On Saturday, I met the doctor, an Irishman with a dry sense of humour and an even drier single-handed punt. The latter was of the open — or Essex — variety, locally known as a ‘showt’, and despite being, as my surgeon friend described it, “a bit cranky,” was sound and would float in a pint of mild, thus being just the means of entry to those areas coveted by, but most of the time unapproachable to, the shore-shooter, however long his boots. No two showts are identical, and even before I confirmed my opinion, I knew where I had last seen this punt.
On a bright September morning of another year, I was completing the last stages of an arduous creek-crawl and,
