WHEN THE boat came in, and the skipper lit her flares and started bounding around as if on some monstrous trampoline, the Falmouth school samba band let rip with half a dozen none-too-Brazilian snare drums and a polyglot roar went up from the crowd of thousands that everyone said would be there, and was.
Never mind the rain. Never mind it being a Tuesday morning four weeks into term time. We were there and we won’t have to tell our children we were there because they were there too, and my guess is they’ll remember it.
“Ellenmacarthur” is the first five-syllable word in my three-year-old’s vocabulary.
Four days earlier, as the latest, greatest sailor of them all was still becalmed in the Azores, contemplating the