“Stanley Matthews,” said the black-bearded priest. “Bobby Charlton. Bryan Robson.” He paused to scoop up another forkful of egg. “Georgie Best.” His litany of latter-day saints complete, he leaned back contentedly and let his hands settle on his belly, contemplating the bowl of plums between us.

It was warm and Father German had shed his outer robe, revealing brawny arms that made expansive gestures of appreciation for British footballers of the past. Behind him, in this hidden valley, knelt the tiny 14th-century monastery of St Michael Archangel.