LONG, LONG AGO, there was a time – a long time – when people believed they would find a utopia on earth. A piece of heaven. A garden, an island, a spot of perfection where all would be well. They believed that God’s perfect plan was symmetrical, and they knew that the worlds of the northern hemisphere would be mirrored in the southern worlds beyond the equator.

Such beliefs set fires in their souls, rang a beat in their hearts that sent the blood coursing through their veins until their imaginations swelled, their hopes billowed like sails. Their eyes steadily fixed on the outlines of a dream, they willed themselves to attempt the impossible. The Great Age of Discovery had propelled northern hemisphere men towards the southern oceans. Some had travelled under the guise of explorers, others as merchants. They included pirates and runaways, the hopeful, the maimed, the seers, the blind. But, sacred or profane, saint or sinner, they breathed the same prayer at the break of each dawn: ‘Steer our course to the promised land, O Lord. Guide us to the arcadia of our dreams.’