I can’t help feeling sorry for golfers, tennis players and the rest. For quality and quantity, marine literature stands alone, particularly with books from ‘the golden age’.
Last Sunday the rain was making a fair imitation of Noah’s flood, so I stayed in and read the paper. After 10 minutes I’d lost the will to live, consigned the newsprint to fire-lighting duties and sidled over to the bookshelves. There, flanked by Claud Worth and Eric Hiscock, was a battered 1921 first edition of by B Heckstall-Smith. By today’s standards, the publication is a rough job and in a gale with the King, Sir Philip Hunloke and Queen Mary, I knew I had struck solid gold.
