But it had been worth it. It was always worth it. The lough was cold, but the shock never lasted long. Neoprene sorted that. Wetsuit, gloves, socks and hat made it pretty snug, after the initial garrotting. Still not as cold as you’d think, for late November. Maybe the low cloud kept the ice at bay. And this place had a lot of low cloud.

Ireland was bullied by water. If it wasn’t swelling into loughs like this one, or pools or puddles, it was running off the hills, stagnant in the bogs, or coming at you, vertical and horizontal. A constant immersion, one way or the other.

A car was purring down the road, an opaque windscreen. Matty stepped to the verge as it slowed.

The driver’s window was already wound down. ‘This is private property.’ There was a challenge in the upturn of the last word. A man in his fifties, beaten-up brown leather waistcoat and tweed flat cap. Some woman singing opera on the radio.

Matty shrugged and looked up the hill. ‘Sorry, mate.’ No point in feigning ignorance after climbing the fence with the freshly painted sign.

He eyed the drybag, and the hair, all back to its bedspring coil apart from the darker, tapered ends. ‘Been swimming, have you, then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s mine, too. The water.’

Matty looked round at it, gave a slight nod. ‘Right.’ It’s mine.

‘I could sue you. Or shoot you.’ His voice was rich, liquidy. There was faint amusement in his expression. Possibly.

Hands, held up. ‘Whatever you like.’ A half-grin.

He chewed on something. ‘Well. Don’t darken my door again, you hear me?’ There was a sun-spark in his eye now. ‘I’ll get my gun out next time. Blow you to smithereens.’

Forefinger to outer eyebrow, the quickest salute. ‘No worries.’

The man gazed a little longer, eyes flicking down to the boots and up to the hair again, before giving a warm grunt, far back in his throat, and releasing the handbrake.

Matty watched the car roll smoothly down the tarmac and turned back to the hill.

Private your arse. There were loughs everywhere and Matty was going to swim in every last one of them. That was the reason for coming over here.

One of them.

Back in the camper van, Matty watched the windows steam up, holding a cup of tea, proper builder’s. The way Joe had always had it. Flash it the milk. Get done for indecency. Probably good to have a second. The chill of the lough was still there, under the skin.

It often took two teas to get warm, depending on how much of a walk back there was. Two of everything. Two pairs of socks, two swimming hats, a normal one underneath the thick one. Two hot-water bottles, two blankets as well as the duvet. It got toasty enough, most nights. If not, a proper room. A hot shower.