brochure. Blue skies, balmy air; more like June than May. Our charming little train chugged along through a landscape I wanted to clasp to my heart. Oilseed, rye, oilseed again, a little wood here and there. Pastures dotted with fluffy white balls, big ones and small, frolicking ones. Farmhouses. More pastureland, with cows, this time, lovely big black and white cows. Every now and then the train would utter a cheerful whistle.
    â€˜I half expect to look out and see a farmer walking behind a horse and plough,’ I said to Alan. ‘We’ve stepped right into the nineteenth century.’
    Alan’s reply was a contented murmur.
    We visited dollhouse stations, bright with fresh paint and hanging baskets of flowers, bought coffee and postcards at miniature cafés, and finally arrived at the last station, Cheltenham Racecourse.
    â€˜We’re not going to a race, are we?’ I asked in some dismay, looking at the milling crowds.
    â€˜Not if you don’t want to. This is the station for Cheltenham. The steam trains don’t go into the main rail station. Different gauge, you see.’
    â€˜Oh, of course! I don’t suppose they have a platform nine and three quarters.’
    Alan grinned. We both adore the Harry Potter books.
    Getting into town looked to be a bit of a hassle. We could have walked, of course, but the traffic made the prospect unappealing. All the cars seemed to be coming to the track, and none of them seemed to be taxis. We finally found a minicab willing to take us to the city centre, at an exorbitant price. I must have looked shocked, because Alan shrugged and said, ‘We’re on holiday. Blow the expense.’
    So we squeezed