In a far galaxy, long ago, 1966 to be precise, my first boss sent me off on a 12 city tour of Britain’s bookshops. He said you couldn’t pretend to be a publisher unless you got off your backside and went to meet your customers. I remember criss-crossing the country by train under a leaden November sky. Glasgow and Edinburgh, Leeds and Manchester, Bath and Exeter, Oxford and Cambridge, overnight stays and full English breakfasts in cavernous Victorian station hotels.