One sunny morning before breakfast, Samuel Pickwick leant over the balustrade of Rochester Bridge, gazing out across the busy River Medway. His eye followed the course of the water-stained defences along the riverbank, green with weed, up to the ruinous masonry of the mediaeval castle rising behind them.

From the castle, Mr Pickwick’s gaze strayed to the countryside on either side of the river, dotted with farms and windmills. Then his attention returned to the river, where watermen were already hard at work, their oars plashing in the smooth waters of the Medway, until he was jerked from his thoughts by a tap upon his shoulder.

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