White sands surround the bay, calming the grey sea within as Atlantic rollers rear and break outside. Small waves lap the beach - sending sanderlings skittering away and back and away and back, sending winkle shells tumbling among pebbles, nudging an edging of broken shell ever further up the sand while an oblivious turnstone hunts the rocks, tossing seaweed this way, then that way.

On an island in the bay, seals lie limp, draped across the rocks, waking every so often to stretch languidly and yawn. They call plaintively into the wind and a couple slide without splash into the water, glide away, surface and bob, staring big-eyed and curious.

Heaving and falling in time with the sea, a flotilla of eider duck moult, sulk and grumble a low bass to the seals' tenor. The high call of a buzzard sweeping over the dunes, cuts the air and a dozen rabbits race in panic for cover.

A flock of waders skims the sea, barred white wings bright against slate water. They bend, curve as one and swoop in to land in a patch of seaweed. An oystercatcher takes off startled, flying protesting 'peeeeep... peeep.. p. peeeppeeeppeeeeeep' around the bay as, through a gap in the cloud, sun breaks through and turns slate-greys into green and blue watercolours. White sands dazzle, rocks shine and water glints. Edgings of sea-drift, looped across the beach, are dotted with colour - small translucent pink shells, blue-ray limpets, sunset telins, and tiny cowries.

On the far side of the bay three figures appear silhouetted above the dunes – a man, woman and child. They are dressed in soft hides, he carrying a rough staff, the child a sling. Distant laughter sounds across the water.

....

They jump down the dune, the bright metals of a copper clasp pinning the linen tunic on her shoulder and of the blade at his waist, catch the light as they land.

....

Running down the sand and out across the beach, her black skirts whip round ankles and he grabs his cap before the breeze takes it flying.

....

The man and woman walk along the water edge, kagouls stuffed into rucksacks, boots dangled by their laces. The child zigzags and circles, running and spinning. They are ignored by the eider and watched lazily by the seals. Only the oystercatcher notes his disapproval. They pass on round the point and are gone.

The sun goes too. The bay returns to its marking of time, the ebb and flow of the waves, the coming and going of waders, the song of the seals, the eider, the wind and the water. As these bays in the granite islands, once the hearts of Precambrian mountains, did before man came. As they do as man passes.