Stuart’s dark humour surfaces…
Three days of fog and endless trek…
Suddenly the mists cleared to reveal a shrouded figure struggling with his boat.
“Sprung a leak, dammit,” he said scratching within the folds of his hood.
The sound of bone on bone.
“…Course, you normally have to pay,” he said,” eyeing me and chuckling, “but as you’ll be crossing under your own steam…”
I looked down at two large pennies in my hand.
“…you can keep ’em.”
A low chuckle again rang out…
The thin, black draped arm, was theatrically withdrawn to reveal the stones.
On the far-bank the sun was rising.