The real world is a small cluster of fisher cottages close by the sea. There are perhaps a few hundred houses, scattered around a working dock that looks, I imagine, much the same as it did when navigation was a matter of tasting the water and spitting. A few paces inland of the quay is a little market square, runnelled and drained so that the blood and bones from the fishwives’ stalls can be washed into the sea in the afternoon. Fat gulls stroll along the outer wall, proud of their domain.