‘God.’ I look down at those weatherworn swirls and scrolls. ‘That’s awful.’

‘Aye, well.’ Charlie clears his throat. ‘Sometimes, awful’s part of living.’

Bonny lets out a low whine, and Charlie bends over, scratches her ears. ‘You been down to Tràigh Shearrag yet, Maggie?’

‘Where?’

He straightens, points down to that invisible space where the wind still howls and whistles between this headland and Longness. ‘Long Stride Beach. I’ll take you down, if you like?’

I battle to keep my hood up as the wind changes direction again, shoves me sideways. ‘I don’t think—’

‘Ach, away,’ Charlie says, with a bark of laughter. ‘No one tell you, if you don’t like the weather in the Outer Hebrides, give it a minute?’ He turns and heads back into the fog. ‘Time and tide wait for no man. And that dog’s never come across a stone, memorial or no, that she hasn’t fancied pissing against, given half a chance. Bonny, come.’

*

Charlie’s right. By the time we round Ardcraig and clamber down the path to the grass bluffs beyond, the rain has stopped and the fog has lifted. Even the wind is calmer. Charlie’s surprisingly sprightly; he and Bonny climb up onto the bluff’s summit and wait for me to catch up. He reaches down and hauls me up beside him with ease.

The beach below us is deserted. An unexpected paradise of white sand and turquoise sea beneath a vast blue bowl of sky and low-rolling puffs of cloud. There’s no evidence at all of the rainstorm we just battled our way through. The sun comes out as we clamber down through grass and then dunes so deep, I sink almost to my knees in places.

Bonny races away with joyful abandon, leaving tracks in the otherwise untouched sand.

‘’Course, it’s a bit busier in the summer,’ Charlie says, without a trace of irony. ‘You could probably go swimming in a few weeks, if you’re so inclined. Gulf Stream keeps the Atlantic pretty warm close to this coast, even in winter.’ He nods towards the small island I saw from the headland. ‘Eilean Beag breaks up most of the currents and rip tides.’

‘It’s beautiful here.’

‘Aye.’ Charlie sits down on the sand and looks across to where Bonny is running towards a white-frothing wave, before taking fright and racing back to dry land. ‘Daft dug.’

He reaches inside his anorak, brings out a steel hip flask, and takes a long swallow. When I sit down beside him, he hesitates before passing the flask to me. Despite his interest, there’s a coldness to him, a detachment that’s not unfriendly, but there all the same. As if he and I were different species and the gulf between us too great to even attempt to bridge.

‘Navy rum. Always been a fisherman first and a Scotsman second.’

It tastes marginally better than Kelly’s whisky. If nothing else, perhaps it will dilute the hangover I woke up with.

‘Eilean Beag,’ I say, looking at the little island. ‘What does it mean?’