Blair said to me: ‘Let’s not talk about the war’

A light rain drifts down over Kintbury village, blurring the surface of the Kennet and Avon canal. It gleams on the railway tracks, pools into fat drops under the roof of the station shelter on the London-bound platform and drips on to Robert Harris’s new suede shoes. Look, I say again, please don’t wait. I’ll be fine. You’ve been more than kind enough already. ‘No, no.’ Harris says firmly. ‘I’ll see you on to the train. I hope you’re not too cold, though.’

This is advanced niceness of a sort you don’t find very often. And though Harris is one of Britain’s bestselling writers (the author of Fatherland, Enigma, Archangel, Pompeii) and though his latest, The Ghost, has already been praised and there’s no need to be kind to hacks, he’s been at it all afternoon. He’s picked me up in a low-slung sports car, given me tea, then taken me for a walk and to the pub; he’s introduced me to three of his friendly but characterful children (there are four: Holly, Charlie, Matilda, Sam) and to his wife, Gill, who has given me a box of home-laid eggs.