Summers as a child were spent building dens. Dens in the woodland of Fife or upon tiny, small specs of land almost entirely immersed in water in Varmland, Sweden. I am not sure whether such a mound would be classified as an island but as a young child rowing upto this otherwise unreachable land, its size in comparison to my small frame certainly deserved the title. Those summers were pretty wonderful. My sister and I would stay in an old converted boat house at the edge of the lake. I remember washing our faces each morning with fresh water collected from the lake with a tin pitcher which was then poured into a matching ewer. A short run up the track to the main house for breakfast and then our days adventures would begin. Forraging for all kinds of weird and wonderful plant life to heave aboard our canoe and take onto our island to form our special two-week hideout.