My bre'r is passing the graving docks and spots smoke wafting up through the morning air. He sprints down to the pumphouse and catches an elderly gent by surprise. He's crouching in the middle of the hall, bent over a blaze, box of Scottish Bluebell on the floor of broken tiles.
"What you doing?" he demands.
"Aw mate, it's fine. Just burnin aff the plastic tae get the wires oot," he says, holding aloft a melting cable.
Since the undergrowth was cleared from the dock, it's hard to find any cover for traditional riverside activities.