Beyond Sudbury I cross over the River Stour, and the sun is low in the west as I drive through the village of Foxearth. I’ve lined the long windows of the coffin deck with reflective panels and the hearse sparkles when they catch the last light, as if a miracle of resurrection is going on behind them.

On the inside I have a single bed beneath the coffin deck. The hearse was made to accommodate any corpse, from a child’s coffin to the burden of a giant. Consequently, there’s ample space for a decent-sized mattress. On top of this I have my faithful sleeping bag, a snug fit reminiscent of the burial shrouds used in medieval England, sewn shut over those who could not afford coffins. Lying below deck and with the sleeping bag zipped up to my nose I am perfectly cocooned, a living mummy sandwiched between petrol tanks. If a thief tried to steal the hearse in the night, I’d only have to make sepulchral sounds from these hidden quarters. Anyone without a heart of steel should run screaming into the sunrise.

The outer panels of the coffin deck serve as bookshelves, with various maps, biographies and bedtime reading arranged in rows. Death in England: An Illustrated History shares shelf-space with Funerals: And How to Improve Them and J.B. Bradfield’s guide to do-it-yourself burial. The enormous black bulk of The Oxford Book of Death acts as a bookend, propping up the rest. I’ve also stowed cooking essentials, a spare tyre, tool kit, traffic cone and fire extinguisher, and photographs of various (living) relatives. The fantastic volume of space makes the hearse an excellent packhorse and I’ve made it far comfier than it ever was for the deceased.

On a stretch of Roman road beyond the village I perform my first ever overtake. The hearse begins to shake on its chassis as it approaches fifty miles an hour, a terrifying wobble like a space rocket breaking up in the stratosphere. I draw alongside a hatchback and there is an agonising moment of stasis, the hearse neither gaining or losing ground. I glance across at the driver, an elderly man with a shock of white hair, and he notices me for the first time with a look of complete incomprehension. Mercifully, he slows, and I regain the left-hand lane as a line of traffic rounds the corner ahead.

Perhaps the greatest single advantage of driving a hearse (and there are many) is that people are desperate to get out of my way. Whether out of respect or superstition, cars seem to scatter before me. On open roads traffic will hang back from the hearse, keeping its distance. In built-up areas drivers disappear down side streets to avoid any contact with my vehicle of ill omen. I drive through Hertfordshire much as Moses walked through the Red Sea, the way parting before and behind me.