There was more fencing back then, because the quarry was still in use. That was how he and his pals had discovered it, in fact: the sound of the blasting. He remembered hearing the bangs from his bedroom at home and wondering where they came from. Then one day he found out, the ‘Danger: Quarry’ and ‘Keep Out’ signs reading like ‘Free Sweeties’ to a bunch of ten-year-olds.

By the time he was taking Eilidh there when they were courting, the blasting had long since ended. There was a farm track you could get your car down, skirting the broken fences where Stephen and his pals had first worked out what lay beyond the forbidden boundaries.

Stephen drove slowly. You had to be careful at night because, with whole sections of the fence pilfered for its wood, there was no barrier to the quarry’s edge.

He and Eilidh had first come here as teenagers, for the tranquillity of the spot, somewhere to sit and talk of a summer afternoon when they only had the money for a bottle of Irn-Bru by way of entertainment. Then, a little later, it became more favoured for evenings, not least because his parents were hyper-vigilant about leaving them alone together in the house, terrified their son would get his girlfriend pregnant.

It was never the most beautiful view: just a wide horseshoe of rock, earth, scrub and puddles. What made it seem spectacular was the sense of altitude, accentuated by the sheerness of the walls, seeing bare rock plunge so far, so straight.

Stephen and his pals used to lie close to the edge and watch the workies obliviously getting on with it below. As long as you kept still, they never saw you; it was the place he learned how seldom people ever look up.

Eilidh checked on Charlie while Stephen got out the spare blanket that was in the boot. His mum had knitted it especially for swaddling the new baby. He wondered what she’d think if she knew they were using it for an outdoor quickie on the same patch of grass where they’d enjoyed many, many outdoor quickies throughout adolescence.

Eilidh really wasn’t kidding about being hormonal.

‘Just be careful of my boobs, they’re a bit tender,’ was about the only thing she said, then she pretty much launched herself at him. It was just as much of a quickie as their first excitable efforts. The combination of erotically poignant memories, the illicit thrill of it being outdoors and the fact that it had been more than a month since the last time meant neither of them lasted very long.

They lay there afterwards, under the stars, enjoying the warmth. It never felt this warm so late in the evening in Scotland. It was like being abroad on holiday. The air smelled different: more aromatic, a hint of barbecue on the breeze even though the nearest house must be a mile away.