"Grand," said Hamish, following him into the stone-flagged kitchen. Parry was not married. According to all reports, he had never wanted to get married. He was a small, wiry man with sandy hair and an elfin face with those light grey eyes which give little away, as if their bright intelligence masked any feeling lurking behind them in the same way that a man walking into a dim room after bright sunlight will not be able to distinguish the objects lying around.

"Got anyone for your chalets?" asked Hamish, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"I haff the two long lets," said Parry, "and the other one is booked up by families for the summer."

"Who are your long lets?" asked Hamish as Parry lifted the kettle off the black top of the Raeburn stove which he kept burning, winter and summer.

"In number one is Felicity Maundy, English, Green."

"You mean she's a virgin?"

"Come on, Hamish. Don't be daft. I mean one o' thae save-the-world Greens. She is worried about the global warmings."

"In the Highlands!" exclaimed Hamish. "A wee bit o' the global warming up here would chust be grand."

"Aye, but she chust shakes her heid and says it's coming one day."

He put a mug of tea in front of Hamish. "Pretty?" asked Hamish.

"If you like that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"Wispy hair, wispy clothes, big boots, no makeup."

"And what is she doing up here in Glenanstey?" asked Hamish curiously.

"Herself is finding the quality of life."

"Oh, one of those."

"Aye, but she's been here three months now and seems happy enough. Writes poems."

Hamish lost interest in Felicity. "What about the other one?"

"Nice young man. Tommy Jarret. Early twenties. Writing a book."

"Oh, aye," said Hamish cynically. The ones who locked themselves away from civilisation to write a book were usually the ones who couldn't write anywhere. "Jarret," he mused. "That rings a bell."