The view was worth the climb. Beneath was the carpet of real estate, spilling all the way down to the sheet-steel glimmer of the sea, and to the left were the medieval towers of Grasse rising out of fields of olive trees. But beyond the ridge, in contrast to all the small-scale urban tangle, another landscape was revealed. There were peaks and jagged towers of rock here, grey and ink-blue in the shadows, and ochre or silver or warm peach in the strengthening sun. Birds wheeled round the exposed faces and traced punctuation marks against the sky. I turned my back on the valley and watched. Jack was completely still, but I could feel the thread of his concentration like a wire under tension. For maybe fifteen minutes we sat there until my attention began to wander.

I was shifting my position, realising how hard the rock was under my haunches, when Jack drew in a sharp breath. He jerked upright with his binoculars raised. I followed the direction of his gaze. Two huge birds soared across the rock face, quite close at hand. I saw the flash of white tails banded with black, domed heads briefly etched against the stone as they wheeled and rose again. Their wings were great broad spans, the tips heavily fingered. They lifted lazily and majestically above the cliff and into the blue space above. I watched until they were no more than black dots in infinity and my eyes stung in the bright light. Jack stood for seconds more, straining forward as if he could catch them.

As he lowered his binoculars again, he gave a deep sigh. And when he turned his face to me his eyes were shining with rapture.

‘What were they?’

‘They were golden eagles,’ he whispered. He looked incredulous and enchanted, as if he had been given the best present of his life. I was about to ask more questions but I managed to stop myself, to let him savour the moment in peace. The sun beat down on the tops of our heads.

After a moment Jack slipped his binoculars into the case. I understood that this had been the best moment and any other sightings could only be an anticlimax. We reversed our route down the rock band and he held out his hand to help me. I followed him down the slope and into the welcome shade of the woodland.

‘Have you seen a golden eagle before?’

His eyes were still brilliant as they held mine. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running. ‘You only get them in the north of Scotland.’

‘Did you know they were here?’

‘No. I didn’t really expect it. But you get … what is it? A feeling that something’s going to happen? Not with your brain, but under your skin and down your spine?’

‘A premonition.’

‘Yes,’ Jack said happily. ‘A premonition, that’s it.’