Starbursts of sunlight glanced across the surface of the water as it gently lapped against the harbour wall of Cyprus’s Limassol. Five beach chairs were arranged around one of the cafe front tables, the parasol protecting their occupants from the strengthening rays of the sun. Even in January, the early morning warmth promised a balmy day to come.

“And what happened to you after we had escaped the bonfires?” questioned the Elderly Man of the Contemplative, contentedly sipping his pina colada.

“It was quite easy really,” said the recluse. “The crowds always like a recantation speech at a good burning. Or better still, heroic defiance in the face of adversity.

“So while you were fleeing for your lives, having soft-talked your way to freedom with the stock sympathetic Swiss guard,” here he turned to the Westerner, who acknowledged his glance with a slight tilt of the head and a hand reaching out to his cafe frappe, “I launched into the peroration from the platform in the town square. Very kind of them to provide one for me. Right next to the Huss memorial, appropriately enough.”

“And what about my helpful diversion?” said the Eastern Monk, stirring his twiggle-stick in an interesting cocktail of obscure liquid ingredients enlivened by ice and ground herbs.

“Ah yes,” said the Trappist. “The firework display. Very helpful. I never would have evaded the burning had it not been for that distraction to the crowds. Still, I was slightly disappointed that I was unable to complete my third point - the grand tradition of the martyrs - step-changes in theological progress brought about by the contributions of the persecuted outsider, all that kind of stuff.”

“Jeez,” said the fiery Antipodean contemplatively, raising his Fosters as the only appropriate response, and downing a significant proportion of the contents.

“And where now?” said the Sage, turning to the Westerner.

“Pressing engagements for me,” he replied. “I have a book review to attend to. I’ve already completed the first part. You can read it on that website. Then my next book beckons, aided in no small measure by our recent experiences and escapades.”

“The Far East,” said the Eastern Monk. “On engagements of a compassionate nature - enlightened by projects of ecological sensitivity amongst remote tribal peoples of Indonesia.”

“Earls Court for me,” said the Antipodean.

“Some business to attend to of a personal nature,” said the Trappist, “aided in no small measure by remunerations from the cinematic reproduction of our exertions and exigencies. And you?” turning to the Sage.

“My travels are not yet over,” he sighed. “The road beckons; I am destined to wander the dusty wastelands of this world. To travel hopefully is better than to arrive. It is the journey, rather than the destination, which is the measure of the true traveller.”

But for now, our companions in adventure and adversity were able to enjoy a pleasant hour or two together, allowing the the various brews they sipped to work their medicinal effects. The gentle background hum of Greek-Cypriot sounds lulled their senses, and the engagingly enlivening music wafting from the nearby bouzouki ensemble wrought a picture of harmony more effectively than any postcard.