Ron was tramping the hills with the dogs racing ahead of him, his cap pulled low over his brows, his little great-grandson nestled snugly in a blanket against his chest in a sturdy hessian bag he’d adapted for the purpose. He was at peace with the world and himself as he breathed in the soft, warm air of this summer day, for this was how he’d introduced his sons and grandchildren to the wide open spaces that surrounded Cliffehaven. And now, with this new generation, and the imminent arrival of Anne with Charlie and her two little girls, the old rituals could be carried out once more.

Ron peered down at Joseph’s downy head and smiled. The boy would have the thick black hair and blue eyes of the Reilly family, and as he grew he’d learn their traditions of fishing, foraging and poaching – the last of which had to be done without his mother’s knowledge, of course. Women didn’t seem to approve of such things, but they rarely turned down the chance of a juicy salmon or a nice plump pheasant.

Harvey came bounding over to jump up and sniff at Joseph to make sure he was all right, before lolloping off again to join his pup, Monty, who was digging about in great excitement beneath a clump of gorse.

Ron carried on walking and when he reached the ruined farmhouse, he sank onto the grass and eased the straps from his shoulders. Cradling the sleeping baby, he gazed at him in awe. Joseph was a wonder he couldn’t get enough of – he’d never imagined he’d be blessed by such a treasure that reminded him so very much of his namesake. Ron puffed on his pipe, letting his thoughts just drift for a while until he realised the morning was fast disappearing. Joseph was still asleep, so he bundled him back into the sack, made sure his blanket was wrapped tightly around him and then shrugged on his coat. Whistling up the dogs, he headed for Tamarisk Bay to check on Frank.

He reached the steep, rutted driveway that led down to the three wooden cottages overlooking Tamarisk Bay. Frank had spent time and effort to keep his weather-proofed and sturdy, but the other two looked rather care-worn, for they’d been left to rot over the war years. The original inhabitants had decamped back in 1939 and not returned, so Frank had bought them for a song, cleaned them up to make them habitable again, then rented them out to desperate families who didn’t mind the fact he still had work to do on them.

Ron grinned at the two barefoot children who were watching him wide-eyed from a doorway. Letting the dogs race ahead, he trudged down the slope past Frank’s utility truck and across the shingle to the small fishing boat which had been hauled above the waterline.