When Will takes my hand in his, that sting becomes worse. ‘It’s machair. Dune grassland formed by sand and broken shells blown from the beach. In a few weeks it’ll be even lovelier. Whole place turns into a carpet of wildflowers.’

I let go his hand, self-consciously laugh. ‘This is definitely more magical than Glasgow bloody Airport.’

I can hear the sea again once we’ve crossed the meadow and reached the nearest bluff. Its whole interior flank is punched full of holes, some as small as a fist, others as large as a dinner plate; some shallow, others deep enough to be impenetrably black. And everywhere – absolutely everywhere – jump small brown rabbits.

‘Dune systems are magnets for warrens. Though I think this place is probably the rabbit equivalent of Mecca.’ Will smiles. ‘Or Magaluf.’

The bluff is steep, and close to the top the wind begins whipping around my head, pulling my hair and watering my eyes. Will helps me up the last few feet and I keep holding his hand even though I no longer need to, as I look down at another deserted beach of pure white sand and clear turquoise water, the Atlantic stretching flat to the horizon.

‘Big Beach.’ Will rubs his thumb over the back of my hand softly enough to make me let go. ‘No one comes here much because it’s so far west. Swimming’s a lot more dangerous with the currents and riptides, but I love it. This way. There’s an easy path down.’

The sand dunes are just as deep and soft as on Long Stride, and by the time we reach the harder-packed sand close to the shore, I’m exhausted and sweating. Big distant waves crest and break in roars, rolling inland beneath crowns of spray and white spume whipped high by the wind.

‘Two thousand miles of absolutely nothing but ocean until Newfoundland, not even a satellite island.’ Will turns from the horizon, reaches out to tug on my completely wrecked hair. ‘Gets a wee bit windy.’

I move back out of his reach, pretend I don’t see the flicker in his eyes when I do. Because I can’t do this; I can’t let myself feel this: lust, and worse, like. I’m in recovery. This time I can’t – I won’t – rely on anyone else again until I’ve relearned how to rely on myself.

‘So,’ I say, starting to walk along the vast shoreline. ‘How did you end up moving here?’

He lets me off the hook, falling into easy step alongside me. ‘We were living in Kenilworth after my dad bailed when I was a toddler. Mum met Euan in Glasgow on holiday, clocked he was a man of means straightaway. And when he told her he was landed gentry and a widower, that was it, apparently.’ He laughs at my expression. ‘What? She’s very resourceful, my mum.

‘A few years after they got married, I was packed off to boarding school with my stepbrother, Iain – hated it worse than Nicholas Nickleby. Euan’s first wife died giving birth to Iain. He resented the hell out of me and my sister, Heather. Mum too. Still does.’