As always in such moods his fancy ranged, and he was back in his secret world. As the vigour of midday declined to the mellowness of afternoon, his rod fell idle.
He was not looking at the deep midland pastures or the green waters fringed with ranunculus. He was on the western side of Sgurr Bàn, on the thymy downlands with their hollows full of wildwood, their shallow glens and their singing streams. Nigel was with him, babbling happily, his small firm hand clutching one of his fingers, except when it was loosened to permit him to dart aside after a nest or a flower.
This was their favourite afternoon ramble, when they could watch the sun moving down to the horizon and bask in its magic. The horizon should have been the sea, but Adam knew that it was not yet permitted to come within sight of it.