A scattering of moored boats, recently returned, surrounded the wreck. Men in their brooks — heavy cotton pants worn over their trousers — crawled over the decks. Shouts of frustration and warning issued from weathered faces. Baskets of fish were raised to eager arms and run to the harbourfront to await sorting. From the way they were being carried, it was evident the whitefish were shy for this time of year. She’d hoped the poor drave, as the fishing season was known, that had struck the town before she left had ended. Clearly not. It explained why the ships that called Pittenweem port, the Mary and the George, were not to be seen. Neither was her father’s large boat… nae, her boat, the Mistral. The crew were taking their chances up north in Stornaway. She sent a swift prayer to the sea gods to keep the men dry and safe and make the terrible risks they took worth it. Though Sorcha could not reconcile how a good catch and the coin that followed ever compensated for a life.

Scrawny children ran hither and thither betwixt rocks, sand and waterfront, their caps and scarves blown off by a malicious squall, the young ones too intent on helping their elders to pay heed to lost clothing. One cap tumbled along the dock, sending a coven of gulls screeching into the air.

Directly to her left, clustered in an arc around the harbour like watchful sentinels, were the fishermen’s houses. Not even the whitewashed exteriors and pantile roofs could quite disguise the dirt and mud, the cracks and holes, the havoc the contrary seas and passionate tempests wreaked upon the walls and windows. Just like the harbour, no one could afford to repair their dwellings, not when every last penny was spent feeding hungry mouths. Funny, she’d never noticed before how mean the place looked. Dark smoke coughed from chimneys, a couple of shutters swung loose. Fishing nets, ropes and an assortment of hooks, cogs, lines and empty creels grew like an untamed hedgerow by each peeling door. It was as if by going away for a time she was able to see her home through the eyes of a stranger. But no incomer would feel as she did as she drank in the sight, the people, the odours, the sounds. Memories unfurled. As sharp as the white walls, as blood-red as the tiles upon the roofs, as shrill as the cries of the terns; they were stark reminders of what she’d left behind.

To what she’d returned.