At last, the island was there.
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At last, the island was there, only two miles of ocean now stood between him and his goal. He walked to the end of the old disused pier just as the fog was lifting. A solitary figure, fishing rod in hand, was sitting on the pier - legs and line dangling over the edge. He reminded the visitor of a gnome in a neighbour's garden back home in England. "Not much happening mate," he said to the old man, "Where do I catch the ferry to that island?" "You're much too late for the ferry, Sir, been no ferry from here for these past ten years, and I think it took all the fish along with it, "he replied in his Irish accent, while spitting in disgust at his lack of success in catching his supper. Most visitors had trouble with the local tongue, but this visitor had...


