1995
I wake in my shed, to the knowledge that it is Sunday: no building noise, all is quiet. Up at the house, the machines lie silent, abandoned since tools-down yesterday. Summer weekends are busy in Mucknamore, when visitors arrive from early morning. I hated running through the crowds last Sunday, weaving my way between watching faces, then arriving down at the far end of the beach, beyond the curving cliff and finding other people there, walking or swimming, enjoying the solitude that is usually all mine.
It will be good, I tell myself as I unzip my sleeping bag, to be out in the earliest hours, while the sand and sea are empty and morning-clean. The best part of the day, Granny Peg always said. So that’s what I do. I jog out slowly at first, through the churning, soft sand to the ha
