Call me Fishpail. Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having tired of the comforts of domesticity, and with nothing particular to bind me to my human home, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. Making my way to the Grand Union Canal I fell in with a couple of humans, ‘retired’ they called themselves, who were traversing the waterways during the summer months. They wanted a pet and I put up with them because the food was rich and plentiful, and I was able  to learn the ways of the water. Come autumn, with its chill and dark evenings, they tied their boat up at Oxford and went home. When they called for me to go with them I hid. For days and then weeks I searched for another berth. Autumn was turning to winter. I tramped the towpath from Oxford to Wendover and back. A cold coming I had of it, just the worst time of the year for a journey, …