The place: Woodbridge, Suffolk, England. A picturesque river pranked with a myriad masts and tinkling with tapping halyards. Beside which stand a collection of tall weatherboarded sheds. Eversons Boatyard.
In the gathering dusk of a Sunday evening in August, two pairs of feet crunch on the loose gravel in the yard that can be glimpsed behind the buildings. Monstrous shapes, some enveloped in rustling tarpaulins, loom out of the gloom. The owners of the two pairs of feet halt beside one of these.
“Here she is,” says the shorter of the two figures. It’s hard to see the reaction of the other. Over the gentle evening zephyrs an acute listener may have heard a sound possibly like a faint gasp.
The taller of the two walks slowly, with reverence, towards a tarpaulin covered monster. She (which we now infer from her profile) reaches out a tentative hand and touches the side of the shape before her.
“My… Boat!” we hear in a breathless whisper.
