Isserley walked along the pebbled shore
of the Moray Firth, drinking in the beauty of the great uncovered
To her right, trillions of litres of water surged between Tarrel's beach and an invisible Norway beyond the horizon. To her left, steep gorse-encrusted hills led up to the farm. Stretching endlessly behind and ahead of her was the peninsula's edge, whose marshy pasture, used for grazing sheep, ended abruptly at the brink of the tide in a narrow verge of rock, curdled and sculpted by prehistoric fire and ice. It was along this verge that Isserley most loved to walk.