Alan's obliged to circle the park--or, at any rate, walk along a stretch of fence--before he finds the entrance, a gap in all that steadfast ironwork. He doesn't disguise his approach (snapped twigs aplenty can and do attest to that), but when he spots his friend, he stops short, leaving ample space between them. He'd been invited here, true, but trespassing on the man's thoughts is another matter entirely.

"Xenophilius." He says the name warmly, even as the chill air transmutes his exhalation into a white wisp.