‘Take me to him, little piglet.’

Such were his whims. We left the path we’d been following and took a fork that led to the sty. He listened to the snufflings of the little ones with a smile on his face. Their huge mother lay on her side, making gruff corrections when they strayed to explore the mud. The pen was open to the sky at one end, but the sow lay in a covered corner: on top of the fence palings, a section of very neat weatherboard and roofing had been added to the uprights. It was low enough that my father was able to rest his hand on it as he leaned against the palings.

I was so diverted by the piglets, their ridiculous play, that I forgot about my father for just a moment. When I looked back at him his expression had changed to one of intense concentration, and his hands were running along the edges of the roof. He put his nose to the wet timbers and smelt them deeply. The air only smelt to me of the mud and the fresh, sharp manure of the animals. But something else occupied him here.

‘My darling,’ he said, ‘tell me about this structure.’

I looked at it helplessly: what was there to tell? ‘It’s a roof. About twelve, fourteen feet across. It has straight sides but a curve instead of a pitch.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Like a flattened arch, can you imagine that? The timberwork is very exact—the boards join very tight.’

‘A gambrel? A—er—mansard roof?’

‘No, curved.’

‘How tall are the sides?’

‘Not tall. Two feet, perhaps?’

‘How long is the entire structure?’

‘Oh, fifteen feet, maybe eighteen.’

‘Yes. And what fastens the timbers together?’

I came in close. ‘Um…copper nails.’

‘Any moss on it? Any lichen?’

I checked all sides of it. ‘No.’

Voices, the loud laughter of the tyereelore. They’d circled back to us. ‘Turn away from it,’ my father muttered under his breath. I did not understand his meaning at first, but I followed his lead. They reappeared around a bend in the path, their hair damp from the drizzle. Declan Connolly lumbered along holding the front of his shirt as a sling. It was filled with bright yellow fruit.

‘We are in luck,’ said Campbell happily. ‘Lemons!’

‘Come,’ said Munro. He was looking at us looking at the pig sty. ‘This will interest you.’ He led us across the back of his house, along a slight rise that overlooked the house and the sea, and the Moonbird weathering the gale. Out there she seemed forlorn, abandoned.