The road that takes you away from Oldton to the south must, at some point, go over a river that feeds the Broads.

It is there that Bob remembers the kissing gate, where dark things happened, accounting perhaps for a disappearance or two. There too I imagine children liked to squish their feet in the mud, squelching out morse-code like messages of farewell.

One assumes that the river must lead out to sea, and perhaps at the estuary there is a harbour, from where we were meant to set out with Dad's ashes. None of this is on my map, but I deduce that Sue must have caught an Oldton tour boat from a harbour somewhere. And Ann's kittewakes do need somewhere to nest.