Mr Crane nods and smiles, and says: ‘Have a look around. Take your time. Don't be afraid to ask if you need any help.’

There is, you gradually become aware, something unusual about him, and the way he uses his cane makes you realise what it is: the man is blind.

In the dim light, you glance around at the wares on show, wondering which to investigate further.

‘Would you be after anything in particular?’ Mr Crane asks.

‘I, er, I’d like something reliable. Something seaworthy. Something I can trust.’

‘Like these, perhaps?’ Mr Crane suggests, indicating some boats to his right.

You follow his arm. ‘Everything here is very well made.’ You cannot hide your admiration. ‘Do you do it all yourself?’

‘I do,’ Mr Crane replies.

You notice the efficient way the geriatric manages to navigate around the articles cluttering the floor. He barely seems to need his stick. Perhaps he too, like his boats, is a bat.

‘I’m not totally blind,’ Mr Crane points out, apparently reading your thoughts. Then he admits: ‘I have trouble with the fiddly bits, because of my arthritis. The wife, God bless her, says I shouldn’t do it any more since my heart attack –don’t worry; it wasn’t serious. But I couldn’t give it up. A man has to earn a crust somehow, and, besides, I’ve being doing this all my life. It is my life.’

‘How long have you been in this job?’ you ask.

‘How long have I been in this job?’ your host repeats. He pauses. ‘How long have I been in this job, dear?’ he calls in the direction of his wife, who is evidently in the other room.

‘How old are you?’ she calls back. She sounds, if anything, even older than her husband. Her voice is wrinkled and its greyish-white hair is thinning badly. You do not wish to be seen looking too closely, but it probably has varicose veins.

‘Ninety-seven, aren’t I? Or is it ninety-eight? Oh dear,’ he says, turning back to you apologetically. ‘I can never remember. Old people, eh!’ He gives a rueful, self-deprecating chuckle, and shakes his head.