Taxpayers, sadly, will never be intruders here. This fractured corner among the crabs and curlews, where black mud clings to the feet of leaping boys. Each take their turn, a long run-up, judging the length of their steps so that their last is as close to the precipice as possible. Then an ecstatic sailing through the air, to inevitably fall short and plunge into the mire.
But, eventually, there always comes a time where they achieve that opposite bank, and when they do they never leap here again.