There had been Nichols around Stratharvar for two hundred years: Nichols who had supped with Rabbie Burns at the Murray Arms in Gatehouse of Fleet; Nichols who had built up a dairy herd second to none in the district, supplying produce to the huge creameries; Nichols who carved their names on the black oak desks of Stratharvar school and lined the pathways of the parish kirk.

The farm lay nestled in the hollow between two hummocks, sheltered by trees, a good mile from the coastal gusts. Above it were some ancient cairn stones set on a hilltop.

On her second day back Netta would always walk up to the top of the hill for the panoramic view over Wigtown Bay. On the third day she took herself off shopping to Castle Douglas. The fourth, if it was fine, would be a ride to Gatehouse of Fleet and Mossyard beach so Gus could collect the beautiful shells blown off course by the Gulf Stream. Then on the fifth day came their picnic ride to Castlehaven, to the small galleried broch heavily restored but still a magical haunt.

To Gus it was a real fort where pirates were driven off the rocks by warriors and old sea dogs were repulsed from Carrick Shore, but its origins were as old as the ports and townships of the Stewartry itself, part of an ancient Gallovidian defence system. He was too young yet to understand the technicalities but already he had a feel for its history.

Now Gus had abandoned his own tricycle in favour of the slippery rock pools. Netta watched his progress as she sniffed the briars and honeysuckle gorse, the hedgerows full of blossom, the sculpted shapes of thorn bushes carved by the sea winds, that tangle of sea and meadow flowers and salt wind – the smell of home. The cows grazing on the shoreline ignored their intrusion after a while so she unloaded her knapsack, unpacking Peg’s contribution of thick Spam sandwiches, a bottle of still lemonade, ginger buns and slices of fruit loaf. This was the mid-week ritual of Netta’s stay which was always observed, rain or shine; the solemn waving off, the race to be first to see the sea, the picnic and the story.

For as long as she could remember, Netta had loved this special place where the pink marsh orchids glistened in late spring, the wild flowers lined the inner walls of the fort now encrusted with lichen and rocky alpines in the crevices, the squills the grassy promontories. Here they could pretend to be guards on sentry duty, imagining life in Viking times. Gus had caught her excitement about times past and Netta fed him stories of the Norse Gods in Valhalla and Asgard. For each visit she prepared another tale from the lives of Odin, Thor, Baldur and Loki, who had fought terrible battles against evil monsters and goblins.