It’s difficult to get lost these days, what with smartphones and helpful locals, but if you were absolutely determined to do so, you could head for The Rocks. The back lanes and cobblestoned streets of Sydney’s oldest suburb are suitably dark, poky and circuitous. Some lead nowhere; nothing is straight, everything bends and crooks. Dive down a laneway, turn a corner, and a set of stairs leads up, another down.

It has the cumulative effect of throwing you back in time, to hearing ghosts – the tat-tat-tat of hobnailed boots on stone, the drunken ditties of rum-soaked sailors; the clang of a forge; the quiet cursing of convicts as they carve soft sandstone under the blazing sun.