Davy hauls in the rest of the line and declares it a satisfactory catch. He has two good-sized lobsters and a sizeable cluster of squatties to add to the buckets. Then he rebaits the creels with mackerel heads and sets the boat moving slowly forward again so that the line plays out. Each creel lands in the water with a splash that makes Daisy giggle and clap her hands together, until, sinking slowly, the line has been reset. As we set off again, only the orange float remains bobbing on the surface, marking the spot.
We carry on, following the sweep of the shore westwards until we reach the headland at Inverewe. The exotic trees planted in the gardens of the estate, which are able to flourish this far north in the milder air swept up here from lower latitudes by the Gulf Stream, stand out against the Forestry Commission plantations of dark pines and the bare hills that surround the rest of the loch. Towering rhododendrons paint the rocky promontory with splotches of deep crimson and brilliant scarlet.
‘They used to store ammunition in the cove on this side,’ says Davy, pointing to a secluded inlet, almost hidden by a line of rocks. ‘But nowadays there are other inhabitants hiding here.’ He switches off the engine and the sudden silence is broken only by the whisper of wind in the trees and the peeping of a flock of sandpipers on the shore.
Then Davy begins to whistle a tune. Daisy looks up, startled at first but, after a glance up at me for reassurance, waves her arms in time to the lilt of the music. Davy gestures to me to join in and I sing the words, keeping my voice soft to stop it from cracking.
‘Heel ya ho, boys, let her go, boys,
Heave her head round to the weather,
Heel ya ho, boys, let her go, boys,
Sailing homeward to Mingulay . . .’
Then I stop in amazement as three dark rounded heads appear in the water. Davy gestures to me to keep singing and the seals draw nearer. Then he points behind me and I turn to find two more pairs of eyes gazing at us. I hold Daisy up so that she can see them, too. Her eyes are almost as wide as theirs.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘We sang the seals to us!’
She points a finger at them. ‘Sea?’ she says.
‘Yes, seals.’
One of them dives, its sleek back rounding as it disappears beneath the boat, only to emerge on the other side a few seconds later. The others watch, heads bobbing in the water like black floats.
Davy grins before starting the engine again. As we chug slowly away, the seals watch us from their secret cove and then, one by one, disappear back beneath the water.
On the far side of the island, Davy hauls in two more creel lines. There’s another good-sized lobster （plus one whose undercarriage is covered in eggs, so Davy carefully puts her back so that she can have her babies and help keep the stocks replenished）， and two more brown crabs, as well as more clusters of squatties and a cross-looking dogfish that Davy throws back. ‘That’s a pretty good haul for today,’ he declares. Then he glances at his watch. ‘How are you two doing? Happy to go a bit further or would you prefer to head for home?’
‘I think we’re very happy to keep going,’ I say with a smile. The sun bounces off the water, dazzling our eyes and lifting our spirits. Neither Daisy nor I am ready to return to land yet.
With a nod of approval, Davy turns the Bonnie Stuart northwards and we follow the western hills to where a stretch of white sand fringes the shore, turning the waters the turquoise of a travel poster.
He throttles back the engine, then puts down an anchor and, as he plays out the rope, we drift gently towards the beach until we can see the scallop shells on the sea floor beneath us through the crystal-clear water.
‘Time for some lunch,’ Davy declares, dragging a wicker basket from beneath the bench. He brings out some greaseproof-paper-wrapped sandwiches. ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so there are some ham ones and some with crowdie which I thought Daisy might manage.’
The soft cream cheese meets with Daisy’s approval and she stuffs the morsels of sandwich that I hand her into her mouth with gusto. We sit, basking like seals in the sunshine, eating our lunch and letting the light soak into the skin of our faces. Then I give Daisy some banana and a bottle of milk, after which she settles herself into the curve of my arm with a contented sigh and drowsily watches the patterns that the light throws on to the door of the wheelhouse.
Davy sets up a small camp stove and puts a kettle of water on to heat.
‘What luxury,’ I say. ‘This is a very fine restaurant indeed.’
‘Glad to hear it measures up to your fancy London eateries,’ Davy says with a smile that makes his grey-blue eyes shine. I notice how white his teeth are against the weathered tan of his skin. Then his expression grows more serious. ‘You must miss it all, that life you had down there.’