A Sunday constitutional along the lane behind our home revealed what I had long suspected. There it was, the steaming crock at the rainbow’s end. Could “Grail” be the ancients’ term for shit. I can imagine the Arthurian hero, having finally tracked down this elusive Grail , turning to his squire and mumbling in his despair and disillusionment that it was “Wholly shit” and then dropping dead. Chinese whispers would have started leading to the mediaeval oath “Holy Shit”. And how on earth did gold find its way into the crock? “All that glisters is not gold” is majestic in its appositeness, as it is so often nothing but glistering shit.