ack in 1972, I lived on my Norwegian pilot cutter in a mud berth at the top of the Hamble River. The plan was to sail away to distant seas but that had to wait until I’d paid off the debts incurred in buying the vessel of my dreams. In summer I’d sail her at every opportunity, but the lamp-lit winters were long and harsh, so the local pubs took up the slack. My spiritual home was The Jolly Sailor, where salts from the seven seas arrived by rowing dinghy to gather in the tiny
