What came next was the “authentic reproduction Anglo-Saxon village,” which was a collection of round huts with thatched roofs, and Alfie started sneering even at the sign. It was like being with a grumpy adult.

“How can it be authentic and a reproduction?” he said. “It is either one or the other.”

Roxy was humoring him. “Stop it, Alfie. You’ll love it. It’ll be just like when you were, erm…younger.”

Looking round, I saw that we had lost the rest of our group.

“Great Scott,” Alfie said. “Who built these? An army of dwarves?” We crouched to go through the doorway.

“I think they were smaller than us back then,” Roxy said by way of explanation.

“Only a bit,” said Alfie. He looked at the hut’s fireplace and then up at the roof. “Where is all the smoke going to go? There is not a smoke hole. People would choke.”

“All right,” I said, a bit irritated by his know-it-all attitude. “It’s probably just a mistake. Look.” I pointed out the window slit at the next hut along. “That one has a smoke hole. There’s smoke coming out of it.”

He looked and humphed in reluctant agreement before turning his attention back to the hearth, which was a ring of stones. “There is not even a proper fireplace. Most homes had one, built up to about this high, at least.” He held his hand level with his knee.

“What was the point of that?”

“I do not know,” he said, irritated. “They just did. Only the poorest people would not have one, because you had to buy the stones, but the poorest people did not live in houses like these.”

“They’d buy stones? But stones are free.”

“They are not just any stones. If you get a stone from the beach or a river, it might crack apart under the heat and explode. You do not want that happening when you are huddled round the fire for warmth in the winter. You want granite or limestone, and that means paying for it if you do not live near any. And as for that”—we were outside now and he was pointing to another fireplace, next to the hut—“it is much too close to that.” He pointed at the straw and twig roof. “It could go up at any time. No one would put a fire there. In fact I am going to tell them.”

He marched off in the direction of the man in the Saxon costume who had spoken to us before.

“No, Alfie. No!” Roxy said. I was curled up, embarrassed. He turned and stared at us both intensely.

“Why ever not? Not only is it historically inaccurate, it poses a significant danger right now.”

I couldn’t bear to watch. He was like one of those busybody old ladies who’ll tell off a young policeman if his shoes aren’t shiny enough. Roxy and I peered out from behind what seemed (to me) a very authentic-looking wheeled cart as Alfie strode up to the guide and tapped him on the shoulder, while he was talking to a group of people.

Alfie pointed. The guy looked over, then looked down at Alfie and shook his head, making a “go away” gesture with his hand before returning his attention to the group. So Alfie tugged his sleeve. The man was annoyed, I could tell, but Alfie didn’t care, and I sort of admired him for that. The group of people began to wander off and this annoyed the man even more, so with a furious expression he followed Alfie to the fire and I overheard part of their conversation.

“…significant incendiary risk…extinguished…”

“…I’ll go and speak to my supervisor….”

The guy in the Saxon tunic wandered off in the direction of the visitor center. Just then, Inigo Delombra and one of his hangers-on appeared from round a corner, each holding a bundle of twigs.

“Go on, lads,” said Inigo, and before we could stop them, they each chucked their armfuls onto the fire, which instantly burst into life. “Hey, that’s cool, that is! I love a massive fire, me! Whoa!”

The fire had gone up alarmingly and was by now dangerously high. When the smoke had cleared, Inigo Delombra and his pals were nowhere to be seen.

“Look at that,” Alfie said. “One stray spark, and that whole roof will go up. It is as dry as…as…”

“A dry straw roof?” said Roxy, with a straight face.

“Yes. And it will spread to the others. I do not suppose you have seen a whole village burn?”

“No, Alfie,” I said. “Surprising as it may seem, I haven’t. Have you?”

The words were out of my mouth an instant before I realized what I’d said. Alfie—who’d seen his own house burn down only weeks earlier—knew more than anyone the true horror of a fire, and I started to apologize.

“Hey, that came out wrong….”

But he had gone, reappearing a few seconds later with a wooden bucket.

“Have you seen a tap anywhere?” he asked, the urgency in his voice clear.

“There’ll be one at the visitor center, or in the café.”

“Too far. There is only one thing for it.”

By now, the flames were really quite high. Alfie had his back to me, but I could see he was fiddling with his trouser fly. He turned his head and called to me over his shoulder.

“Come on! What are you waiting for? We have got to put it out somehow!”

“Alfie, you’re crazy! It’s a museum. You can’t just…pee all over the exhibits.”

“If they want to have any exhibits left, then it is my duty. Yours too, Aidan. Come on.”

He had already started. There was a noisy hissing, and a vast cloud of yellow-gray smoke started to rise from the fireplace.

“Come on!” he shouted over the noise of the hissing fire. “I do not have enough urine in me. I went after lunch.”

I had not been after lunch. In fact I’d been halfheartedly looking for the toilets for a while, so, when I finally started, I released my bladder in a blissful gush. The smoke and steam doubled and rose high above the tops of the huts.

Alfie had finished and done up his fly when we heard the guy in the tunic shout, “Oi! What the hell are you doing?”

“Run!” said Alfie.

I was midstream at that point, and I couldn’t possibly stop.

“I can’t!” I wailed, but he was off already and the guy was getting closer.

“You little toe rag!” he bellowed.

The group of tourists had returned and at least two of them were taking photos of me in a cloud of pee smoke at the fireplace, and still it kept coming, making me curse the extra-large Coke I’d drunk.

There was only one thing to do. With all the effort I could summon, I managed to slow the stream so I could tuck everything back into my pants, and I started to run, pee dribbling down my pant leg. The only way I could get away from the Saxon guy was to push through the tourists, but as soon as I got near, they parted for me and that’s when I tripped.

I stumbled forward, half turned, and landed on my back in a puddle. My flies were open, everything was hanging out. I was being watched by a group of astonished tourists and, a couple of seconds later, by a man dressed in a woolen tunic and fake chain mail.

“All right,” he said, throwing down his plastic axe and grabbing me by the arm. “Come with me.”

A camera flashed, and my humiliation was complete.