“Not at all. We’re just a bunch of amateurs having a wee bit of a hit-around.”

Having eventually agreed to play, Dan found out later from a knowledgeable, though clearly inebriated, aficionado of the sport over an evening drink in the Nevisview public bar that even those who played for the teams that made up the Marine Harvest National Premier League were of amateur status. He was also informed that, five years previously, Ronnie Macaskill, that unassuming and mild-mannered individual who had sweet-talked him into playing, had been the centre forward for Kingussie, and that during the time that he had worn their colours, the team had walked away with the prestigious Glemorangie Camanachd Cup no fewer than three times. What’s more, he had represented Scotland twice in the annual Shinty Hurling International against Ireland.

It was therefore quite understandable that the following Saturday, Dan’s nerves were jangling to such an extent that he was forced to have a number of unscheduled stops at the side of the road on the way from the cottage to the playing field in Fort William. As he nonchalantly viewed the beauty of the surrounding countryside while being stared at by the occupants of passing cars, he wished that he could have had a fraction of the youthful enthusiasm for the forthcoming battle displayed by his bandana-headed son who sat sucking his teeth in the car, desperate to get to the field of conflict and to get stuck in to the opposition.

Having given his team a pep talk that started with a secretive message on tactics and crescendoed into a motivational war cry, Ronnie broke free from the huddle of players and walked over to Dan, who was standing by the touchline, leaning on a caman, his designated weapon for the day, staring open-mouthed towards one end of the pitch.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing his caman at the gigantic goal.

“That’s the tadhal—the goal.”

“But it’s bigger than the bloody gates of Buckingham Palace!”

“Not quite. It measures about twelve foot by ten foot.”

“Ronnie, that’s one hundred and twenty square feet! How the hell am I meant to stop the ball from going in there?”

“Well, there would be three ways, actually. You can either ‘cleek’ it with your caman, slap it away, or stop it with your open hand.”

Dan shook his head in desperation at Ronnie’s calculated misunderstanding of his complaint. “Thanks, Ronnie.”

“Oh, and you can stop the ball with your foot, if you like, but you’re not allowed to swing a boot at it”—he let out a chuckle of a laugh—“nor at any of your opponents, for that matter.”

Dan let out a resigned sigh. “Right, I suppose I’d better get ready, then.”

Ronnie gave him an encouraging pat on the back. “Aye, a good idea, lad. Take a couple of turns around the pitch to get warmed up.”