It was when I was about 23 in the early 70s on a train going to Dorset. It was a late summer’s evening - long shadows, cows in the fields - and I was in a crowded carriage. Sitting opposite me diagonally was a very handsome man of Arab-looking background. I kept looking at him because he was exceedingly good-looking, and our glances met a few times.

When I finally got off the train he gave me a poem, written on Swissair paper: "Your spirit is touching mine, though we do not talk to each other. I might be wrong, but how could the language of pure hearts be wrong? Your smile confirms what I feel. How could it happen unless the soul is free? Strangers we are, and strangers we are not. How could we be strangers when each is at peace with each other. To you I can only wish you good, and good you are going to do".

And that was the poem, and that was the end, and that was the encounter.