Virgil pointed at the low houses, built of white adobe, that lined the black sanded beach. Then up further, to the neat rows of vines that laced the hillside like the weft of a tapestry, green leaves moving gently in the sulphurous winds.

“It’s not been the same since Byron arrived you know.”

“Lord Byron?”

“Indeed. When he approached the gates of heaven he refused to enter and told the angel with the firey sword that there was no point in entering a place where good could no longer be accomplished. So he came here. Led a second rebellion, overthrew hell itself and trade-unionised the damned. They elect their own government now, the chief export of perdition is no longer pain, but wine and poetry.” He paused and smiled, “I suppose I should be angry, the greatest moral allegory in the history of the world is now a place of poets, argument, wine and song.”

“Think we should skip the rest of the trip?”

“Definitely, I’ll buy a couple of bottles, you go grab two deckchairs by the lake of fire for us.”