ate in the summer of 1991 my family and I were homeward bound from the traditional boat gathering at Risør in southern Norway with , our 1911 Bristol Channel pilot cutter. The coast thereabouts is wall-to-wall rocks, with cliff-side berthing in tiny natural harbours. The day was far gone when we noticed the mast of a serious boat rising from behind a rocky island, gleaming in the evening sunlight. We ventured carefully in, and against the granite edge of the island lay the perfect yacht. At first sight she looked
