The old priest’s house sat up on the hill overlooking Charlie’s beach, just before the curve of the road, where the single track led off to Parks and Acarsaid Mhor. He was a shrunken man, the priest, stooped and wizened by the years and the weather, though he had a fine head of white hair on him, and sharp blue eyes that betrayed a keen intelligence.

From the door of his old crofthouse you could see right along the length of Coilleag a’ Phrionnsa and down to the new breakwater almost immediately below, with a fine view out across the Sound of Barra.

Fin had arrived mid-morning and stood on the doorstep taking in the view while he waited for the old man to answer his knock, sunshine cascading in waves across the crystal turquoise of the bay, the wind yanking at his trousers and his jacket.

“I can’t imagine a better place on earth to pass your final years.” The priest’s voice had startled Fin, and he turned to find the old man gazing out over the Sound. “I watch the roll-on roll-off come and go from Barra every day, and I keep promising myself that one time I’ll get on it and make a wee trip across the water. Visit old friends before they die. It’s a beautiful island, Barra. Do you know it?”

Fin shook his head.

“Then you should pay a visit yourself, and not be a procrastinator like me. Come away in.”

He bent now over the dining table in the living room, where sketches and photographs lay strewn among open albums filled with cuttings and photocopies and handwritten lists. He had laid everything out immediately after the phone call from Fin. It was not often he got the chance to show off his collection. Beneath a buttoned-up green cardigan he wore a white shirt with a fine brown check, open at the neck. His grey flannel trousers gathered in folds over his brown slippers. Fin noticed that there was dirt beneath his fingernails, and that he had not shaved for perhaps two days, a fine silver stubble clinging to the loose flesh of his face.

“The Eriskay jersey is one of the rarest pieces of craftwork you’ll find in Scotland today,” he said.

Fin was surprised. “They are still made?”

“Aye. For the co-operative, the Co-Chomunn Eirisgeidh. There’s only a few women still producing them. In the old days they were single-coloured. Navy blue. But they make them in cream now, too. It’s a shame, but the single colour doesn’t really show off the intricacy of the patterns.”