The walls are covered, both on the outside and, as you will later see, on the in-, with kayaks, either propped up against the sides of the hut or hung on hooks, suspended, like a colony of gigantic sleeping pipistrelles. They all appear skilfully fabricated, and even examining them closely one would find it impossible to say that any one of them fell below the standard set by the best of the timber fleet. A couple of paddles rest on a ledge above the lintel of the door, which is ajar. There is no bell, so you knock, tentatively, to attract attention. Not too strongly, because the structure looks so flimsy that you fear the application of even a minimum force could cause it to collapse. The interior is dark. Even now, at the height of summer –it is a sultry day in early August–, it is shady; apart from the door and a narrow window aperture with no glass, at the far end, there is no way in for sunlight. It must be far worse in the winter; maybe it is unoccupied then, you muse. Yes, you convince yourself, that must be the case, for not only would conditions be intolerable, trade would be non-existent.

Pondering this, you sense some activity in response to your announcement of your arrival. You hear a door being opened and closed. Then, after a slight delay, during which you wonder if you oughtn’t to repeat your knock, the sound of approaching footsteps becomes the sight of an approaching figure: a bearded old man. He is old, and he has a beard. He also has a stick, which aids him as he hobbles towards you, and an ancient rag, which might once have been a pair of shorts but now only just preserves his modesty. Except for a pair of sunglasses –somewhat unnecessary, you reckon– he has nothing on. He might not be tall anyway, but his marked, even, some would say, excessive, stoop exaggerates his lack of inches.

He is Donald Crane.

‘Come in, come in!’ he enthuses.‘You’re here for a boat, I take it? Come on through!’

Mr Crane leads you into his studio. You marvel at the sight of the one-man factory. The floor, which is the natural earth, is hidden under a medley of tools and workbenches. It is undeniably untidy; still, that can be excused. There are shelves of jars of epoxy and varnish. In addition to the completed boats against the walls, you can see the skeletons of several others. Planks of cedar queue up to be cut into strips. Some more paddles stand in a corner. You are oarstruck.

Impressed, you mumble: ‘I was, um, looking for a, um, you know, a kayak.’