‘We must prepare for a long wait,’ said Domenica. ‘Angus, I suggest that you take Antonia to a café and get a coffee. I shall keep our place in the queue and then I can nip off for coffee when you return.’

Angus and Antonia walked off. Domenica, standing in the line of people that already snaked out of the sheltering loggia, looked at her fellow art lovers. She amused herself for a while speculating on the nationality of those about her. There was an American couple, neatly turned out but laden with equipment: water bottles, umbrellas, waterproof ponchos, folding stools, and so on. They would be comfortable, thought Domenica; which was what she had always felt lay at the heart of the American dream – comfort. And there was nothing wrong with that; after all, a civilisation that sought discomfort would be peculiar indeed.

And in front of that American couple was a small group of Germans, each immersed in a guidebook. Seriousness of purpose, thought Domenica, and again she thought that there was nothing wrong with that; Europe needed German gravitas.

Behind them, a gaggle of Italian teenagers, preening themselves, fiddling with mobile phones, texting each other although they were only a few yards apart; the need to be part of a group, she thought; to be reassured. Which was how we all felt at sixteen; and still did, of course, but in a rather different way.

74. In Proper Boots

Back in Scotland, Stuart and Bertie swept along the Biggar Road as it skirted the slopes of the Pentlands. ‘Do you think there are any fish in the loch, Daddy?’ Bertie asked.

‘Certainly, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Trout. Large trout.’

‘Perhaps we’ll catch them then,’ said Bertie.

‘I think that’s highly likely,’ said Stuart. ‘Especially if you …’ and here he lowered his voice, ‘especially if you use a worm, Bertie.’

‘But I thought we had to use flies,’ said Bertie.

‘Not if you’re under seven, Bertie. You can use worms if you’re under seven. And I got hold of some. Big, fat, juicy worms. Trout can’t resist them, Bertie.’

They were now approaching the turn-off to the Flotterstone Inn, and Stuart slowed the car down. ‘Flotterstone,’ he said. ‘This is where we park the car and start to walk.’

They parked under a tree a couple of hundred yards from the inn. Stuart extracted the rods and the fishing bag from the back, and they both set off, Bertie holding on to his father’s free hand, his chest out, his head held high. As they made their way up the reservoir road, the crows flew up in strident protest from the bordering fields.