Having waited all day for rain and hail to ease off I take my chance, slipping out at dusk. Strong wind blowing as I open the gate onto Robert’s land. An impromptu pond has formed, ditch full of water flowing off the hill. I climb the fence, circumnavigating large pools and sheep hurdles, head down to the voe. Clouds move fast across sky. My feet sink into sodden grass; I jump across rivulets. Startled sheep scattering, disappearing into the gloom. I watch an ebbing tide push pull against stones. Far hills blur into sky; I consider going further, but darkness is gathering, clouds full of rain and hail. Icy north wind buffets me as I turn and walk back along the edge between land and sea. Hands beginning to freeze, despite two pairs of fingerless gloves. I stuff them into my pockets. Looking up, a glow from my house, tiny against black land. Piles of stone silhouetted against night sky – a meid to guide boats. Through the small gate into Robbie’s field, wood rough under my hand. Ahead a circular stone-walled plantigrub, once holding cabbages, now full of weeds; the ruined stone farmhouse, roof falling, Abernathy voices echoing. I follow its worn walls; mussel farm buildings lights reflecting in black water. Peering into the silent yard piled with rope, buoys, mussel bags. Legs merging with ground; shadowy shapes of my house reflect in puddles. I stride up towards lights. Just in time – here come the rain.