The roar of the ocean, the warmth of a dog.

Three am. Wilfs finally asleep. Chin on my right foot. Large paw on my left. Two weeks of good nights. Tonight not so good. Time to settle down together in the library.

What do dogs remember ? Wilfs first summers were spent at a battlemented old house a hundred yards and a granite ridge from the Atlantic. As a puppy he'd follow us down the brae to the old bothy at the oceans edge. Rabbits to chase. The occasional otter or doe for company. On a good day a view south to Ireland. More usually, driving rain direct from Nova Scotia. Facing us - Corryvreckan - the ship swallowing whirlpool. Millions and millions of tons of water tumbling down to form a cauldron of seething water two miles wide. The sound audible for miles inland. Green, luminescent water spouts whipping across the surface. The spirits of Scots-Irish legend.

Even then they were different characters. Digby cuddling into 'the font' or making a nest out of a tartan rug. Wilf standing, head on into the sledge hammer gale, ears streaming aerodynamically behind. The roar of the ocean, the warmth of a dog, three am laughter. When he's asleep, nose twitching, it's just possible to imagine that he's dreaming of those long ago rabbits and summer storms.