The ferry’s engine cuts to a purr as it slides alongside the wooden pontoon and Cara waits her turn to climb ashore. No sooner has she stepped down on to the sand than she pauses to slip off one shoe, then the other. The tide is making, but above the high-water mark the sand is soft between her toes. Carrying her shoes, she walks along the beach and then perches on a rocky outcrop. In all the thirty years since her older brother, Max, bought the house in Buckley Street, it seems to Cara that Salcombe never changes. Time is irrelevant. Sitting here she is able to imagine that she is not alone, that Philip might come strolling along the beach, that she has not sold their house in London and that she still has somewhere to live.

The waves ripple along the sand and, on her second impulse of the morning, Cara bends forward, rolls up her jeans and gets to her feet. She walks down the beach and treads cautiously into the water. It is warm on her bare skin and she stands, feeling it ebb and flow around her ankles, watching a dinghy being rowed out to one of the yachts at anchor further up the river.

Presently she will put on her shoes and catch the ferry back to Salcombe, to Buckley Street; back to Max and breakfast. Just for this moment, however, she will remain caught up in her memories; listening to the cry of the sea birds, the hush of the sea, and the sounds of Salcombe waking up across the river.

Cosmo Trent drives slowly in these steep, narrow lanes behind Salcombe. This is not because he is nervous, but because he has discovered that through nearly every farm gateway, or round an unexpected bend in a lane, a photographic opportunity might be revealed. Here is one. A miracle of composition. Cosmo brakes and reverses to find the exact perspective. Between high banks of alder, thorn and hazel, the brackish waters of a narrow creek flow right up to the lane’s edge. On the bank above the creek a house is almost hidden by the trees but a flight of steps leads down to a landing stage. A wooden footbridge spans the stream and on the far bank, amongst the reeds, a sign has been thrust into the mud: ‘Private. No fishing’. A small dinghy, which has floated upstream of its mooring, is now wedged by the rising tide beneath the rickety footbridge. Beyond this scene, downstream, a swan is sailing gracefully towards the wider reaches of the estuary.

As he sits, turned sideways to look through the passenger window, Cosmo is aware of a movement in the back of the car. He glances round to see Reggie watching him. Framed by his long, floppy ears, his brown spaniel’s eyes manage to look both patient and reproachful.