Tilda walks past the concrete boat launch and follows the path to the recently constructed crannog center. Unlike its ancient namesake, this little thatched building is a modest single-story room, with glassless windows set into its curved walls, constructed to give people better views of the lake. Like the original crannog, it is reached via a wooden walkway, the whole thing supported by stout wooden stilts. Standing on the decked and railed area that encircles the hut, Tilda has the curious sense she is above and yet upon the water. She can hear ripples lapping against the wood. Coots and moorhens scoot about below her, bobbing on the gentle waves the light breeze has stirred up, or hurrying into the cover of the reeded area of the shore. Thistle creeps nearer the edge and peers into the water, ears alert, following the progress of a water vole as it gathers weeds for its nest. Looking across the lake, Tilda can make out St. Cynog’s Church and the Old School House on the farside, and the bird blind a little farther around. This enables her to pinpoint where she must have been standing when she saw the people in the boat. The air is clear today, visibility excellent, and all there is to see is the reedy shore, the path, the fields with cows grazing peacefully, and the small area of woodland to the right.

A sightseer comes to stand next to her, scanning the water with expensive-looking binoculars. Tilda makes a mental note to rummage through the as-yet unpacked boxes back at the cottage to find her own pair. Following the visitor’s line of vision, she sees what it is that has caught his attention. To the west of the lake, a hundred yards or so from the shoreline, are a minibus and a van and a cluster of people; a small knot of activity on a usually empty part of the landscape. It is not a campsite, yet she can just about make out a large tent pitched beside two portable toilets. She does not feel bold enough to ask the man if she might borrow his binoculars, so instead she forces herself to speak.

‘What’s going on over there?’ she asks. ‘Can you tell?’

Without lowering his glasses the man replies, ‘Archeologists. Some sort of dig, according to the bloke hiring out the boats.’ Only now does he look at Tilda.

Look. Look away. Look again. Standard reaction number three.