While the Trappist, the Eastern Monk and the Antipodean pondered developments from the comfort of their deckchairs, the Pride of the River Wey now being temporarily moored at Godalming wharf, the Sage quietly slipped ashore and made his way, furtively, to the Rowbarge. In the murky interior of the hostelry, he sat down alongside another cloaked figure at a small table in a recess, hidden from prying eyes.

“So you think it’s working, then?” said the other figure, easily identifiable by the cosmopolitan tone of voice as the Westerner.

“Like a dream! Pint of Old Speckled Hen please. What’s yours?” he addressed his theological companion as the barmaid approached them to take orders.

“Oh, Pimms No. 1 for me.” The barmaid retreated to the far side of the bar. “But don’t you think you’re taking it too far with all this Wind in the Willows stuff, and now Last of the Summer Wine?”

“Fuel for theological fantasy!” replied the Sage, contentedly tamping down the weed-like substance with the sweet, sickly aroma into his clay pipe. “It’ll keep them absorbed for hours, if the Moderators don’t latch onto it first. And now we can get down to the real business.”

“So you think they will buy the idea that the Canaan project has been abandoned?”

“Lock, stock and barrel!” said the Sage, deeply inhaling from the pipe, and a little later emitting the trade-mark smoke rings.

“A fresh start, a new creation,” mused the Westerner, “without those irritating interventions and interruptions that have been the bane of my speculations these last five years. So where do we begin?”

“I have the chart,” said the Sage, drawing a strangely familiar scroll from the weather-worn backpack he was in the habit of carrying with him wherever he went. The scroll was opened on the table in front of them, clearly revealing the outline of recognisable, if as yet unexplored territory.

“Here, we crossed the river,” continued the old man, pointing out the place where the Jordan had dried up. “To attempt another entry at this point would be too obvious. My proposal is that we detour to the north, and follow the route taken by Abraham.”

“Cunning!” said the Westerner.

“A pot tilting away from the north,” said the Sage. “A clean sheet, a fresh start - giants in the land notwithstanding. A proclamation to be made to an unsuspecting world. With the advantage of surprise, a paradigm-shift is effected before the powers of conservatism and reaction have time to muster their forces.”

In the hum of the bar, the two cloaked figures took long draughts from their beverages, and as the weed-like substance took its effect, aided by the combination of liquids imbibed, they visualised in their minds’ eyes the interesting future which was rolling out before them.