A bastion of rural idiocy down here by the Thames. A house full of cats, flutes, whistles, squeezeboxes and assorted stringed instruments.
Sometimes people come round and we play and sing. Sometimes we go out to session.
Life is generally pretty good.
`Such a rumpus everywhere!’ continued the Otter. `All the world seems out on the river to-day. I came up this backwater to try and get a moment’s peace, and then stumble upon you fellows!—At least—I beg pardon—I don’t exactly mean that, you know.’