IN 1972 I wrote a piece ‘in the cool of an August midday’ concerning the dog‐days of my boyhood. It was mostly about blazing heatwaves and eggs being fried on the pavement. I also mentioned a freebooting trawler skipper, Dod Orsborne, who instead of following the prescribed course for the Icelandic fishing grounds, did an about‐turn and headed for the sunshine and, ultimately, eighteen months in gaol.
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