‘They could have been rebuilt. And the crannog itself remained intact. As I’m sure you will have seen. No, I think it was the thought of that terrible day. So many slaughtered. There simply wasn’t the desire to live there anymore. Now, I’ll just drop the latch on the door for five minutes while I take you downstairs.’ He picks up a large ring of keys and a clipboard with papers and pen attached. ‘Follow me, please.’

He leads the way briskly through the main exhibition area of the museum. Tilda has to almost trot to keep up. They pass back through history with each exhibit, the Victorian schoolroom, the agricultural implements, the historical mountaineering, the shepherds and the drovers, all a blur of telescoped time as they descend to the basement.

‘Ordinarily,’ Mr Reynolds explains, ‘the artifacts and objects from our early medieval lake exhibit are kept in the blue room, on the second floor, but that is currently being refurbished. We have brought everything down here for safekeeping for the time being. And we’re taking the opportunity to give some items a bit of a once-over.’ He comes to a halt and gestures at a dowdy-looking mannequin dressed in a rough woolen kirtle and cape. ‘Poor old Mair could do with a bit of TLC. I don’t think the real inhabitants of the crannog would have been as troubled by the moth as we are!’

‘No?’

He shakes his head. ‘Much too cold, and their homes far too draughty and damp. Well, here we are.’ He throws numerous switches and now Tilda can see large boards showing artists’ impressions of how the dwellings might have looked on the crannog in the tenth century. There are three other models, all similarly dressed to Mair, sitting or standing in disconcertingly lifelike poses, as if they are patiently waiting to be spruced up and put back on display. There are boxed up, labeled parts of the collection stacked at the end of the room, and several small display cabinets containing fragments of pottery or jewelry or weapons.

‘These might be of special interest to you, I believe,’ the curator tells her, removing a pile of leaflets from the glass lid of one of the displays. ‘Some rather fine examples of Celtic knot-work here. And the fabulous remnant of gold-threaded cloth that was found on the crannog itself. Quite remarkable.’

Tilda is doing her best to listen, and to appear attentive, but in truth she cannot take her eyes off the main exhibit, which currently stands along the right-hand wall of the basement room.

‘Ah, I see you like our canoe.’ There is unmistakable pride in Mr. Reynolds’ voice. ‘So marvelously preserved. Hardened and brought to such a shine by its centuries in the water.’

‘It’s incredible. Is it really over a thousand years old?’