The small fishing village of Arisaig was looking particularly beautiful that morning, as Jack Grant emerged from his front door and took in the scene before him. Lights danced in the tiny cottages which were nestled along the coastline, breaking up the still-lingering darkness. The last vestiges of summer clung to the village and at that time of the morning, fog was still rolling in onto the land from the sea, giving the scene an ethereal quality. To Jack Grant, it always appeared as if a painting had come to life. The rain and the wind swept through the leaves into the gutter outside the small house. He turned up the collar of his waxed outdoors jacket and tucked his head down, so that his bearded chin burrowed deep into the top of his old, roll-necked jumper.
For the past year Jack Gran
