‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,’ I said. ‘But aren’t you Gregory Peck?’ ‘Yes, I believe I am.’ It had taken me six laps of the cloisters to build up the courage to ask him. He was wearing an immaculate dark grey woollen suit and was sitting legs crossed on my favourite bench in the garth, the garden in the centre of Gloucester Cathedral’s medieval cloisters. ‘Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?’ He asked. It sounded strange in his accent. The scene was so quintessentially English that it made him sound more American. ‘I’d love to.’ I sat next to him as he produced a flask and two cups from his bicycle basket. He saw me looking at his bicycle as he poured the tea. ‘I know it’s not allowed, but cycling inside a cathedral is a real thrill. I’ve done more laps of these cloisters than you have.’ I smiled at him as he passed me my cup and, remembering the tradition, tapped the rim three times with my finger nail. I watch the steam rise from it and blew at it gentl