Finding that the bottom of my small craft was sloshing with water which had splashed in during my battle with the tides, and fearful for the contents of my kit-bag, I stopped for a while and bailed out the water, using my handkerchief, then I paddled on, between golden sands and quiet wooded shores to my right, and two long, land-isolated jetties to my left, to each of which a huge oil tanker was tied up.

A motor boat left one of the jetties and swung round towards me.  The boat proved to be full of surprised-looking workmen in brightly coloured overalls.  At first they seemed reluctant to believe that I was not in some difficulty, but then laughed and shook their heads and told me if I had any sense I'd head for shore and continue on foot.  They called me 'hen', which I found mildly insulting, though I think it was meant congenially enough.  I thanked them for their advice and they powered off, heading upstream.

I came ashore, at last, at Cramond, at the point where a line of tall obelisks strides out across the sands to a low island.  Just before I touched the sands, I heaved my kit-bag out from under me - it was only a little damp - and dug out the vial of Forth mud to freshen up the mark on my forehead, which I suspected must have been washed off by a combination of spray and sweat.  My strange craft bumped ashore onto grey-blond sands, and I got out.  I had a little difficulty in standing, and then in straightening, but eventually did so, and luxuriated in a long if painful stretch, all under the quizzical gaze of numerous swans floating in the waters of the river Almond, and a few suspicious-looking youths standing on the promenade.

'Hey, mister; you ship-wrecked, aye?' one of them shouted.

'No,' I said, pulling my kit-bag out of the inner-tube and packing the folded trenching tool away.  I left my craft lying on the sand by a small slipway and climbed up to the youths. 'And I am a Sister, not a mister,' I told them, drawing myself up.

They wore baggy clothes and long-sleeved T-shirts with hoods.  Their short hair looked greasy.  One of them looked down at the inner-tube. 'Zat big tyre goin' spare then, hen?'

'It's all yours,' I told them, and walked away.

I felt a kind of exhilaration then, having accomplished the first part of my journey.  I strode out along the esplanade, munching on another naan with my kit-bag slung over my shoulder while my shadow lengthened in front of me.  I consulted my map, negotiated a few roads and found the abandoned railway line - now a cycle-way - at Granton Road.  Within a hundred yards I discovered a thin, straight, broken branch hanging off a tree by the trail; I tore it down and used my penknife to remove a few twigs, and soon had a serviceable staff to accompany me on my way.  The old railway path took me almost three miles towards my destination, by turns under and over the evening traffic; the air was full of the smell of engine exhaust and the sky was lit with flagrant red clouds as I crossed to pick up the towpath of the Old Union Canal and then took the footpath skirting school playing grounds.  The last part of my trip was as well accomplished in near darkness, given that it took me along a stretch of railway line which was still in occasional use.  I hid in some bushes up the embankment as a loud diesel engine came swinging round the bend from the east, pulling a long train of open, double-deck wagons stacked with cars.

The red tail-light on the last wagon blinked fast as a racing heart as it disappeared round the turn in the cutting, and I sat there on my haunches for a moment or two, thinking.

After a moment I got up and continued along the track-side, passing through an abandoned station and then walking under a busy-sounding road junction until I came to within a couple of streets of the home of Gertie Possil, in the douce Edinburgh suburb of Morningside, and arrived there in time to take part in a ceremonial supper.

'Blessed Isis!  Beloved Isis!  Oh!  What an honour!  We are so honoured!  Oh!  Oh!'

Sister Gertie Fossil, tiny, white-haired, frail and easily old enough to be my grandmother, made the Sign, set the paraffin lamp she carried down on a narrow table and prostrated herself at my feet, then edged forward until she could touch my boots, which she patted as though they were tiny, delicate animals.

Gertie Fossil was dressed in something oatmeal-coloured and flowing which settled around her on the black and white tiles of the hallway floor like a pool of porridge.  Behind me, the stained-glass door swung shut.

'Thank you, Sister Gertie,' I said, making the Sign in return and feeling just a little embarrassed at having my boots petted. 'Please; do rise.'

'Welcome, welcome, to our humble, unworthy house!' she wailed, getting back up again.  I helped her the last couple of feet, putting my hand to her elbow, and she stared open-mouthed at my hand and then at my face. 'Oh, thank you, Blessed Isis!' she said, and felt for the glasses that hung from a cord on her chest.  She positioned them properly and sighed deeply, staring at me, seemingly lost for words.  Behind her, in the dark hallway of the large, gloomy house, stood a tall, plump man with a large and mostly bald head.  This was Gertie's son, Lucius.  He wore a heavy purple dressing-gown over dark trousers and spatted shoes.  A cravat was bunched awkwardly under his double chins.  He beamed at me and rubbed his fat hands together nervously.

'Umm, umm, umm…' he said.

'Let Lucius take your bag, you wonderful child you,' Gertie Fossil said to me, and then turned to her son. 'Lucius!  The Anointed's bag; see?  Here!  You lump!  What's the matter with you?' She tsked as she reverently took my staff and leaned it against the coat stand. 'That boy of mine!' she muttered, sounding exasperated.

Lucius bumbled forward, bumping into things in the hallway.  I handed him my kit-bag.  He took it and smiled broadly, nodding, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a pigeon's head.

'Tell the Beloved you are honoured!' Gertie said, using the flat of her hand to hit her son in the stomach with surprising force.

'Honoured!  Honoured!' Lucius gulped, still smiling broadly, nodding vigorously and swallowing powerfully.  He swung the kit-bag over his shoulder and clunked the grandfather clock with it.  He appeared not to notice. 'Honoured!' he said again.

'Brother Lucius,' I nodded as Gertie helped me off with my jacket.

'You must be exhausted!' Gertie said, carefully hanging my jacket on a padded hanger. 'I shall prepare some supper and Lucius will run you a bath.  You are hungry, aren't you?  You haven't eaten?  May I wash your feet?  You poor child; you look tired.  Are you weary?'

I glanced at my face in the mirror by the coat hooks, illuminated by the weak yellow light of the paraffin lamp.  I thought I did look tired.  Certainly I felt weary.

'It has been a long day,' I admitted as Gertie shooed her son ahead of her towards the stairs. 'I would love a cup of tea, Sister Gertrude, and something to eat.  A bath would be pleasant, later.'

'Of course!  And please, call me Gertie!  Lucius, you lump; upstairs; the good bedroom!'

'Thank you,' I said as Lucius thumped up the stairs and his mother led me through to their candle-lit parlour. 'Firstly, however, I must use your telephone to tell the Community I have arrived safely.'

'Indeed!  Of course!  It is here…' She doubled back and flitted past me, opening the door to the cupboard under the stairs.  She set down the paraffin lamp on a narrow shelf and showed me to a small wooden chair facing a tiny table which supported a large black bakelite phone with a twisted fabric cord. 'I shall leave you the lamp,' she announced.  She turned to go, hesitated, gazed raptly at me, then held out her hands to one of mine and tremulously said, 'May I?'