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 “Sir ‘Umby, I gone got a feelin, a feelin in my middle bit, that we shud be goin to beachy place,” struggles Bobbins, all gums and tongue.

Since I realised he could speaketh, (although his grasp of the present continuous remaineth poor, I’faith), my manslave Bobbins hast become, in a fashion, our spiritual leader. ‘Tis not ideal, but the five Nymphs’ strength fades with each passing second (wherein my pocket they rest), and the strange box of gold grows ever more dim and weighty. I haveth little choice but to trust him. ‘Tis Bobbins’ most sublimest feelings of the gut that hath brought us here, to Mui Wo, (from Central Ferry, Pier Sixuth).

My horse Dan’s legs are wobbliest as we steppeth from the boat. Bobbins halts. He closes his eye flaps, and inhales a deep and dizzying breath through his broad, hairiest snot-box. His eyes flasheth open, and turning right, a’looking toward the beach, he raises his twig-finger and points to a colourful shack at the farthest end of the distant sands. “There!” he urges, and hobbles off with speed, past a sea of bicycles.

What heavenly quiet rules here! ‘Tis by far the quietest, most relaxed beach I have been to in Hong Kong. Less peasants, lake-like swimming, and brightest of sands. The only sound to challenge the melodies of dogs yapping and children laughing is the hellish bellow of the Lord of the Sands, who dost exclaim, in a three-tongued assault, “Don’t play with balls etc”. ‘Tis blood-boiling, and most unnecessary. Typicali Hongkongus Stylus.

We ascend some dusty grey steps, a hog’s throw from the beach. A longest balcony stretches forth atop the stairs, home to around five or six tables, all with unparalleled views of deserted sea and beach. Inside, a chilldest magazine table, a rufty bar and some tables. We are greeted first by around three most friendliest doggies (all rescued), who surround and sniff in welcome.

 If one wants a day at the beach, with friends or the youngsters, polished off with welcoming, uber-chilldest drinkies watching the sunset, I can think not of a finer tavern than this. I’faith, to my mind, tis one of the finest eateries around, everything lovingly home-madeus, and served in cockle-warming portions for cheap, (kebabs and fish straight from the BBQ and moussaka are peasant-pleasers, mains around $100 with free sea-viewus). Sipping forth a beer, the sun descending, dragonflies dance affront the blue sky, and Bobbins searches for the Nymphs. Four dragonflies suddenly swoop too near, causing me slight alarm. I draweth my sword to swat them!

Breathlessly, one struggleth to speak, “Baggott…has our sisters…go East”.