Take a look out of the window; do you see those rocks, just to the north of Herm island? Six nautical miles. Even in bad weather, it is a trip of no more than forty minutes. With the current, you could probably swim it in a reasonable time. You would certainly be able to reach the island of Herm in less than thirty.

It was out there on those rocks where my boat, the Elicia, ran aground, and what I am about to tell you happened.

No doubt you have heard rumours about me. I will leave it to you to work out which ones are true and which are not – I hate to disappoint. On this occasion, however, you have the luxury of hearing it from the horse’s mouth.

I have friends in Spain who needed my help. Naturally not everyone is happy with the fact that I run guns – oh come on, do not act shocked that I admit this openly. Apart from a couple of old ladies in St.Malo, it must be one of the worst kept secrets around these parts. It is with the British Royal Navy that I have the most bother. They are always keen to stop me at every opportunity. They have the notion that I emptied out an armoury of theirs in Southampton. Ah – I see from the look on your face that you have heard that story.

Those Royal Navy chaps can put a shiner on a good day so I do my best to avoid them, which normally means moving at night; as indeed it was, when I was returning from my little mercy trip.

The Elicia was a Scottish wooden fishing trawler. The guise of being such a craft, I’m certain has helped many a time.

I was coming up from the south of Herm island, when I got a signal that there was a navy boat in dock. While it was the small hours and I had an empty cargo hold, as I said, the British can put a shiner on a good day. I decided instead to take my boat out of view of the harbour for the following reason: those Brits can be quite observant. While it would not be uncommon for them to see a fishing boat out at that time, it would be odd to see one without its nets out, ready to go, or without a hull full of fish.

A swell was beginning to build up as I went to put the crane arms out for the nets. It then all happened in a flash. There was a guide cable which ran through the pulley on the arm to a gear on the engine which, when engaged, should have pulled the nets along and out onto the arms. What happened however was that, less than a second from engaging the gear, I found myself hanging upside down with the bottom of my left leg oilskin trousers caught in the pulley.

I did not realise immediately, but my foot had been crushed in the pulley. I felt no pain at first, which I put down to adrenaline. I did try to reach up to the crane arm, but the swaying action from the swell made this nigh on impossible. I watched helplessly as the boat came stern-to onto those rocks.

Where the sun should have been rising in the sky, tall black clouds were forming. I knew no one would be venturing out today, and that any hope of being spotted was gone. Before the rain came, a wave, accompanied by a roar, dislodged the Elicia and began to thrash her about between the rocks. I could see through the centre hatch, she was beginning to take on water. It was then that I realised I was either going to be dragged down or be lambasted against the rocks.

On my belt I carry a knife – you will find most fisherman do. Perfect for geting the hook out of a fish, but not much else. I had a notion of trying to save as much as my leg as possible, and tried to haul myself up, to cut my leg above the ankle, but the sea had other ideas.

The first cut was the most painful. I had to muster considerable strength to get the knife to break the skin, and when it was no more than an inch in, a violent wave caused me to rip the knife upwards – that is pain.

I was going to light a cigarette as a distraction. Instead, I ended up biting down on the entire packet as blood, rain and seawater flowed down me.

It felt like great pockets of heat were escaping me, as I forced the knife crudely through the flesh. The tendons, while tough to cut, I do not remember causing me much pain. I was part fascinated and part distracted, as when cutting through one of them I felt the muscles in the back of my leg tighten then let go.

The Elicia was sitting below her water line by the time I got to the bone. The temperature had dropped and the heavens had joined in on my punishment. The packet of cigarettes had now become pulp, but it was a welcome distraction when the acrid nicotine filled my mouth as I began to saw.

I didn’t have to saw far, as a combination of my weight and the swaying did the rest. In the water, and the right way up, I felt my body began to drain. I don’t know how much blood I lost, but I have a vague memory of using my belt as a torniquet while I was in the water.

The next thing I remember was awakening on the beach of Herm, where I was rescued later that day. For those hours I was on the island, I watched the crane arm bob before finally vanishing – a moment I marked by mustering what strength I had left and burying the knife in the sand.

I say, what a marvellous club you have here. I wonder, how does one become a member?

Oh I see. No, quite understand, a school tie is a school tie after all. What a pity, I do like the way you only have to sign for your drinks. But rules are rules, I suppose, and it has never been said that Tiberius O’Donnell is one to go against conformity. Which reminds me of a little hooyah I had back in October. Did I ever tell you about the foreign-looking fellow?

Well, I will begin – as soon as one of you chaps has been a pal and signed us a scotch.

I had travelled down to a small village called Brixham in Torquay for their annual harvest festival. Why such a long way? I hear you ask. I am not ashamed to admit, it’s for the Reverend Edmund-Davis’ most delicious homemade cider. I always buy two barrels of the stuff every year. One for my household staff – for they deserve it, after all – and I keep one barrel shamelessly all to myself.

I had travelled down by train – roll on the day when one can catch a Zeppelin – and arrived at 7pm. I had booked into a most charming inn called the Bull and Bullock. It was here on my first night that my tale begins, for it was then that I became aware that something was afoot…

I was playing the piano and leading the bar in a good old sing-song of Two Lovely Black Eyes. I noticed this fellow sitting at the bar, all alone, who was not joining in. There was also something not quite right about the cut of his jib…

There were others who were not singing as well, but by the time I broke into Where Did You Get That Hat?, everyone in the pub had joined in, even if it was a simple tap of the glass. But not him.

The next morning I went to the village fête, ready to purchase my cider from the vicar. When I got to his stall, however, I noticed he was not as cheery as he had been in previous years. On enquiring, I found out that his sales were quite low this year, which was a bother as the church roof needed repairing.

I decided that as a good gesture I would double my order this year – I would have ordered more but I don’t think my man could have carried it. I spent the rest of the morning walking round the fête looking for a coconut to toss, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the foreign-looking fellow loitering with a couple of ragamuffins. You know the sort, the type who doesn’t polish his shoes and never has a flower in his button.

Later that day, whilst enjoying a fine cream tea, I overheard two ladies behind me discussing the price of gin. Something bothered me about their conversation which I could not quite put my finger on.

I went for an afternoon walk along the cliffs, my head filled with thoughts of the man who did not know the words to Where Did You Get That Hat?, and hangs around with undesirables; of the reverend’s cider sales being down; and the two women talking about the price of gin. It then struck me why their conversation lingered in my cranial matter. My Mammy always told me that I should make it my business to always be aware of the price of things. A bottle of gin is normally a florin, two shillings and sixpence. I have heard that one can procure it for as little as two shillings, but the quality is questionable. The ladies in the tea room were talking about one shilling a bottle. It suddenly all began to make sense – smugglers.

That night back at the inn, after leading the patrons in another hearty sing-a-long, I noticed the foreign-looking fellow there again at the bar. At about ten o’ clock he slipped out the side door. Making my excuses, I too slipped out and followed him. Annoyingly, it was halfway through a chorus of The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.

Keeping my distance, I followed him to the bay of St Mary’s, where I observed him flashing a light out to sea – a signal that I had to do something, and quick. Last summer I had read the Art of War, and I remembered reading that all warfare was based on deception. I ran back to the Bull and Bullock and asked for a lamp and the village constable. This was met with the reply: “We don’t know that one, but if you start singing it, we’ll join in.” Pro di immortales!

I raced back to the cliffs. I stood near a spot where I knew there to be the most frightful rocks in the water, and began flashing. Out at sea I watched a lone light begin to zig-zag as the captain of the ship throwed between the two lights. From my vantage point I could see the foreign-looking fellow looking most bemused. He could not see me. It wasn’t long before there was an almighty crash as the boat ran aground.

By now the local constable had arrived, and the people from the pub had come to see what all the noise was about.

As we all congregated on the beach I said:

“Reverend, I have solved the mystery of your low sales, for it was smugglers. Constable, I believe if you look over there, you will find a foreign-looking fellow hiding. Oh, and people of Brixham, you should be ashamed of yourselves. You would rather save a shilling, than support your local community. Well bully for you, for the vicar’s juices are most pleasant.”

As the constable arrested the foreign fellow, I said, “And you, you scallywag, from what land do you come?”

“The Isle of Wight,” he replied. I knew it!