Evenings on the Firth of Tay can be dull and dismal, with the smoke from Dundee's factory chimneys hanging heavy on the water and the hush of the river slightly sinister. That Sunday evening was the opposite. At nine o’clock, the sun was dipping to the west, sending slivers of glorious orange along the river, highlighting the silvery ripples that broke among the dozing seals on the sandbanks and reflecting from the windows of the houses along the river bank.
“Well then,” Oliver began. He was clearly acting as master of ceremonies again.
We stood beside the Craig Pier with the Fifie ferries moored for the night. Quite a crowd had gathered and a host of seagulls were circling above. Baird stood within a circle of his admirers, laughing as he stretched his muscles, while Kenny stood alone.
