My father was once again reluctant to go but, as Mr Borrie was his Old Man, he was more or less faced with a three-line whip. Consequently, one winter's Saturday afternoon at thirteen hundred hours sharp, we and a party of about two dozen set off in a naval launch for the fishing village of Tung Chung on the northern coast of Lan Tau. I was the only child present. The outing guidelines had precluded those under sixteen because a good deal of walking would be involved, but my mother said I was probably fitter than half the adults and won the argument. This inevitably annoyed my father. 'It states quite clearly in the rules, Joyce—' 'Bugger the rules!' my mother retorted. 'Well, if the boy lags behind,' my father declared, 'you'll be the one to stay with him. If the two of you get lost in the mountains, be it on your own head.' 'I'll take that risk,' my mother retorted. 'It's hardly the Himalayas. We're not likely to get caught out by a blizzard.' Progress had passed the village of Tung Chung by.
