We approach the Maylands Boatyard Halti harnessed to check my girl’s excited bounce lest her compulsive will to investigate causes chaos amongst the props and hulls and sculls and flip flap sheets.

We pick our way past "Yankee Girl", "Sister Kate" and a tethered salty dog or two, with Matti’s darting gaze glancing hither then thither like a minnow in a shoal. "Captain Chaos" is someone’s unruly dream. Should it ever, by massive, misguided effort of will, migrate to ruly reality this ancient yard would lose its reason for being. Like my brindle beauty’s striking head, it is a repository of dreams – a dreambank on the winding neck of the Swan.

We leave the yard, pausing to take stock of rusting winches and broken concrete piles that whisper of former glories.