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Harland Miller is ravenous. Following a morning swim, he has just ambled the few miles from the sea to his 16th-century cottage in Norfolk. Fat sizzles as he fries tomatoes, bacon and huge blue duck eggs in his outdoor kitchen. Swims are a regular feature of his days, but, he says, they aren’t without incident. Running his hand through his fulsome locks, leaning back as he flips the bacon, the 61-year-old artist says that earlier this year strong currents swept him off course and threw him…
