he first thing that Marcella FitzGerald sees and hears when she wakes up on a winter morning in her Skye home is the sea loch. ‘Depending on the tide, I open my eyes and I might see a heron, thigh-deep on the shore hunting for breakfast. On other mornings the loch water seems to lap on the windowsill. It may be blue-grey rippling satin, or an olive green sheen so still that it mirrors the hills and clouds, or the water might be
