Legend tells of a child that tumbled from the rear door of a 1968 wood-sided Ford Country Squire, barreling along the red roads of a Catskills summer; that vanished into the wild parsnip, its absence only noticed by Mr and Mrs Finn the following Thursday when young Danny failed to turn up at Mrs Hilson's for his Bach cantata. Dan Finn. Raised by Fisher Cats in the hills above Crescent Valley, escaped to Brooklyn on a raft made of knotweed stalks bound with ladies' smalls stolen from the Burns sisters' washing-line. The only convict known to have willingly returned to the scene of his incarceration. Dairy farmer, lead-guitarist and frontman, carpenter, beard-grower, backwoods libertine, pig-raiser, bull-whisperer, syrup-cooker, menopausal father and custodian of the wry Dan Finn smile that means either you're full of shit or he's full of beer. Swam upstream, leapt up waterfalls and fish-ladders - his tail pummeling the air like a propellor - to a limpid pool behind the Creamery, where he spawned and will now live out his dotage making babies and cheese. At last, Steve and Julian get to tickle the Leviathan of the Little Delaware.