At long last came a bright Sunday, with north-west wind and cold cloudbanks. A flock of swans fed at Brodgar, congregated where the fresh water runs through the brig; one was nesting in her accustomed place. A field near the stones has come under the plough; perhaps an archaeologist ought to be following the tractor. Mergansers dived in a blue pool, and on a golden islet gulls were nesting. Gold shone everywhere; dandelions blazed to challenge the kingcups. A boat of turquoise moved on the loch, under a blue broken sky. By the Yesnaby road a tortoiseshell huntress stalked through the reeds.