Standing in a Scottish seaside village, I am confronted by two smart red doors and a curious figure standing in a niche above them: a man, one hand clutching a staff, the other shading his eyes as he gazes out to sea. There’s a flintlock pistol in his belt and he’s dressed in tattered rags. Is it a tribute to locals who survived a night out in Kirkcaldy? No, there is a weathered plaque that I can just read: “In memory of Alexander Selkirk, mariner, the original of Robinson Crusoe …”
