A grizzled old fisherman, his dark hair shot through with patches of grey, ventures out of the boathouse and saunters over to the party. He stands there, blinking through the rain. "I suppose you're wantin' a boat, then? Here we are." He strolls over to a line of boats along the river's edge. "Here, this one be yours." He points towards a rowboat. "Fine evening to be out, though." He shrugs and walks back towards the house.
*****
Nearly twenty minutes later, the small skiff makes landfall on The Rock. The way it got its name is immediately apparent - the isle is little more than a rock outcropping surrounded by high grass and thin trees.